All through the year the Grand Prix drivers wheel chic to chic with beautiful people in sophisticated settings, fueling the haughty mystique that marks this kind of racing. Then comes Watkins Glen, a burg in upstate New York, and the U.S. Grand Prix. The venue is rustic, the folks are just folks and the giants of Europe are suddenly little gritty guys caught up in the sound and the flurry.
Scalpel, wrench! Quick, another transfusion of rpm's! For all their noise, Formula I racers are so delicate they spend a lot of time in surgery.
There is a pit sign for everything: Go Fast. Go Slow. Look Out. Come Home, All Is Forgiven. And, when cameras are on, Look Cheery.
Food is critical. The cars don't go far before they're back for more. Gulp: some steak with a splash of high-octane sauce.
When Watkins Glen goes to bed, the night riders rise with boom and beery bust.
Once a year the evil Bog creatures ooze out to rampage, plunder and rip asunder.