Free Early One Morning by Robert Ryan

gentlemen please.
    The mechanics cranked the handles, engines fired, each one emitting its distinctive note, the low thrum of the Mercedes, the haughty cough of the Maserati, the piercing scream of the Alfa in the upper register and the strange tearing-fabric sound of the Bugattis. The drivers raised their hands one by one as the cars caught.
    Williams watched Faroux move to the starter’s podium, his sombre face showing none of the excitement he must feel, at least if he had a human bone in his body, which, to be fair, many doubted. Williams tried not to notice the thousands of pairs of eyes raking the field, to concentrate on the clutch, the accelerator, the brake, the gear lever on his right-hand side, on the co-ordination that would be needed to get this car round the first bend. He started to breathe as Rudi suggested, purging the heart-flapping chemicals from his blood, remembering his words. Calm. Clinical.
    At the back of the field, thanks to a terrible draw, with a sea of metal in front of him, mostly Alfa red and Bugatti blue, Rudi also began the process of clearing his mind, reducing his world to the immediate vicinity only, stripping away the background like so much scenery in a music hall, flats to be taken away. Everything shrank to the vibrating microcosm of the cockpit and the next straight, bend, gear change, chicane, tunnel, uphill, downhill, round.
    The flag raised.
    Williams reached up and swivelled his flat tweed cap so the peak pointed towards the rear and pulled down his goggles.
    The flag dropped. Away.
    Rudi saw the stalled car just in time, yanked the wheel to the left, felt himself clip the bodywork, corrected. He pressed the accelerator and listened to the noise of the car, straining his ears for a sign, a torn cowling, a shredded tyre, a bent drive shaft. Tell me, tell me. It told him. No damage. Fifteen cars. Fourteen ahead of him into the first sharp bend with its deceptive kink at the far side. Lot of work to do, Rudi, he thought. Lot of work.
    Eight laps gone.
    It was a sight to make Ettore Bugatti’s heart leap. Out of the tunnel towards the chicane they came, four of them, powering majestically down the incline like ships of the line. One, two, three, four. All Bugattis. In the lead, Williams, bringing the pack home, having snatched the vanguard from Lehoux in a daring manoeuvre along the Quai. But even without seeing that distinctive green, Ettore would have known which car it was by the engine note. So he had no trouble pinpointing number twelve, especially as Williams, this unknown Englishman, was adding something to the usual staccato roar of the engine, with gear changes so smooth as to be almost sensual, precise, yet delicate. Even Bugatti had to admit he was making the little car sing.
    And then he saw the white shape and the familiar helmet. Rudi. Fifth. Fifth in a car that should have needed first gear and a team of horses to get round the hairpins, and here he was having bullied and pushed and sweated his way through the entire field to be a contender. Ettore watched the white behemoth close on Dreyfus and as they disappeared from view he knew Caracciola wasn’t going to let his Bugattis have it all their own way.
    Lap 25.
    Williams felt him before he saw him. As he entered the mouth of the tunnel the scream of the supercharger became a bouncing banshee, smacking off the multifaceted rock face. Then, almost subsonically, came the deeper whump of Caracciola’s Mercedes, the lazy 7.1 litre seeming to fire once every fifty metres, but delivering a magnificent amount of torque.
    As number twelve exited the tunnel, the wall receding, Williams could feel the SSK looming behind, could hear the bassy boom of its big bore exhausts boxing his ears. He looked in the dancing mirror, and saw Rudi edge out, starting to probe.
    Down the hill they accelerated towards the twitch of the chicane, until Caracciola could almost touch the shapely tail of the Bugatti. Now along the Quai, a glance at