When to Lift Off the Gas: Notes from a Failed Violinist and a Casual Rally Driver
I failed the violin. I gave it everything, but it wasn’t meant to be. That taught me something essential: you have to recognize when you’ve hit top speed. Even if others accelerate past you, sometimes that’s all the fuel you’ve got for that road.
People talk about “gifts.” I think life also deals out non-gifts—signals for when to stop chasing a passion that isn’t going anywhere. You can give something up and still keep your love for it.
I’m obsessed with driving simulation games. One has a leaderboard, and man, the scores—your rank—tie you to a mental hierarchy. It’s dopamine on tap. You go to bed feeling like king of the road, then wake up and see you’ve plummeted overnight. No glory. Just a silent slide into digital anonymity.
Breaking into the top 100? It’s an Olympic-level feat. Legends squeeze the casual driver out. It’s a relentless digital race where the thrill is as fleeting as it is addictive.
I’ve tasted the real thing, too. Tearing through forests and savannahs in my Subaru WRX STi felt glorious—until I realized that navigating unknown roads at breakneck speed almost always included a fatal accident or two in simulation. In reality, you’ve got a co-pilot who depends on you. Who needs that drama anymore?
Simulation has blurred into reality minus the pain. I watch pros tearing through driving stages at breakneck speed—epic bravery, jaw-dropping skill. Imagine 32.5 kilometers of Swedish forest or twenty minutes of switchbacks in a fog-shrouded Japanese hillside, all in real time. In these games, reputation is everything. Spin out, hit a tree, and your digital soul shatters. But the WRC warriors—the real ones—are still out there, risking it all. They’re pushing boundaries no simulation can replicate—especially the G-forces of slamming into something solid.
The kicker? It’s more satisfying to hit “reset” after landing upside down in a ditch than to wait for a tow truck in real life. We’ve evolved past the need to chase that adrenaline in flesh. Kids secure international sponsorships for stunts they’ll never pull off outside a screen. Stadiums fill with million-dollar purses for digital daredevils. Teenagers dominate. This is hardcore with a virtually non-existent chance of dying.
Something gets lost when you watch a movie or play a game. In 1977, any theater turned into a Star Wars saga; kids ran out playing characters, wielding imaginary lightsabers. Today disbelief is minimized by CGI and endless post-production. You don’t need VR to “feel” like you’re storming Tatooine or bombing down a rally stage. Simulation is enough. My 34-inch curved screen will be tomorrow’s dead tech, and a new portal will open. My Thrustmaster wheel and shifter are mid-level—nothing special but 100% sufficient. If I were given $1,000 to upgrade, I wouldn’t. I’ve plateaued.
Today’s simulators are so photorealistic, so physics-perfect, that real rally driving—man versus machine versus nature—feels almost unnecessary. The danger is now captured in pixels. The physical realm no longer serves as the place to test multiple conditions in many environments before lunch; only simulation can satisfy that urge. Since the start of the WRC in 1972, there have been only 19 fatalities (seven drivers, twelve co-drivers). Compared with the miles driven, it’s a small number, but still—endless compilations of accidents remind you of the stakes.
Today’s simulators are so photorealistic, so physics-perfect, that real rally driving—man versus machine versus nature—feels almost unnecessary. The danger is now captured in pixels. The physical realm no longer serves as the place to test multiple conditions in many environments before lunch; only simulation can satisfy that urge. Since the start of the WRC in 1972, there have been only 19 fatalities (seven drivers, twelve co-drivers). Compared with the miles driven, it’s a small number, but still—endless compilations of accidents remind you of the stakes.
The games reach an objective ambivalence for those of us who will never match the machinery of serious online gamers. Their scores and vehicular idolatry are beyond what most people will achieve. It wasn’t always so, but it is now. I gave up my subscription to NoHesi; it was too depressing to never get really good at anything. I’m a huge fan of Gooseist, who popularized drifting for many of us newbies, but even he is an elite master—too far to grasp with my meager skills.
In real life I’ve driven in 19 countries, from Armenia to Russia to Iraq, and I’m being wiped out online by 14-year-olds who’ve never driven a real car. I don’t want to be that good at anything. I have a life outside gaming (and the violin). Twenty hours a day practicing doesn’t interest me, nor does an aeon of tuning. I just want to drive—virtual wrecks included. Sometimes, I think, the real world still needs its moderate heroes, not just virtual legends.
