Tired of all the whining around Valentine's Day years ago, I decided to celebrate the majestic yak on February 14 instead. Turns out, it was a most worthy choice. Do they race chalky-tasting candy hearts or cut flowers that will go limp in a week? Nope. Advantage: yak.
If you thought your torque-steery Mazdaspeed3 was a handful, try racing a yak.
Vice was somehow unimpressed with the yak race, but I don't know if they understand that a yak is going to do what it wants, regardless. I guess anything short of "We Huffed 14 Yaks' Farts And Saw The Talking Disembodied Head of Richard Nixon Follow Us Around All Day" is a walk in the park for those guys, though.
To me, yak racing looks pretty rowdy. I mean, the yaks don't even want to go in a straight line. They're like the NASCAR of animals, only they don't just want to turn in one direction. The noble yak can only sort of be tamed by the most talented of yak racers.
Even Bruce Canepa's 917K doesn't have nothin' on the sheer stubbornness and unwieldiness of a yak:
And that's a Le Mans car from 1969, people. 1969! It wants to eat you.
I've mentioned the fact that animals (literally) have a mind of their own before, and it bears repeating here: the yak is going to do what the yak wants to do, and it's quite difficult to convince it otherwise.
If you're celebrating Hallmark's Day instead of the greatest racing animal ever, I still maintain that parts are easier to haul and wrap up than flowers, and won't make you feel fat and bloaty like all that candy. If anything, the blood loss from installation is "adding lightness," right? Right.
Happy whatever. Appreciate the glorious yak with me. Yak racing rules.