Mercedes driver is off with a modest squeal of the tires. F1 driver checks watch. Adjusts rear-view mirror for some reason. Finishes sandwich. Texts girlfriend. Applies Armor All to the dashboard. Adjusts seatback.

Stock car is off with a little wiggle in the rear end as the tires get traction. F1 driver wakes up from a catnap, and rubs his eyes a little. He calls his broker to see how his 401K is doing this month. He uses the little scissors in his Swiss Army knife to snip a dangling thread from his cuff.

Supercar is breathing down the Mercedes’ neck. F1 driver mutters, “Oh, all right, if I must,” and floors it.