22 laps in total, and for well over a dozen of them, Icarus and his Alfa had been the picture of dedication, holding fast to his spot in third, even as that graceful and slithery Fairlady of Datsun had doggedly pursued from an early position of 9th until she, now residing firmly in 4th, was close enough to smell the wax upon Icarus' feathers. At times the Fairlady's visage in that rearward of mirrors would wane, lost o'er the horizon, yet undoubtedly she would always claw her way back to haunt Icarus, hounding his Alfa like Cerberus giving chase to any who dare flee his wrath. Icarus, so fleet of foot and wing, would gain freedom of breath whenever the road grew straight and smooth, but upon those most treacherous of trails ascending to the peak of the mount and cascading haphazardly downward through the fabled Esses, the azure-browed Fairlady would leap forth, nimble and eager, to playfully nip at his heels and feather tips.

Through smoke and wreckage, trapping foliage and tripping undulations they flew. At times the Fairlady would become distracted by the persistence of that snarling, plumply proportioned naive known as Pinto, yet never for long. As always, that sleek and fleet-footed descendent of Datsun would regain all ground lost to Pinto and resume giving chase to that featherlight and vigilant steed so named Alfa, which Icarus did so ably employ as his wings.

And yet...

With the number of remaining laps dwindling ever smaller, now 6, now 5, now onto 4, Icarus flapped harder and harder in his efforts to escape the breath of the Fairlady upon his neck. He sought every advantage possible by braking later, shifting higher, and cornering tighter. And tighter. And tighter.

Until...

Icarus flew too high, too quickly, and cornered just ever so slightly too tightly. Thus did he descend, tumbling end o'er end, back to that harsh terra from which he had only so recently made his escape. And amidst the mortal crash of shattering glass, that rolling crunch of crumpling steel, and the anguished, disbelieving laughter of all who did bear witness as Icarus so dramatically relinquished his podium finish, the Fairlady of Datsun did seize the opportunity and flew forth with grace and precision, hungry to seek out yet another victim before finally ceasing a bare handful of laps later, panting and steaming, silver upon her neck.

The moral of the story?

Consistency wins races just as much as speed, kids. Also, always take every opportunity to make fun of the race steward when he completely cocks up a near-guaranteed podium finish. :-P