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Spectators drift between polished British roadsters and brass-era antiques. But tucked between the hillside trees and the makeshift paddock, the heartbeat of real racing still pulses. Engines crack like thunder through the valley, and their echoes pull unsuspecting people toward the fence line like moths. Garrett Craig was one of those unsuspecting people.
By Jason Zollars5
1313 ratings
Spectators drift between polished British roadsters and brass-era antiques. But tucked between the hillside trees and the makeshift paddock, the heartbeat of real racing still pulses. Engines crack like thunder through the valley, and their echoes pull unsuspecting people toward the fence line like moths. Garrett Craig was one of those unsuspecting people.

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