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The first time the R7 choked on a third-and-short, I felt it in my chest. I was on the sideline, ten yards ahead of the play, finger down, trusting the tiny motor under my thumb to keep up with a world that had just gone from strolling to sprinting. Five… six… seven frames in and the picture flow hiccupped—the stream turned to a stutter—and my running back chose that half-second to change direction and break a tackle. I have a folder full of the prelude and not the punchline. With my old 6D, the pace was honest and simple: a handful of frames per second and an optical viewfinder that never lied. The R7 is a hummingbird by comparison—faster, sharper, with extra reach that feels like cheating—until it teaches you that speed without rhythm is just noise.
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