Our rest had been interrupted by teens partying in the motel, in Syracuse on Friday night, but Saturday dawned bright and clear (with the sustained, low-angle brightness characteristic of the higher latitudes). We were in good spirits as we crossed the St. Lawrence River and headed up the Interprovincial Highway toward Montreal for the 1983 Canadian Grand Prix. Just as we merged onto Highway 401, a red Alfa GTV (the Alfetta version) with three passengers blasted by us and rapidly…
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