She's in her own home and surrounded with her own freshly laundered towels. She drizzles them with her signature Italian dressing, looking forward to seeing the racially diverse race drivers in their gaily colored vehicles. She's sitting on her sunglasses, unfortunately.
The race administrator leaves his villa, walking until he's running, running until he's vomiting cubed lettuce and soy hash on the charred carpet of the former hotel's lobby.
In foil packets, the lumpy poultry steams in the bathroom. Our heroine will eat it with naked fingers on her balcony, waiting for the race that never begins...