Chris
I leaped through the forest on four keen legs, my eyes pricked at the landscape ahead. Every tree stood stark against the dimming sky, every rock and twig and leaf in profound contrast from the dark pine duff littering the forest floor.
The world was so much more vibrant in my wolf form—every scent sharper, every sound clearer. I could hear the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the scurrying of small animals in the underbrush, and the distant call of a bird high in the trees.
It was moments like this that I had come to appreciate more and more as of late—moments like this, as I raced through the forest, that answered the age-old question that had been plaguing me for years: why had I begun racing cars? Why had I found myself to be so profoundly addicted to that sensation of
