Knowledge That Lives in the Body

There is a kind of knowledge you cannot read yourself into. It doesn’t settle in the intellect but in the spine. In the hands. In the eyes. It makes you react before you have time to think. Just as an experienced driver feels when the car begins to float a fraction too lightly through a corner, I feel when life itself starts vibrating differently.

That’s when the landscape goes quiet.

It’s difficult to explain to someone who hasn’t been there. But the silence isn’t an absence of sound—it’s an absence of noise. Everything unnecessary disappears. People around you fade. Expectations, demands, applause, criticism—all of it retreats. What remains is only forward motion and the knowledge that every decision now matters.

In those moments, I understand why some people spend their entire lives close to the edge. Not for adrenaline. But for clarity.

Stretching Limits—and Paying the Price

Running at 7,000 rpm is never free. It costs something. It wears things down. Machines. Relationships. The body. I’ve stretched my limits more times than I should have. Worked too hard. Carried too much responsibility. Taken on roles that really required three people. Saved situations, projects, people—sometimes at the expense of myself.

But I don’t regret it.

Because every time I’ve lived near the red line, I’ve learned something that cannot be learned any other way. I’ve learned how far I can go. What happens when I push a little more. And—most importantly—what it feels like just before it goes too far.

That’s where the brake lives. Not in the manual. Not in a rulebook. But in the body.

The Quiet Language of Experience

That’s why I feel such respect for people like Ken Miles and Carroll Shelby. They weren’t romantic madmen. They were intensely rational—because they had already been irrational one time too many. They knew how an engine sounds when it’s happy—and how it sounds when it’s lying to you.

Experience speaks a quiet language. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t warn with flashing signs. It whispers.

And if you’ve lived long enough at high revs, you learn to listen.

I can still accelerate. That matters to say. I haven’t become afraid. I haven’t become cautious in the sense of timid. But I’ve become selective. I choose my accelerations. I know which stretches are worth pressing on—and which require me to lift, roll off, let the engine breathe.

When the Landscape Falls Silent

There is a moment that returns, regardless of context. It can happen in the middle of a project. During a meeting. In a relationship. On a mountain. On a stage. Suddenly I notice that the world around me has gone still. Not calm—still. As if time itself has taken a deep breath.

It isn’t a dangerous moment. But it is a decisive one.

If I keep accelerating now, something will happen. Maybe something great. Maybe something beautiful. Maybe something destructive. If I brake, I keep control. I arrive. Not fastest—but whole.

That’s where experience shows its value. Not in how hard you can push. But in knowing when to release.

Young Force and Old Precision

In our time, acceleration itself is often celebrated. Speed. Tempo. Growth. “Move fast and break things.” But rarely do we ask who’s going to fix what breaks. And even more rarely do we talk about the people who actually know how to move fast without losing control.

They are often older. Quieter. Less spectacular. But they’ve blown enough engines to know how to keep them alive.

I’ve been fast. I can still be fast. But today I value precision more than speed. Getting there with the machine intact. Being able to drive again tomorrow.

Living Near the Red Line

There are people who have never even come close to 7,000 rpm. They live safely, steadily, within margins. There’s nothing wrong with that. But they will also never understand why some of us continue to approach the edge, despite the risks.

For us, it’s not about proving anything. It’s about feeling alive. About meeting ourselves without filters. About standing in that silence and knowing: I am here now. I am awake.

But living like that requires responsibility. Because limitlessness without experience is just chaos. Crossing boundaries with experience is craftsmanship.

The Brake as Strength

There’s a strange idea that braking equals failure. As if slowing down were a sign of weakness. I see it the opposite way. Being able to brake at exactly the right moment is one of the greatest strengths there is.

It requires self-knowledge. Courage. Humility. And respect—both for the machine and for life itself.

I still accelerate. Absolutely. But I do so knowing that every acceleration also demands a plan for braking. Not to chicken out—but to continue.

7,000 RPM as a Way of Living

For me, 7,000 rpm has become more than a number. It’s a way of living. A state where everything I’ve learned converges into a single decision: do I keep pushing—or do I let go?

And the beauty is that the answer is never the same. It depends on the day. The context. The people around me. On how the engine sounds right then.

But one thing is certain: those who’ve never been there don’t hear the difference.

I’ve been there. Many times. And that’s precisely why I know when the landscape goes quiet—and when it’s time to brake.

That’s not fear.

That’s experience.