Ronnie

We sprang over the crest of Paddock Hill Bend at 80 or more, the little Lotus Europa cocked way sideways, scrawny tires screaming. I was trying to burrow into the passenger side of the cockpit, jamming my knees against the insides of the legwell, both hands gripping…whatever they could grip. I wasn’t scared, not exactly, but I was very, very alert.

Think of the word tense. Well, Ronnie Peterson was the opposite of that. A tranquil fellow at any time, in this circumstance he appeared nearly torpid, his tall frame slouched low in the seat, one long forearm resting on the center console, pale, slender fingers lightly massaging the gear lever.