Diferencia de Pitstops entre distintas modalidades del motor.

Lo pongo básicamente para que recordéis que era eso de la F1. Ahora nadie la ve :D

karkat and the bartender. when you were distractedfamiliarizing yourself with that lovely entertainer, you may or may not have left your companion in the hands of a well-built beverage mixer. karkat does not imbibe but he admitted that they had a tolerable conversation. 

the bartender possesses a small but sharp set of tusks, a pair of cloven feet, and a flirtatious smile that he flicks karkat’s way. (karkat awkwardly turns him down.) his race, who call themselves Treodoruun, is from a nearby system.

Creepypasta #850: Plucked Out Of Time

Length: Long

It’s been four hours at least, the time you’ve spent on this bloody road. The cacti never seems to change; the same three pronged cactus at the left side of the road - it’s always the left side - sticking up from the dirt like the Devil’s pitchfork.

You decide to pull over at the next pitstop, a small bar tucked away in the middle of nowhere. A dim light flickers at the porch, illuminating an unread newspaper at the glass door. You park beside the water pump, and make your way inside.

Oh, hey there, chum! The bartender, a boisterous, chubby man, looks overjoyed to see you. Yer the first customer since, like, forever, man! What’s yer name, and what can I get ya?

You introduce yourself politely and decline his proposal of a drink, asking instead if it was possible to spend the night out at his bar.

No problem, he says. Tell ya what, yer first drink’s on me, being the first customer and all. I’ll share one with ya.

You accept his freebie awkwardly, and inquire about how he manages to keep his business afloat if there were no customers.

Well… ya see, I built this place meself. Always wanted to run a bar, me and me wife. No rent out here, and nobody bothers sending anyone over to catch lil me. I’ve lived here alone for the longest time.

You gently ask about his wfe. The bartender grunts. She left this cursed place, early on. Nobody ever comes in, and when things get too bad, people leave. But somebody’s got to keep the business running, see.

The two of you sip your whiskey quietly, and you apologize for his wife.

Oh, don’t be sorry, lad. It’s for the better. I forced her to leave, and to make sure to be happy always.

A wide grin split his face, startling you.

Bed’s upstairs. There’s food in the pantry; help yourself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be making a move, he says, grabbing a hat and coat from a bunch of hooks, shutting the glass door behind him.

You get up of your chair. Something’s not right. You grab at the door, but it’s locked tight somehow. The barkeeper ignores your frantic pounding as he reads the newspaper. You can barely make out his mumbling.

28 November… 2015? It’s already been fifty years?

You scream at him to open the door, but he merely surveys you, immense sadness in his melachonic eyes.

Remember what I said about the place being cursed? Well… somebody has to stay back to run the business.

His shoulders stooped as though from a guilty load, the barkeeper turns and faces the dark night.

Now, if there’s nothing else, I really must get going.

Credits to: nichonova

Anatomy of an F1 Pit Stop: 0:03 Is the Magic Number

In Formula 1, fuel delivery used to dictate the length of pit stops. But since the Fédération Internationale de l’Automobile banned in-race refueling in 2010, the cars now carry enough fuel for the duration of the race, meaning time in the pits is determined by how quickly a 14-plus-man crew can swap four wheels and tires. Today, sub-three-second stops are routine, and the astonishing choreography required to remain competitive on the slow side of the pit wall is nearly as impressive as the action on the fast side. Nearly.