THE LAST LAP.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVI, Issue 48, 26 February 1935, Page 14

THE LAST LAP.

NERVE OF DRIVERS. STRESS AT CRITICAL STAGE. DESIRE TO PALL ASLEEP. A haze of heat hung in a shimmering curtain over the white ribbon of road. A wedge of dust, rising in the distance, heralded the loaders racing for the bend into the straight. The high-pitched drone of a, thousand angry bees —and the crowd lining the road suddenly grew tense, eyes straining, watching the bend.

Flashing round the corner came a tiny green car followed closely by three red machines. "Here they come!" No. 4 leading!" A murmur of supressed excitement rippled through the crowd. The drone gave way to a deep-throated roar as the cars hurtled by, heads turning as they went. As No. 4 streaked past, the crowd caught a momentary impression of the set face under the white helmet, the driver crouched low over the wheel. One lap to go! That fellow was putting up a show. The heart of the crowd went out to this daring man, whose brain must surely be packed in ice, so perfect was his judgment. Driving with relentless doggedness, cornering with an uncanny precision that was a joy to behold, they had watched him run through the field and creep ui> on the leaders into first place after a terrific duel with the three Italian aces who were even now close on his tail.

To Lie Down and Sleep. The driver of No. 4 saw nothing but a long blur of faces; his eyes were glued to the road ahead, dropping every now and then for a quick glance at his instruments. For hours, it seemed like years, he had been in the cramped cockpit with that tortuous road snaking benoath him. The heat from the engine had swoollen his feet eo that he could hardly feel the pedals. His hands

were sore and bleeding. Above all else, he wanted to sleep, to shut his eyes, even for a few seconds. Porhaps if he could sleep he could forget the thing that had been hanging over his head like a black cloud. Hour after hour, lap after lap, there had hammered in hie brain the same question; would he have the nerve? Well, somehow, ne'd got to go through with it. Out of the corner of his eye the driver of No. 4 saw the nose of one of the red cars creeping up. Past the pits, from which frantic signals were being waved, and then a sharp right-hand bend. Mechanically, his hand slid forward to.the gear lever; down into third, now brake, going too fast! A wild, slithering ekid, a roar from the crowd, and he was round and streaking' for the canal bridge. A quick glance over his shoulder, only two red cars there now. Yes, he'd got to go through with it. With a grim smile he thought of a headline in the newspapers only a few days ago: "Daring driver breaks lap record ill practice run." Daring—if only they knew! Under the railway bridge and on up the tree-lined avenue. Keep well over to the right, surface was better there. Last Effort! Once again the driver of No. 4 felt the cold hand of fear clutching at hie heart; but his mouth was set in a hard, straight line, his mind was made up. Hullo—oil pressure dropping. Have to risk it, now — win or bust! As if in a dream the driver of No. 4 saw the finish at the end of the straight; sensed one of the two care roaring on his tail creeping level again. From a flat-out engine ho coaxed those few extra revs. A chequered flag, people struggling to slap him on the back, someone thrusting a, glass into his hand. Wearily pulling the goggles from his oil-grimed face, the driver of No. 4 took little heed.