"Mileage reading 63.15. Left at T. CAST 54.5."
"How's my time?"
"You're still almost a minute late."
"I'll make it up after the T."
The Porsche, a yellow 1973 911T named Bismark III, downshifts from 80 mph to negotiate the linked turns. It comes through the pale corn stalks that cover the Illinois countryside, its rear end twitching on the gravel-strewn road. The driver is Orville J. Meyer—called O.J. by some and Jerry by others. He is a short, powerful man with a mop of blond hair. He saws at the padded steering wheel with deft choppy motions that straighten the car in time for a fast approaching T intersection. He blips the throttle twice, double-clutches into second and yanks the wheel to the left, power-sliding through the corner. In the bucket seat beside him, Helga, his pretty wife, never raises her head from the collection of typewritten sheets, clipboards and stopwatches in her lap and the slide rule in her hands. The Porsche accelerates to 85 on the level farm roadway and the litany continues:
"Mileage reading 66.40. Right at Y."
"Can you get me on time?"
"I'll try. We have another CAST [Change Average Speed To] coming up."