Word: straightaway
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...Ferrari snarled down the straightaway past the finish line, coasted through a slowdown lap, and eased into the pits. What's this? wondered Driver John Surtees when mechanics swarmed round, hugging, kissing, pounding him on the back. Then they began chanting "Campione del mondo! Campione del mondo!" and Surtees finally got the message. "Oh," he said...
...that put an end to the races in 1949-after famed Racer Bill Odom piled into a Cleveland apartment house, killing himself and two other people. Practicing at Reno last week, Miro Slovak, a Czech who fled West in 1952 and now flies for Continental Airlines, screamed down the straightaway at 400 m.p.h.-square into a badly marked 13,000-volt power line. Sparks showered over Slovak's Bearcat; one wing was gouged, but miraculously Slovak kept control. With extraordinary efficiency, the power company restrung the wire overnight. Next day-boing!-another pilot knocked it down...
...rolled around, and now even the gods were angry: a buffeting 40-m.p.h. wind whipped across the desert. Neither Miro Slovak nor Bob Love seemed to notice; both had won their second heats, and this one had $5,000 riding on it. Wingtip to wingtip they howled down the straightaway at less than 25-ft. altitude, stood shuddering on one wing in vertical, 7-G turns around the pylons. On the back stretch of the second lap, Slovak had the lead. Then they disappeared into a dust cloud. When they blasted through, Love was in front. Averaging 388.81 m.p.h...
Drops Like Dimes. Even when it is dry, the 7.1-mile Solitude course is one of Europe's hairiest: the road twists through four tortuous hairpins, uncurling finally into a long "straightaway" that is an assortment of dips, hills and fast curves that are taken at upwards of 150 m.p.h. But last week Solitude was downright dangerous. A cloudburst turned the asphalt slick as ice; and it was still pouring dime-sized drops when 18 Formula I cars roared away from the grid, roostertails of spray streaming in their wake...
...final straight. But McLaren was only coasting: his generator belt had parted and his engine was dead. Then came a sound that made McLaren swivel in his seat-a staccato roar, rapidly increasing in volume. Here was Clark, buzzing merrily along, ignorant of the drama up ahead. Down the straightaway rolled Bruce McLaren, at a desperate 30 m.p.h. Down the straightaway flashed Jimmy Clark, at a casual 130 m.p.h. McLaren was pounding his knees in helpless frustration as Clark zipped past, just 300 yds. from the finish...