Peering forward along Brian Blain’s long blue hood, I could see far back into the past. That square radiator cowl shouldering the air aside, those high, wood-spoked wheels whirling along the whizzing road, my boot planted firmly on a stout bronze stirrup to jam my butt into the buckboard-like seat; I could see it all from my precarious perch atop this nearly naked 1916 National racecar, and everything I saw gave me new eyes for what it meant to be a racer at the dawn of racing.
But I wasn’t supposed to be looking forward. When Brian invited me to serve as his “riding mechanician” during a practice session at the Monterey Historics last August, he said, “I’m not going to ask you to pump any fluids.
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