There was the time I went to the Targa Florio and was strolling by a restaurant in the night-dark streets of Palermo just as the reigning world champion popped out. My companion, brasher than me, blurted, “Hey, Phil, can we talk to you?”
“Ya,” replied the reigning world champion, and he stopped in his headlong rush and stood there with us, talking. He told us about the 44-mile mountain road circuit and the Ferrari sports racer and how his throttle had stuck and he went over the edge into “a bean field,” as I remember he called it.
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