"Am I a sportsman, or a competitor? How will the French think of me if I run Behra into a...

Enzo Ferrari: You lack commitment. Look at the Maserati team. Fangio. Behra. Stirling Moss. Hard-nosed pros. Men with a brutal determination to win. With a cruel emptiness in their stomachs. Detachment. Loyal to one thing- not the team. Loyal to their lust to win. It rains. The track is slippery with oil, an evil-handling car. Will they falter? No. My spring team. Courageous? Skillful? Yes. Recently in school. Aristocrats straight from Almanach de Gotha. Gentleman sportsman. Very nice. On the straight into the tight corner at Nouveau Monde, there's only one line through it. Behra pulls up next to you, challenging. You're even. But two objects cannot occupy the same point in space at the same moment in time. Behra doesn't lift. The corner races at you. You have perhaps a crisis of identity: "Am I a sportsman, or a competitor? How will the French think of me if I run Behra into a tree?" You lift, he passes. He won, you lost! Because at that same moment, Behra thought, "Fuck it, we both die." Make no mistake, all of us are racers- or have been. We are all certain, "It will never happen to me." Then my friend is killed. I give up racing forever on Monday. I'm back racing by Sunday. We all know it's our deadly passion. Our terrible joy. But if you get into one of my cars- and no one is forcing you to take that seat- you get in to win. Brake later. Steal their line. Make them make the mistake