Armstrong: That was a good lap, and I'll tell
you we're real close. We haven't run that fast,
but I'm telling you, me and Wes (Cerny - mechanical
advisor and one of the first invader's of the
five-second zone). This thing is really going
to run on the other end and the
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computer
(incrementals) tell me 300 is not at all out
of the question, and that it's going to happen
soon.
Learned Observer: How soon?
Armstrong (without missing a beat): Get your
ticket for Gainesville.
Learned Observer (to himself): Right.
And you know the rest. In Friday qualifying,
Bernstein ran the number. No one else ran better
than a 290 in the remaining sessions. Oddly
enough, the winner wasn't Bernstein if you recall.
Eddie Hill clocked a 293.54 (the best speed
by anyone other than the Budweiser King) in
the first round and, as to rub salt into my
gaping wounds, ran the sport's lowest E.T. with
a blistering 4.80 in the second round.
Of course, Bernstein stole the headlines as
he backed up the 301.70 with a pair of 299.30s,
and I was in a darkened garage polishing off
the barrel of Armas .38 special. Flat-tire frustration
thrown in the blender of tragedy.
Fortunately, I pulled out of that tailspin
and instead polished off a 12-pack before coming
out of hiding, licking those wounds until I
could find the time to tell you all about my
broken heart.
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