The bite marks run down her arm, parallel with a bulging vein. They’re a visual consequence of what occurred in a steel cage before a bloodthirsty audience in Anaheim on Saturday night. It was there that a modern definition of what it means to fight like a girl was carved.

Not even 24 hours later, on a track clear across the country, testosterone mixed heavily with the smell of petrol oil. From 200 dizzying laps of the Daytona 500, there emerged out of a neon green car another reminder of how gender roles have gloriously evolved.

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