Sitting there, wing tip to wing tip, you await the flag to drop. Six. . Five. . Four. . Why is a second a year? Tick, tick, tick. Tension, nerves, fear. It drowns out the roar of the crowd. The grandstand is a kaleidoscope of colors. It’ll be a blurred ribbon the next time you see it flash by.
Three. . Two. . Why won’t your feet be still? They’re jumping up and down on the rudder pedals. And your hands? Sticky, trembling on the stick and throttle… Goggles are steaming with perspiration. Your clothes are soaked. They’re soggy. Itchy. Hell fever, that’s what you’ve got. Scared-to-hell fever. You always catch it right about now, with one second to go. It’ll go away. As soon ass… There’s the flag.
Slap the throttle. Werrrummm! The ship leaps forward. Your feet stop jumping. Hands? Cold and steady… Now, crouch in the cockpit – this is your world. Nothing else matters… Pull back on the stick – not too fast! … You’re free.
No more ground drag. Too much speed. You’ll rip the wings off if you don’t slow down. You’re no longer human. You’re a machine. Every move is timed to the split second… There’s a red roof. Pylon coming up – left rudder – left stick – wing up – wing down. You’re around.
The straight away – more throttle. Brown roof. Big tree. Another turn. Who’s that on the left wing? He’s cutting in too close. You’ll get his prop wash on the next turn… Here it comes, boy … hang on!
Too sharp. Take ‘em wider next time. Don’t try to cut so short. Let the other guy kill himself… There’s the grandstand again. Pull of a strip of tape. That’s how you count the laps.. Thirty laps, thirty pieces of tape. Twenty-nine now.
Where is that guy? There he is, just ahead. You’re gaining on him. Faster, faster … Pray this thing will hold together. Red roof coming up. Try to cut it real short this time. Take the chance…. Maybe you can get him on the turn. Now. Wing down deep – snap – jerk – shake – roar. But you made it! There’s nobody in front of you.
Instruments? … Okay. If they only stay like that. Remember what happened last year? Snap back. Pylon. Grandstand. Tape. Round and round, going nowhere. Brown roof. Red Roof. Big tree. Straightaway. Pylon. Zoom, Zoom, Zoom. Wing up. Wing down. Level off. More pylons. More trees, more roofs.
It’s hot. Grandstand. Tape. There’s one piece left. If you could only look back and catch the number-card for a recheck. It was so blurred. Let her hang together for another two minutes.
It’s over. You won! You’re shaking again.