Yeah, says Ursula, bending over her notes

At 6:30 in the morning, we are driven to the "parc fermé." An hour later, Manuel Fangio, our "guardian angel," is already on his way. Many people stood outside the hotel waving goodbye despite the early morning. Up there in our magnificent rooms, the flowers remained. They were so many, so colorful, and so beautiful that they would not be ashamed of themselves in a flower shop in the middle of a big city. We are sad to have to leave them.

We are in the "parc fermé" at 6:52:00. We have 3 minutes to go to the car, get ready, and start the engine. We must leave the area at 6:55 to go to the start, which follows 5 minutes later. It is not an easy task. We go out through the gate and to the left. After 200 meters, we have arrived at the start, which is located at Förbundsgatan 38.

Our papers are ready already at 6:58:00. A minister, Dr. Correa, is there despite the early hour to send us off. He already has the flag in his hand but takes a few quick steps to the car to give us a few kind words on the way. After a glance at his watch, he steps back, raises the flag, and waves us off at 7:00:00 sharp. I honk my horn twice to say goodbye. Then we drive off.

"Yeah," says Ursula, bending over her notes. She has the ability to immediately concentrate on the road and disconnect all other thoughts.

At breakfast (half a cup of tea and two thin slices of toast), I studied the panorama of the stage once more. Immediately after Catamarca, the first, huge climb begins. It is 132.4 km to Loma Atravesada, and we will climb there from an altitude of 522 meters to 2,020 meters.

Loma Atravesada roughly translates to "the treacherous hill." Then comes a gentle slope as we drive down to an altitude of 1,850 meters over 31.7 km. Then it slopes steeply down 900 meters to Andalgala. After that, the worst section of the entire race course begins. In 54.0 km, it goes up 2,138 meters. From Andalgala, we go up a mountain called Capillitas, which is 3,100 meters high. Then it goes down for 88.6 km to Santa Maria, which is at an altitude of 1,900 meters. Then we climb up 1,000 meters to Abra del Infiermillo. "Infiermillo" actually means liquor kitchen, and "Infierno" hell, Fangio explained laughingly. "Abra" means saddle. The name of the mountain can be translated in different ways. I suggest we call it "Saddle of Purgatory." Up there, a few competitors have been punished for their sins...".

During the race stage, Ursula made so many notes on this section alone that they fill 50 pages of her notebook. When we are finished later today, Ursula will probably be hoarse from all the talking.

After the "Saddle of Purgatory," comes the steepest hill of the entire race. We have to descend about 1,000 meters over a distance of 23.2 km. It then continues to go down, 1,600 meters over 61.2 km, until we reach Acheral. When we get there, we are practically on flat land.

The competitors get no handouts! On the 'Saddle of Purgatory,' it is utterly desolate, like the end of the world.

We climb, climb, climb

Ursula's instructions, calm and precise as ever, guided me through the next three curves. Her gaze also swept the road ahead, a constant vigilance against any animals that might stray, despite Fangio's efforts. We knew these roaming creatures were a common hazard, even at our speeds of 90 km/h and above.

The sun remained veiled behind a curtain of clouds. Though the valley radiated warmth, the mountain air held a pleasant chill. Mindful of the altitude, we had donned jackets over our blouses. Sunglasses shielded our eyes from the growing glare. Every fiber of my concentration was dedicated to the road, a relentless demand for my attention.

'Indians!' Fangio's warning echoed in my mind. We had been briefed on the possibility of encountering native people during this stage. On our training runs, they were a rare sight, seen only from a distance. Their waves, dignified and restrained, contrasted sharply with the spirited gestures of the Argentinians.

We reached Cuesta de la Chilca, the summit of Chilca, and found ourselves immersed in 'the real Argentina.' Ursula slipped a piece of dextrose into my mouth. 'To keep your energy up,' she quipped, a steadfast companion.

We arrived in Andalgala, a small town perched 962 meters above sea level. Nearby lay the 'Salar de Pipanaco' (Pipanaco salt desert), one of the country's vast, mostly dried salt lakes. This stage traversed much of the Catamarca province, a region rich in Argentina's seemingly endless salt deposits and sprawling salt flats. In the distance, the peak of Aconquija, towering over 5,500 meters, pierced the sky.

There was no time to admire the vista; immediately beyond Andalgala, the stage's most formidable climb began, ascending to the 3,100-meter peak of Capillitas.

-  Good road surface, Ursula observed. The report only warned of rain hazards. We're fortunate it's sunny.

A monosyllabic 'yes' was all I could manage; time was a luxury I couldn't afford. Curve after curve, serpentine after serpentine, we spiraled upwards. The gradients were so steep that first gear became a frequent necessity. The engine strained, and I prayed the cooling system would hold. I listened intently, but it sounded normal.

We climbed, climbed, climbed.

The fourth stage is the most demanding, even though it is only 515 km long. Both people and equipment are put to the test on the challenging mountain roads, for example, during the exhausting climb up Loma Atravesada. The driver's endurance and the car's durability are tested to the extreme.

I speed up even more

The oxygen content in the air decreases. At the summit, smaller cars without automatic carburetor air supply regulation may struggle. We are better off, being pre-tuned. Our Mercedes is equipped with a height regulator. The engine hums quietly and regularly. It sounds louder or quieter depending on my acceleration and gear. My arms ache from constant steering. I turn and turn the wheel. The engine is hot, but we are cold. Ursula rolls her window up completely and turns on the heating. The air has become crystal clear. Suddenly, we reach the highest point at 3,100 meters.

-  Wonderful! I say, completely enraptured.

-  It is beautiful, like a dream, Ursula agrees.

On the steep, dangerous roads down to Tafi del Valle, Ewy and Ursula are already well ahead of their male competitors. Once again, we hear the humming sound that has nothing to do with our engine. It's "our pilots," the support plane. When the plane catches up with us, Ursula looks up eagerly.

-  They're not flapping their wings, she notes.

-  I thought they would, I say.

So, someone has caught up with us. We have such a large lead that no one can pose a real threat unless we get a flat tire, but I'd prefer to stay ahead. Who could be on our heels? I give it more gas.

On the steep and dangerous roads towards Tafi del Valle, Ewy and Ursula had left the first of their male rivals far behind.

"Saddle of Purgatory"

Where Catamarca and Tucuman meet, the stage's third, sharp climb begins, the one that leads us up to Abra del Infierno, the pass that Fangio called the 'Saddle of Purgatory.' This stage will bring fear to those who have never known it.

Even though the road isn't that bad, the journey is strenuous. Over a distance of 55.4 km, the elevation difference is 1,016 m. It's not as steep as the climb to Capillitas. The 'Saddle of Purgatory' is only 2,916 m high, but there are absolutely no straight stretches of road here. Turn the wheel – turn – turn! My arms are tired before I even start.

-   Serpentine to the left, then to the right, then to the left again,' Ursula points out.

My shoulders ache

I wrestle with the steering wheel, gauging the road, estimating distances, accelerating, easing off, braking.

- Can you keep going? Ursula asks anxiously.
- Of course, I say. But if you don't mind, roll down your window! I'm terribly hot.

Ursula, confined to her seat, pulls her jacket tighter and opens the window fully. Though the sun blazes overhead, a biting chill clings to the heights. I, oblivious, continue to focus on the road, while Ursula shivers.

- f you're too cold, just close it! I say after a stretch of silence.
- No, it's fine. My jacket is warm.

About 22 kilometers past Santa Maria, halfway up the incline, we reach the second time control. It's nestled in the square of Amaicha del Valle, a small mountain village. The clock reads 11:55:10. A bustling crowd surrounds us, and in the distance, we spot various livestock.

Thankfully, Fangio has done his job as 'road sweeper.' No animals obstruct the road or its edges; they're carefully herded away for our safety. The road, if possible, becomes even more serpentine and brutally steep. I frequently shift down to second, and even first, for the most demanding turns.

-  We'll never reach Tucuman, I mutter, resigned.
-  Don't complain!' Ursula retorts. What more could we ask for? Everything's running smoothly. No one's overtaken us.

-   I wonder how many could endure this, I muse. Probably very few. It's a Herculean task for both car and driver.

She's right. It's a colossal strain, not just on us, but on the car itself. The higher we climb, the more blinding the sun becomes. The air is crisp and clear. Finally, we crest the summit, the 'Saddle of Purgatory.' I dare not glance at the landscape; the descent, with its sheer cliffs, begins.

Finally signs of life again! Number 711 is greeted enthusiastically by a shallow "bathtub". Ewy doesn't dare to brake, then the "street" gets blocked.

I can hardly move

I'll be practically immobile tonight, my arms and shoulders are aching so much. I have to brake constantly as the car wants to accelerate too quickly. My right thigh is cramping from repeatedly pressing the brake pedal. Will this descent never end? This is truly where you pay for your past transgressions! We begin to see more and more spectators, signaling our approach to Tafi del Valle.

-  The tanker truck should be here soon, Ursula announces. And right on cue, our reliable friend appears, the Mercedes star with a sign reading: '200m'.

-  Hello!' our mechanics exclaim as we pull in. 'You're already here? You've driven fantastically!

-  How far ahead are we? I ask.

-  You must be more than 20 minutes ahead now.

-  Come on, Ursula, let's stretch our legs for a moment! I say:

-  I can hardly move.

We unbuckle ourselves, remove our helmets, and climb stiffly out of the car. At this moment, nothing else matters. I need just three minutes to walk back and forth. The mechanics swarm over our dependable 711, polishing, refueling, checking the coolant, tires, and oil...

The mechanics swarm over our dependable 711, polishing, refueling, checking the coolant, tires, and oil...

I have an apple!

The closer we got to Tafi del Valle, the denser the crowd lining the road became. At the town's entrance, they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, a sea of faces. Flowers rained down upon us, and a cacophony of cheers and excited voices filled the air as we entered the village. School children, released from their classes, waved hand-painted signs above their heads as we approached.

-  Ewy y Ursula! they chanted. They had even spelled our names correctly.

I slowed down to acknowledge the children, but as always, a decrease in speed led to a surge of people onto the road. I accelerated again, laying on the horn. We passed the square, marking the time control. We had covered 416.6 km, with roughly 100 km remaining before the fourth stage's finish line.

The further down we descended, the more the temperature climbed. Ursula unbuttoned her jacket, and by the time we reached Acheral, she had completely shed it, now audibly suffering from the heat.

-  Should I help you with your jacket?  she asked.

-  Yes, please, or I'll be cooked alive.

We waited for a straight stretch of road. Then, I briefly steered with my left hand as Ursula pulled down her right sleeve and then used my right hand while she dealt with her left. She tossed my jacket into the backseat, joining hers.

-  I'm parched, she groaned. I wish we had drunk more water!

As usual, we had only taken sips, but now, a proper gulp would have been a blessing. The heat intensified with each passing quarter-hour. --  Don't we have anything to drink?

I finally croaked. My throat felt like sandpaper. No chewing gum? Dextrose?

-  We have dextrose, but that will only exacerbate the thirst in this heat. But wait! She unbuckled her seatbelt and knelt on her seat. I slowed down to prevent her from being thrown around. She rummaged through her handbag in the back, and then, triumphantly, announced: -   I have an apple!

Today the journey feels endless. My shoulders ache and the curves never end. I have barely reached 80 or 90 km/h on a short straight stretch before Ursula warns of an S-curve. As the crow flies, Catamarca-Tucuman is probably barely 180 km. But we have been sent out on long, remote mountain roads and thanks to that we have to meander our way for 515.4 km. Finally we reach Acheral, which is at the bottom. I have to look at the thermometer twice before I think I have read it right. 36°!
- It's not so strange that it is hot, I say.

And then finally - finally we have the goal straight ahead of us I cross over, Ursula presses the stopwatch and prepares to get out. She yanks off her crash helmet and takes the logbook. I stop right next to Karl Kling. He stands with his eyebrows knitted critically but at the same time his whole face is laughing.

The two Swedes embrace each other overjoyed at the "parc femé" in Tucuman. The fourth stage victory!

— I told you not to skid, he says and shakes his finger. But oh, what you've been driving, little girl!
— Did it go well? I croak hoarsely, unbuckle my seatbelt, take off my helmet and get out stiffly.
Kling is already leaning forward over the scorching engine.
— Great, little girl! he says. I'm so exhausted that I put my arms against the scalding hot roof of the car and lean my forehead against them to close my eyes for a while.
— Do you have any water? I finally manage to get out when I stand upright again. A mechanic immediately gives me a cup of cold, fresh water. I feel sorry for Ursula. I can stay here by the car but she has to push her way through the crowd, with a policeman on each side, who is completely beside herself. I see a policeman elbow a temperamental, corpulent man in the side. In this way, he has to protect Ursula from tangible admirers. From here to the "parc fermé" entrance, we have been granted 20 minutes, but it is also 11.6 km from the finish line. Tucuman is a fairly large city. Today, the controls are extra rigorous, which is necessary after this ordeal. They also change the oil.
— That wouldn't have been necessary, he says contentedly.
— If we get there, I say gloomily. After today's stretch, I suddenly have the feeling that I will never get to Buenos Aires again.
— Of course you will get there, says Kling.
Now Ursula comes out of the time control station. She stumbles and is on the verge of falling. As she continues walking, she limps. The stopwatch in my hand already shows 9 minutes.
— How long do we need to get to the "parc fermé"? I ask.
Karl Kling, who once again bends over the engine and checks that some cables are properly seated.
- 8 minutes at most, he says. It will probably go faster. I get in just as Ursula opens her door.
- What happened? I ask as I start the engine. Karl Kling slams the bonnet shut and waves us off. Ursula closes the door, I step on the gas and we drive away.
- You'll hear from me later, says Ursula, snatching up her papers.

The two Swedes embrace each other overjoyed at "parc femé" in Tucuman. The fourth stage victory!

I feel sorry for Ursula. I could stay here by the carriage, but she has to push her way through the crowd, a policeman on each side, who is completely beside herself. I see a policeman elbowing a temperamental, corpulent man in the side. In this way he has to protect Ursula from the palpable admirers.

It baffled me how Ursula could laugh with such genuine joy, despite being clearly in agony. Yet, her laughter and cheerful replies were infectious, momentarily erasing my own exhaustion. We breathed a sigh of relief as we finally pulled into the waiting car.

With a three-officer mounted police escort, we arrived at the hotel, crossing the finish line at 1:45:22 PM. It was nearly half past two, time for a well-deserved meal. Outside the hotel, police officers cleared a path for us to the gate. Inside, the hotel owner greeted us with flowers, but Fangio, waiting in the lobby, ensured we were whisked directly to our rooms.

-  Hearty congratulations!  he said, shaking our hands. See you later.

The hotel director followed us upstairs.

-   We've prepared a cold snack for you. Is that acceptable? he asked. 

-  You're an angel. We're starving, I replied. Now, tell me about your foot, Ursula! I asked. You can barely walk.

-  'm not sure myself, she answered. Someone kicked me from behind, and another from the front. It's my bunion that's killing me.

She lifted her foot, revealing a completely swollen bunion.

-  You need a bandage immediately, I said, horrified.

-   Later, she dismissed. First, we eat. Oh my goodness, I'm so thirsty!

We thanked Fangio for his role as our ‘road cleaner.’ He explained he had politely asked people to keep their livestock off the road and had enlisted the help of police officers in the mountain villages.

-  We almost forgot something! Fangio exclaimed.

-  We must congratulate you on your new record!

-  That can't be true! I said.

-  Yes, it is! Fangio laughed. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. You drove—wait a moment! He checked his notes.

-   You drove 51 minutes and 43 seconds faster than Oscar Cabalen last year, and 26 minutes and 19 seconds faster than Micre's record in 1960.   -  Congratulations,'Kling said. I hadn't calculated it that precisely. You have every right to be proud.