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About Braga

Back in the ‘80s, this lil shitbox was king—Ford pumped ‘em out like crazy. Cheap, reliable, but oh man, pissed me off sometimes! I saw one once, rusted to crap, dude still drivin’ it like, “Screw you, world!” Reminds me of Doc sayin’, “Under the paving stones, the beach!”—like, underneath the junk, there’s somethin’ cool, ya feel me? I was happy as a pig in shit when I learned they raced these suckers. Rally cars, tearin’ up dirt—little known fact, bitches! Escort Cosworth, that turbo beast, could smoke half the fancy cars today. Respect my authoritah, I know my shit!

2. Limitation de responsabilité.

But then, BAM! My phone buzzes. It’s my buddy Miguel. He’s like, “Dude, meet me at the Praça Marquês de Pombal.” I’m like, “Sure, but I’m on my way.” I rush over, and guess what? He’s late. Classic Miguel. I’m standing there, looking like a lost tourist.

Four reasons to come to the Algarve 7s