Close Call at Silverstone

Anybody who has tried to start an automobile on a cold winter morning knows how unpredictably exciting the internal combustion engine can be. After last week's British Grand Prix at Silverstone, Jim Clark (TIME, cover, July 9) has had just about all the excitement he can stand. There he was in his little green Lotus, leading Graham Hill by a comfortable 35 sec., with the race four-fifths over. Coming out of a bend, Clark stepped on the accelerator. Gasp. Cough.

Apparently his spark plugs were fouled. Hill's B.R.M. pit crew heard the rough engine too. Graham caught their frantic signals, grimly poured it on. Drifting through the corners as tightly as possible, slipstreaming other cars to gain momentum before he passed, Hill began to eat into Clark's lead at the rate of 3 sec. or more a lap. Clark knew Hill was coming; he kept glancing over his shoulder, ducking back to fiddle with his controls, trying to coax some response out of his sputtering engine.

Several times, Clark's car conked out completely--only to start again. With one lap to go, the crowd was on its feet as the public address announcer ticked off Clark's dwindling lead. Seven seconds, six, five, four, three--and at that instant, right thumb raised high in the classic gesture of victory, Jimmy Clark swept under the checkered flag. By the barest of margins, a scant 100 yds., he had won his fourth straight Grand Prix race of the season.

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