TWO ERAS TWO ICONS

AN UNBROKEN SPIRIT SEPARATED BY ONE DIGIT AND 45 YEARS

- SCOTT EVANS

Twist and hold the key to start the engine. Shifting is in a standard H-pattern, though there’s some disagreement whether the gearbox has four gears or five installed at the moment. Idle speed is around 1,000 rpm like you’re used to, but all the power is up high, so give it more revs than usual when you release the clutch, or you’ll stall that legendary Porsche 917 in front of everyone.

The track surface is bitterly cold and a bit damp. The car’s been sitting a while, so the Avon steamrollers have zero heat in them. But at least they’re new.

This rain set has a few laughable grooves cut in, but we’ll be staying off the wet spots, won’t we? That nice British man joining us trackside—Richard Atwood was his name, just happened to drive a 917K to Porsche’s first Le Mans win in 1970—said to avoid goosing the throttle and you’ll be fine. Fellow Le Mans winner David Donohue is less sure, which is why you’re following his 911 right now.

Someone is trying to tell me something through the Secret Service earpiece I had crammed under my helmet, but all I’m able to hear is Miss Othmar wah-wah-ing in my ear against the fury of 12 air-cooled cylinders screaming 600 horsepower behind my head.

Two-way radios weren’t this good in 1969, but even if they were, race teams would have used handheld boards for all the good the walkie is doing me.

Dreading what might happen if I take a hand off the steering wheel for more than a few seconds, I paw at the microphone clipped to my chest. “I can’t hear anything you’re saying,” I scream. “I’m just going to follow David wherever he goes.” I’d find out later no one in the pit could understand me, either.