There’s no fucking way this can work, I said under my breath.

I wasn’t nervous. I was sick—ill with excitement and anticipation and too many Blueberry Clif bars dug out of someone’s trunk. My smoked-out sunglasses were streaked with the same sweat dripping into my eyes from my helmet’s damp foam liner, the sweat of whomever had lent me their Medium instead of the XL I needed. I could barely see. It was ninety degrees in the sun, one hundred inside George Hotz’s dusty white Acura ILX, and I didn’t care.

This is automotive history, being made in real-time.

“I think we should test it out,” she said breathlessly. “We’ve got helmets.”

Find out what happens when Hotz takes it out on the track at TheDrive.com...

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