Then everything happened at once. There was a scream from behind, and a Singer squeaked by right under his front wheels. It went by as a black blur, and in so doing, trapped the driver of the Porsche so he had to step on his brakes to avoid a collision. The gap that Woody had expected to appear just wasn't there. The Porsche still half filled it. Woody glanced in his rear-vision mirror. There were two cars on his tail, the Porsche dead ahead, the Singer, and another car blocking him on the left. His only chance was to cut off the track onto the dirt shoulder and make room for himself there. He headed the MG for the shoulder, picked up a skid, slewed sideways, straightened, caught a glimpse of a telephone pole, pulled his steering wheel hard over to the left, hit the gas, and then, to his astonishment, found himself around the hairpin with only the Porsche ahead. Woody swallowed hard. He must have passed two or three cars on the hairpin. But he had nearly broken his neck doing it. The old nervousness, now forgotten, returned in a flood. His legs began to tremble. The Porsche fled before him down the straightaway. Woody changed up instinctively. But when he came to the next bend, he slowed down well in advance of it, and took the corner cautiously. He was scared, badly scared. He retained his place but didn't pass anybody on the next three laps. There were only two more to go. But he could not bring himself to take any more risks. The memory of the skid, of being locked in a whirl of cars doing sixty miles an hour around a hairpin, and of the telephone pole hurtling toward him was too fresh in his mind. He made an attempt at passing the Porsche on the S-bends. But whereas previously he would have taken a risk and gone hurtling by, trusting that the MG would stay under control, he now braked and changed down, and the Porsche kept ahead of him without much trouble. "You've got to snap out of this," he told himself. "You've got to take a couple more chances. Otherwise you'll lose your nerve." He steeled himself for another try at the hairpin. He forced himself to delay changing down and shot the corner from a wide angle. But just as he thought he was going to get through and felt a tingle of self-confidence returning, a blue MG ahead spun out. One second it was holding the track doggedly before him. The next it gave a sort of lurch or jump and turned broadside on to him. Woody flung his steering wheel over with a cry almost of anguish. His bumper just missed the front wheel of the car, which had turned completely around on the track. In pulling out, he nearly sideswiped another car on his right, and though he stepped on the gas and pulled ahead out of the mess, he was in a panic when he got clear of it. "I've got to get hold of myself," he kept repeating. "I've got to get over this." But when the race concluded, he had passed no more cars and taken no more chances.