The Great American Racing Novel

Once, I set out to write the “Great Motor Racing Novel.” There was no firm plot in my mind, but I knew how I wanted it to feel and began with something I knew about. It opened with preparations for a British Grand Prix at Silverstone. There were the marshals and dedicated fans rising from their tents with bacon sizzling on camping stoves. I have stood in a queue at 5:00 in the morning. At a Grand Prix, a substantial city springs into life. For one day of the year, Silverstone is the world’s busiest airport in terms of aircraft movements.

My novel began with a circuit awakening: the TV crews, the food sellers, the mechanics; it was a picture of how a huge event cranks into life. I had no idea where I was going, but I knew how I wanted it to begin. Though I say so but shouldn’t, the opening to the novel was pretty good; then comes the problem with the plot. A plot has to be believable, and I could not find a plot. Crime is a good start; the trouble was that I knew too many stories. Motor racing involves trucks crossing borders; once it was Swiss watches, but it had become funny powder. Some of the rumors hardened into fact, when the sentences were handed down. In America, March lost its IMSA market because of the DEA.