It's light now - your tank nearly empty, but not too light to hold its traction on the curve. You reach over, slam down on the turbocharger and gun your fragile bullet of a car up over 160 miles per hour. Fittipaldi has drifted high onto the wide bank of asphalt, leaving you a small, but perhaps adequate gap through which to pass him. Coming out of turn one, you see your chance. Now there are only two miles to go - one lap, and you're three-tenths of a second off the lead. ![]() You've driven 498 hard miles in the sweltering heat of Arizona, sweat has soaked through every inch of fabric that nearly smothers you on a day like this, yet you don't notice.
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