Grand Prix Tripoli 1925-1940 by Valerio Moretti
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Part 3

Start of the eighth lap, the pits show:


So I have made up seven of the 20 seconds. Varzi will also have to stop sometime.

Eighth lap: the long straight along the sea. A shock through the ear. I cannot see it but the tread is off one of the rear wheels. I can still control the car but I must reduce speed. A white car rushes by - Stuck or Fagioli, I do not know which.

Only now am I beginning to realize how hot it is. My overalls are sticking to me and my lips are dry and cracking. Must stop at the pits. Neubauer bellows like a bull and gesticulates wildly. I cannot hear what it is all about.

They change all four wheels and put in fresh fuel. It takes one minute and ten seconds. Eight cars whiz by in the meantime. I have dropped back to tenth place. I feel everything vibrating within me. A mechanic yells into my ear that others are also bound to have tire troubles. Neubauer stands there and frowns at his watches.

One minute ten seconds. As I leave the pits a whit car passes me to enter the bend - Varzi in the Auto Union. He has now lapped me and leads the field. His lead is almost unassailable; things are really hopeless. If I continue it is only for the sake of works prestige. I get on the tail of Varzi and catch him up. But what's the good of it?

The heat is awful. My head drums, my tongue feels like dried leather. Thirst...thirst...and all hope is gone.

I did not think it would be like this! I really thought that this time fate would give me a clear reply. And now I have to drop back because of this stupid tire trouble. The leg is alright. It is even good, only sometimes there is a little pain in the pelvic region. But it is hardly worth bothering about, the thirst is much worse.