The engine's romance is stated succinctly by its power. There is a reason that inventors did not create a smooth-running, clean, and simple artifice, and that reason is that people like the noise. People like a heavy, complicated girth that roars, growls, and purrs threateningly. People like the spectacle of the sound. Push a button and it roars. The wall of sound is a monument to its pomp. It is unabashed. It is like a tiger who lacks the self-consciousness of his power. People are friends with this barrel-chested baritone with pistons festooned across his chest, clitter-clattering. Strap that to your back and hit it.
And here is the pie: when you are moving at a stellar speed, when you are tripping with ease and grace around elements and splitting the wind, the noise - the noise that is clattering and ricocheting off the blue arches of the sky - is in concert with your speed, part and parcel with your power. It is the mouth of the motion. The foot of the freedom. The stamp of the sprint.
