He's off and flyin' as he guns the car around the track/He's jammin' down the pedal like he's never comin' back.

[Ewen]

I was 15 years old when I first saw The Fast and the Furious. Here we had a film that would inspire a million youths to blemish their Vauxhall Novas with day-glo accessories in hopes of emulating their big screen hero Vin Diesel and his underground street racing subculture.

Thanks in no small part to the dubious efforts of this cinematic opus, the boy racer blight was popularised and elevated into a realm previously unseen.

Boredom and inactivity are the catalysts that imbue the humble motorcar with a certain aura in young minds. I have been on countless car journeys that lead to nowhere, journeys exercised for the benefits of the drive in itself rather than the destination.

Having driven as a (seemingly permanent) learner, I can appreciate the appeal, particularly in many areas of my homeland, where mountainous views and quiet, serpentine roads are the order of the day. Argyll is a blot on the globe blessed with Renault advert beauty; long, relaxing drives with nary a soul to be seen.

This is a far cry from the majority of Scottish west coast joy rides unfortunately and at some point even the most passionate gear head must question the appeal of their nth lap of Dunoon’s town centre, accompanied by the beats of DJ Tiesto, a war drum reminding the public of their impending arrival; an encroaching thunderbolt in an Astra-shaped package.

Should I doubt my masculinity? An apathetic attitude towards cars has been with me since childhood, and in no way stems from environmental concerns or congestion issues. When the bastion of automotive journalism for the last two decades is considered to be Jeremy Clarkson (a man with a curious penchant for expensive Italian vehicles too small for his towering frame) then it doesn’t inspire much hope.

A further side-effect of watching The Fast and the Furious and various hyper masculine films of its ilk during my more hormonally charged years was their ability to inspire an interest that is identifiably male – the visceral thrill of bearing witness to their complete and utter destruction.

It is a curious dichotomy that men, so in love with cars that they will name them, cherish them, customise them beyond recognition and accept them into their hearts should also derive such morbid satisfaction from seeing them completely annihilated (courtesy of Hollywood).

Maybe this concept is at the heart of the male lust for vehicular carnage as well; the prospect of flayed exhausts and flaming chassis has fuelled the motor racing industry since its inception.

[Laurence Edmondson]

I can assure you that there is very little lust for vehicular carnage in motor sport and it certainly has not fueled the industry. No motor sport fan with a memory longer than about 16 years derives any kind of satisfaction from seeing crashes.

The amount of lives lost as a result of crashes in motor sport (43 in F1 alone) is frightening and the fact that people still participate in it and love it has nothing to do with the vehicular carnage. Sure, there is a sick minority that watch a race for an accident but those people are not the ones that have "fueled" the industry and they are not the real fans.

It's easy to forget the danger of motor sport in its current, safety conscious guise but it wasn't long ago that a race report would not only tell you who had won but, quite often, who was dead.

I appreciate that you might not find motor sport that interesting but it seems as though you've completely misunderstood the appeal.