Too Fast for Love

Gasoline Alley - Rod Stewart

WhimsicalsCadence

and CharmSnake

It could have been anywhere but Spain would do just fine, and even though it was only the winter tests in early January, it was racing season. The sound of spanners on metal and chatting voices mingled about the garage.

Going home, running home
down to Gasoline Alley where I started from.
Going home, and I'm running home
down to Gasoline Alley where I was born.

The first daylight leaked through between the grandstands and across the Jarama Circuit tarmac. The lads in the garage had been up all night putting the John Player Special Lotus 72 together with its new upgrades to the suspension and bodywork. The team had championships to defend and had been hard at work for months.

When the weather's better and the rails unfreeze
and the wind don't whistle 'round my knees,
I'll put on my wedding suit and catch the evening train
I'll be home before the milk's upon the door.

He stepped out of the paddock trailer onto firm ground and inhaled the crisp morning air as he dropped his gloves into his helmet. His race suit, pressed and clean and an unusual distinct color, dark powder blue, hung open exposing a white t-shirt.

"Mornin' Paul," a voice called to him from down the paddock. Team Lotus weren't the only outfit shaking down their machinery that day. Shep was there for Team McLaren, standing tall in his thick curls and sideburns three stalls down. Beyond him at the far end of the paddock the mechanics at BRM were unloading a truck into the back of their garage.

"Bonjour," Paul replied to Shep with a warm grin. It was good to be alive.

In the garage the car awaited him. Glossy black with gold trim, she was the looker of the F1 paddock. Everyone had fallen in love with her the moment that she had first hit the scene two years previously. At the end of the month in Argentina he would show up to the dance with her on his arm. Today they would get acquainted and go through some of the steps.

Going home, running home
down to Gasoline Alley where I started from.
Going home, and I'm running home
down to Gasoline Alley where I was born.

Paul set his helmet and gloves down on the sidepod of the car and zipped up his suit. His fingers caressed the edge of the radiator opening and then leaned down and gave her a kiss. His helmet was also unique, dark blue and tessellated with bold white stars. He slipped it down over his balaclava and tightened the strap. After climbing into the cockpit and getting buckled in, the lads rolled him out. The Cosworth engine roared to life, shattering the morning still. In the distance a flock of birds took flight, spooked into panic. Kirk waved him out. Paul flicked down his visor, put her in gear and rolled away. They had the track to themselves, just her and Paul, dance partners feeling out each other's steps. Twelve rolling corners strewn across the dry Spanish landscape showed that everything was working, the throttle, the brakes, the steering, the gears. It all felt solid. They came around the final sweeping bend winding out the revs in top gear. Now it was time to see what they could do. Flying past the start line in a blur, they turned sharply to the right and disappeared around Turn 1 on their first hot lap together. 1973 was going to be a great year.

Take me back, carry me back
down to Gasoline Alley where I started from.
Take me back, carry me back
down to Gasoline Alley where I started from.
Take me back, carry me back
down to Gasoline Alley where I started from - whooo ...

TOO FAST
FOR LOVE

Many neighborhoods of Buenos Aires often smelled of petrol but at the circuit that bore the metropolis' name the odor was far more inviting. There was a sweetness to the salty waft of motor oil and a freshness to the scent of hot rubber vastly unlike the smouldering dank of the city slums. The opening round of the 1973 Formula 1 season had descended upon Argentina for the last weekend of January and all the teams were present for Friday practice. The pitlane was abuzz with activity, each garage swarming in individual color schemes - Yardley McLaren in white with orange trim, Elf Tyrrell Team in ominous blue, Ferrari's distinct scarlet red, and the black and gold John Player Lotus. Engines revved, airguns whirred, spanners ratched and voices clamored. All were the sounds of hope that the new season would bring good results - for the teams at the back, a move up the pecking order - for the teams near the front, a championship.

A gentle breeze swept the burning sun from the skin on a cloudless day. The stadium would be packed on Sunday for the race but only a smattering of spectators watched practice from the bleachers. Almost all wore sunglasses. Some even carried parasols. The cars on the circuit could be heard well before they could be seen, in fact never out of earshot from anywhere on the track, but roared louder, announcing their completion of another lap as they approached the stadium section and screamed down the pit straight at nearly 200 miles per hour. There were three or four cars on track already that morning, feeling things out, searching for grip, discerning what fine setup adjustments could be made for just a little more balance, an extra half-tenth of a second of pace.

Tommy Craig pulled his number 5 Lotus into the pitlane, stopped in front of the garage and cut the power. The mechanics alighted around the machine and started inspecting parts and taking readings. Paul leaned in as well next to Beef, the head engineer.

"How is it?" asked Beef.

"Better. Balance is much better," said Tommy as he undid his harness. "But need more traction out of the slow corners, especially the last chicane." Tommy lifted up his white helmet and tugged off the balaclava, revealing his California bleach blonde hair.

"Lower the rear tyre pressure," Paul recommended in his delicate French accent.

"I'm the engineer here," said Beef with a smirk. "All right lads, lower the rears of the next set quarter psi," he called out while marking his clipboard. "But I'll have to rake the rear to compensate before we send him back out." Paul helped his American teammate out of the cockpit.

"Ferrari still quicker?" asked Tommy.

"Oui. Two tenths," said Paul. "But only a short run. Could have been low fuel."

"Wheel it in," Beef instructed as he noted the tyre temperature on the thermometer that one of the mechanics had presented to him. Two garages over Brigatelli stood out in the pitlane, arms folded across his chest with sunglasses under dark curls, the defending champ stuck out his robust jaw with a smug grin. Cocking his head in a nonchalant manner, he eyed the Lotus garage as behind him the Ferrari mechanics rolled his red number 1 car out into the sunshine.

The film camera is set up in the back room of the garage pointed at nothing in particular. A couple stacks of tyres appear blurry in the right corner and even more out of focus on the back wall to the left are a few postings on a corkboard. Enter Paul who steps into the frame in sharp foreground detail from chest up. Looking at someone just off camera he takes a cue.

"Hello," says an audible but unmic'd voice.

"Bonjour," Paul answers the voice. He has a shy smile, dark feathered hair over his ears and down the back of his neck. His powder blue racing covers bear patches of team and sponsor logos. His skin is a pale beige and his eyes are light brown and flecked with gold. He has thin handsome lips and is clean shaven. The small but noticeable bump on the bridge of his nose is distinctly French. "Ici?" he asks to ensure that he has hit his mark.

"Yes, that's perfect."

"Merci. It is filming?" Paul's eyes flit to the camera and then back to the faceless voice.

"Yes. Start with your full name, please."

"Guy-Paul Antonin Desjarnais." His own voice is soft and elegant.

Plain white graphic letters appear across the bottom of the frame, 'PAUL DESJARNAIS'.

"Age?"

"Vingt-trois ans. Twenty-three years. Sorry," he blushes for straying into his first language.

"Quite all right," the voice assures. "Tell us what team you drive for?"

"John Player Team Lotus."

"Car number?"

"Six."

"Hi. Are you a driver?" Two Goodyear promotional girls clad in blue and white swimsuits approached. The bubbly blonde had spoken first.

"Oui. Bonjour," Paul smiled and raised his aviator shades to his eyes as he stepped forward into the sunshine. The leggy models in high heels towered over Paul. Each one took hold of one of his arms. Paul didn't seem to mind in the slightest and in fact offered each an elbow as if by reflex. Blue hairbands and matching blue earrings and wrist bangles adorned the girls. The girls adorned Paul. White tyre treads spanned their chests just below the Goodyear font and large funky sunglasses covered their eyes. They kept a bald pudgy photographer in tow.

"Have your picture taken with us," the brunette raised her voice over a passing car as she snuggled up to him and puckered for the lens. Her breath flicking about his hair pleasantly found its way to his ear.

"You are not from Argentina," Paul remarked strategically waiting for the deafening engine to pass.

"No, we're American," said the blonde as she ran her fingers through a lock of his hair. The shutter clicked away.

"Hey what the fuck?" Tommy called from across the garage. "You got two and I got none!"

"Perhaps, it is the accent," Paul smirked with a shrug.

"Oh yeah, I love Spanish," purred the blonde.

"Spanish, French. Close enough," Paul grinned.

Beef and Kirk stood out in the pitbox with their clipboards comparing notes. The setup sheets contained all of the secrets for the weekend ahead. Beef was Tommy's engineer. Kirk was Paul's. At this point the two sides of the garage would share tidbits. Later in the weekend they would grow more secretive. Two cars, two drivers, two engineers worked together as a team, but also competed against one another. The arrangement was a double-edged blade not found in any other in sport. Two boxes up the lane Brigatelli still stood out on the tarmac leering defiantly, up to something yet not doing anything at all.

"What the fuck does he want?" Beef sneered quietly. It was difficult to spot his lips beneath his sandy mustache.

"Who cares about that prick," said Kirk. "He's got a slower car this year." Brigatelli was the great traitor. The Italian had won the 1972 drivers' championship going away last year for Lotus. Then after mathematically clinching the title with still two races remaining, he arrogantly withdrew his services for the rest of the year unless his salary was tripled. Colin Chapman sacked him. Ferrari promptly signed him. Everyone sued everyone and the saga became the biggest off-track story in the history of the sport. Just before Christmas a large undisclosed settlement was reached and the Sicilian ended up at Ferrari to the delight of the tifosi.

"Yeah but the sonofabitch has more horsepower," said Beef, alluding to the Italian car's V-12 engine.

Brigatelli leisurely stepped back into his own garage as if he had merely been out to stretch his legs.

"Paul, get ready," Kirk called to him. "Your turn in ten minutes."

"Excusez-mois, mesdames," Paul smiled as he withdrew himself from the ladies' embrace. There would be plenty more where they came from. The girls pouted and waved to Paul before moving on to Tommy and the camera resumed clicking.