Next week it starts again—many of the world's best sports cars and drivers are noisily on display at Nassau, before a wonderfully diverse audience that always includes small boys with adhesive feet and backsides. They'll cling to their perches until it's all over, and the cars embark (right).
Exotic species thrive under Nassau's tropical sun. Here, as a flagrant example, is a Speed Weeks Pit Man, positioning a Formula Junior driver (hirsute subspecies). He may not be dressed like a pit man, or be shaped like one, but he's a pit man, nevertheless, and a pretty distinctive doll, isn't she?
Nobody thinks of Speed Weeks as all racing. For mechanics it may mean desperate nightlong toil (left) if there is trouble beneath the hood. Yet racing somehow intrudes even in Nassau nightclubs. Ignoring the 40-26-38 damsel who's doing the limbo, a table of buffs (upper right), is outrageously engrossed in car talk. The sailor is not a motor racing fan. When the fortnight is done and the crowds have gone, there is a Bahamian remedy for overracing. The man at right indulges in it—a rare old analgesic concocted principally of West Indies rum.