But there is no flying from fate when you’re Mintzkov. They let their engine idle. Three atoms stirred, causing a chain reaction inside the core. Then, casually, someone released the handbrake. The machine got going again.
Today, Mintzkov rides with a three-headed crew: Philip Bosschaerts, Lies Lorquet, Min Chul Van Steenkiste. No shape sturdier than a triangle – just try bending it, you’ll see.
Since then, Mintzkov’s machine runs more graceful laps than ever. It’s never been so manoeuvrable, despite the dents and scars, the wear and tear, the marks caused by time passing. It’s alive and kicking, even though the cockpit door doesn’t lock properly. It requires duct tape to keep a few loose parts in place – do you hear the pretty squeals and whistles and the uncontrolled noise as the wind passes through?
From their cockpit window, Philip, Lies en Min Chul yearn for the vast space above. They take off and tear through the cosmos. They hunt down stars, measure the distance to Mars. They dream out loud about the dark and empty bowl of nothingness out there, but they also witness paradise reaching out. And they whisper our names. Us, specks of dust, glowing in the sun.
The year is 2020. And this is Mintzkov. The crew is ready to launch. Grab the nearest handle and brace yourself. Here we go.