Over an embankment. No sissy belts. Twenty feet down and the collision threw him into the steering wheel and smashed his chest and ribs. He walked away. Smashed ribs don't stop real men.
Real men love blood and speed and the taste of their own damn teeth.
He flew, baby. No getting around that. He tested fate. He drove through walls, got himself thrown out of cans, and when there weren't any walls around he made a wall out of the bottom of the world. Down, baby, down.