- [first lines]
- Self - Narrator: This is it. Bad news and good. The way to move. From now on, I set myself free of limits of imaginary lines. My own master and absolute. I divest myself of holds that would hold me. That's what the poet wrote. Being no more of modest than immodest, he said, the old man called his own shots. Walt Whitman set it all down more than a hundred years ago in a poem scratched out with quill pen and paper called, "Song of the Open Road." O, public road, he wrote, you express me better than I can express myself. Well, now it's my turn.
- Self - Narrator: The last thing you ever want to do is let a race get you down. Since Sebring I've been to Europe, made a film, got myself a shave, and I feel a lot better.
- Self - Narrator: Now, what Dick Smothers and I get out of racing and what some little girl gets out of it, isn't to be argued. But when a team of female drivers run out of gas on the Sebring Straight, then I have to butt in and say its taking just a little too much for granted to think that you're going to ease that baby back into traffic.
- Self - Narrator: What gets somebody started in this thing? What got me started? Finding a completely different group of people than I'd imagined. Maybe the risk element does it. Tweaking our taste buds, so to speak. Whatever it is, it's wrong to try to analyze it. As long as it feels right, don't inquire. If you do, you'll ruin something. It's an entire language all it's own.
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