📍 ‘The TX doesn’t accelerate; it lengthens the horizon.’
Howmet TX: the racer that swapped pistons for a helicopter’s party trick.
It doesn’t rev; it spools—one long, silken shove that turns pit lanes into quiet airports.
Prototype chic, aviation swagger, and a very polite apocalypse soundtrack.
Curious how a turbine car won trophies, baffled purists, and nearly changed endurance racing?
◼︎ Briefing: a small, audacious American outfit decides to put a gas turbine where sensible people keep pistons—because why not rewrite the rulebook in a fountain pen?
◼︎ First fire-up: compressor whirr, gentle whoosh, then the uncanny calm of thrust without tantrum; mechanics nod like sommeliers meeting a perfect vintage.
◼︎ Shakedown: no gear changes, just seamless urge; marshals look for the missing thunder, find speed written in silence.
◼︎ Paddock reaction: purists mutter ‘hairdryer’; sponsors hear headlines; engineers grin like codebreakers who’ve cracked Tuesday’s crossword by breakfast.
◼︎ Set-up work: wastegates fettled, heat managed, brakes treated like crown jewels; cockpit trimmed with the purposeful neatness of a well-run yacht.
◼︎ Qualifying: the TX scythes; stopwatch blushes; rivals wonder why their orchestras sound suddenly old.
◼︎ Race proper: The pits’ choreography is as crisp as a new Savile Row cuff; fuel men glide, tyres land, and turbine hum stays unruffled.
◼︎ Inevitable drama: a valve with aristocratic sensibilities demands attention; the crew obliges, and the TX returns with the composure of a maître d’.
◼︎ Chequered flag: silverware bagged, legend confirmed; not the end of pistons, but a stylish footnote written in jet wash.
◼︎ Verdict: haute couture engineering—less shout, more raised eyebrow—proving speed can arrive like a Concorde cabin: hushed, exquisite, inevitable.
📍 ‘Sounds like Heathrow at midnight, moves like a rumour on Park Lane.’
