The starting flag whipped down and the air pulsed as the sixteen multicylindered motors roared. Blue smoke jetted. The acridity of burnt avgas bit a Lynne's throat. As accelerators were pressed down and clutches came back, her face, her whole body, was beaten by a deafening barrage of brutal sound. Through this, high and wild, pierced the nerve-lacerating scream of tortured rubber. Smoke veiled those straining tires. The below and past her the varicolored monsters went, still weaving after that awful initial thrust. And then they were running straight and fast.

1964.