Two A.M.! Time to get up, if I'm to be ready for the great Paris-Berlin
race at 3.30. Feel very cold and sleepy. Pitch dark morning, of course.
Moon been down hours. Must get into clothes, I suppose. Oilskins feel
very clammy and heavy at this hour in the morning. Button up tunic and
tuck trousers into top boots. Put on peaked cap and fasten veil tightly
over face, after covering eyes with iron goggles and protecting mouth
with respirator. Wind woollen muffler round neck and case hands in thick
dogskin gloves with gauntlets. Look like Nansen going to discover North
Pole. Or Tweedledum about to join battle with Tweedledee. Effect on the
whole unpleasing.
Great crowds to see us off. Nearly ran over several in effort to reach
starting post. Very careless. People ought not to get in the way on
these occasions. Noise appalling. Cheers, snatches of _Marseillaise_,
snorts of motors, curses of competitors, cries of bystanders knocked
down by enthusiastic _chauffeurs_, shouts of _gendarmes_ clearing the
course. Spectators seem to find glare of acetylene lamps very confusing.
Several more or less injured through not getting out of the way
sufficiently quickly. At last the flag drops. We are off.
Pull lever, and car leaps forward. Wonder if wiser to start full speed
or begin gently? Decide on latter. Result, nearly blinded by dust of
competitors in front, and suffocated by stench of petroleum. Fellow just
ahead particularly objectionable in both respects. Decide to quicken up
and pass him. Can't see a foot before me on account of his dust.
Suddenly run into the stern of his car. Apologise. Can't I look where
I'm going? Of course I can. Not my fault at all. Surly fellow! Proceed
to go slower. Fellow behind runs into _me_. Confound him, can't he be
more careful? Says he couldn't see me. Idiot!
Put on speed again. Car in front just visible through haze of dust. Hear
distant crash. Confound the man, he's run into a dray! Just time to
swerve to the right, and miss wreck of his car by an inch. Clumsy
fellow, blocking my road in that way. At last clear space before me. Go
up with a rush. Wind whistles past my ears. Glorious! What's that? Run
over an old woman? Very annoying. Almost upset my car. Awkward for next
chap. Body right across the road. Spill him to a certainty.
Morning growing light, but dust thicker than ever. Scarcely see a yard
in front of me. Must trust to luck. Fortunately road pretty straight
here. Just missed big tree. Collided with small one. Knocked it over
like a ninepin. Lucky I was going so fast. Car uninjured, but tree done
for. Man in car just ahead very much in my way. Shout to him to get out
of the light. Turns round and grins malevolently. Movement fatal. He
forgets to steer and goes crash into ditch. What's that he says? Help?
Silly fellow, does he think I can stop at this pace? Curious how
ignorant people seem to be of simplest mechanical laws.
Magnificent piece of road here. Nothing in sight but a dog. Run over it.
Put on full speed. Seventy miles an hour at least. Can no longer see or
hear anything. Trees, villages, fields rush by in lightning succession.
Fancy a child is knocked down. Am vaguely conscious of upsetting old
gentleman in gig. Seem to notice a bump on part of car, indicating that
it has passed over prostrate fellow citizen, but not sure. Sensation
most exhilarating. Immolate another child. Really most careless of
parents leaving children loose like this in the country. Some day there
will be an accident. Might have punctured my tyre.
Chap in front of me comes in sight. Catching him up fast. He puts on
full speed. Still gaining on him. Pace terrific. Sudden flash just
ahead, followed by loud explosion. Fellow's benzine reservoir blown up
apparently. Pass over smoking ruins of car. Driver nowhere to be seen.
Probably lying in neighbouring field. That puts _him_ out of the race.
Eh? What's that? Aix in sight? Gallop, says Browning. Better not,
perhaps. Road ahead crowded with spectators. Great temptation to charge
through them in style. Mightn't be popular, though. Slow down to fifteen
miles an hour, and enter town amid frantic cheering. Most interesting.
Wonderfully few casualties. Dismount at door of hotel dusty but
triumphant.
* * * * *
Illustration: _First Cyclist_ (_cross-eyed_). "Why the dickens don't
you look where you're going?"
_Second Cyclist_ (_cross-eyed_). "Why don't you go where you're
looking?"
* * * * *
Illustration: QUITE IMPOSSIBLE.--_Motorist._ "What! Exceeding the legal
limit? _Do_ we look as if we would do such a thing?"
* * * * *