by Brock Yates
Richard Neuberger, a liberal Democratic senator from Oregon, demanded that President Eisenhower ban automobile racing. In an impassioned speech before the Senate, he ended his denouncement of the sport with the following statement: "I believe the time has come for the United States to be a civilized nation and stop the carnage on the racetracks, which are a stage for profits and for the delight of thousands of screeching spectators." The New York Daily News followed with an editorial dealing with the AAA's rumored plans to leave the sport, claiming that "auto racing in these times attracts a lot of people who morbidly expect to see somebody killed or injured-and often do. Why should the AAA cater to that morbidity any longer?"
The sole defender of the sport was NASCAR's Bill France. He sidestepped the fact that three drivers-Larry Mann, Frank Arford, and Lou Figaro-had died in recent stock car races, and persuaded a number of southern senators that those "screeching spectators" would vote the following year. His claim that auto racing actually improved highway safety through better automotive design helped to defuse Neuberger and other critics, and no anti-racing legislation ever reached Congress.
Napoleon's epic program of military road building in the late eighteenth century made highway travel relatively easy, although France was yet to seriously invest in four-lane superhighways of the type that already crisscrossed Germany and were about to spread over the United States under President Eisenhower's massive Interstate and Defense Highway Act of 1956. But the poplar-lined two-lanes were fast and smooth, even for Coltrin's Fiat, and we made the city of Nevers for lunch after crossing the Loire River.
The small roadside cafe was a favorite stop of his, due in part to a wonderful local Cabernet that Coltrin consumed with amazing relish. As we sat on a sun-drenched patio, an immense red Fiat truck rumbled past. Hunkered down in its special two-deck storage racks were the three battle-scarred factory Ferrari sports cars that had competed at Le Mans. The truck bore the familiar yellow and black prancing horse of Maranello crest of the Scuderia on its door, and the driver, spotting Coltrin's Fiat on the verge, honked wildly and waved as he sped past. The transporter, with its cargo of brutish machinery, was headed back to the factory, where the race cars would be torn apart and refurbished for more competition, presuming all motor racing on the Continent was not ended forever.
"They're good boys," said Coltrin as he watched the big Fiat trundle into the distance. "They work their asses off for the Commendatore. Loyal as hell. The cars are practically a religion to the Italians. When Ferrari wins, the nation cheers. When they lose, the nation weeps. It's like no other place on earth"
We heard another engine in the distance-high-pitched and angry. Then another red vehicle burst out of a tunnel of trees and arrowed toward us. A Ferrari 375 Mexico coupe. Its snout sank under hard braking as the driver expertly downshifted through the gears. The Ferrari skidded to a stop next to Coltrin's Fiat. It was squat, with the traditional Ferrari egg-crate grille and a hand-built aluminum body designed by coach builder Giovanni Michelotti and built by the Carrozzeria of Alfredo Vignale. A 4.1-liter V-12 developing 280 horsepower was tucked underneath its low hood.
The Mexico's door swung open and a svelte young woman stepped out. She was wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses. Her hair was combed back until she reached up and unpinned it, letting a cascade the color of an angry sunset tumble onto her black leather jacket. Yanking off her glasses with a dramatic sweep, she approached with feline grace. I watched, slack-jawed.
"Peter, just in time for lunch," she said, smiling. "I couldn't miss that clapped-out Fiat of yours in the car park and thought I'd join you." Before I had a chance to rise from my chair, she held out her hand. "Hi, I'm Diana Logan. Peter and I have known each other for years. Seems like we meet at almost every Grand Prix race. What fun. Have you ordered?"
Diana Logan, the daughter of a senior production executive at Warner Brothers, had become a motor sports groupie, drifting around Europe, mingling with the drivers, team owners, and other elites on the Grand Prix circuit. She was twenty-four years old, with the devastating good looks of a screen star. As I stumbled through my lunch, I fought the urge to stare at this lovely creature dominating the conversation.
"I was so thankful Gino wasn't involved in that awful mess," she said, referring to Eugenio Castellotti.
"Lucky he was well back when it happened," Coltrin said.
"They have to do something about that track," she said, lighting a gold-tipped cigarette. She turned to me, her azure-blue eyes curious and unthreatening. "What are your plans in Modena?"
"Uh, well, I guess I'm going with Peter. Never been there. The Ferrari scene sounds interesting." Diana looked at Coltrin and the pair exchanged knowing smiles. "Oh yes, you could say that. Where are you staying?"
"I made him a reservation at the Albergo Real. In the middle of the action," said Coltrin.
"Perfect. I'm there too. We'll have to get together."
"Sounds good to me. But I'll need a translator. I know about three words in Italian and they're all dirty."
Diana laughed. "In that crowd, you'll be in good shape."
As we finished lunch, she stood up and swept a mop of hair from her face and put on her sunglasses. "I've got to run. I'd like to get over the St. Bernard before dark."
"Great meeting you," I said. "I look forward to seeing more of you in Modena."
"Me, too. And don't let Peter kill you in that shit-box:' She spun to leave, then turned. "In fact, if you want to come with me, I'll guarantee you'll get there a lot faster than riding with him."
I looked at Coltrin, seeking his response. He shrugged in defeat. "Lemme see," he puzzled. "Ride with me in that junker of mine or in a Ferrari with a beautiful woman. I give up."
Diana grabbed my hand and hauled me toward the Ferrari. Pitching my small leather bag and portable typewriter in the tiny trunk, I wedged in beside her. The interior of the Ferrari smelled of rich leather and Chanel. The V-12 came awake with a lusty crackle from its exhaust and a cacophony of gear whines. Diana powered onto the highway, leaving a shower of stones and a desolate Coltrin in her wake.
She drove across western France like a fugitive from the furies. Rushing toward the Swiss border, we skimmed a farmer and his horse-drawn wagon at 120 miles an hour. The Ferrari lurched sideways in a long slide under hard braking. She laughed hard as we regained speed.
The St. Bernard Pass over the Alps was a sickening maze of serpentine curves and switchbacks that probed through the craggy peaks. Traffic was light, which meant that Diana had a clear shot with the Ferrari, unimpeded by slower vehicles that might have served to ease her pace. And my mind. We plunged off the mountains with the car's outer wheels gnawing at the edge of the pavement and within inches of 1,000 foot drop-offs. "Your knuckles are getting white," she mused, glancing down at my hand gripping the dashboard. "Not to worry, I've made this trip a hundred times. The car practically steers itself."
Once on the flats of the Aosta Valley, the long legs of the Ferrari unlimbered and we sped south with the tachometer floating at around 6,000 rpm. With the gear lever jammed in fourth gear, I was unable to see the speedometer, but I reckoned the Ferrari was touching speeds of 160 mph.
She short-cut around Milan and headed east on the ancient Via Emilia, a Roman road that had served the empire since three hundred years before the birth of Christ. It remained an engineering wonder, with one 163-mile stretch from Rimini on the Adriatic Coast to Piacenza on the banks of the Po River an almost perfectly straight line, with barely the suggestion of a hill or a curve. There being no speed limits in Italy and virtually no traffic enforcement, we blazed across the northern part of the country like a low-flying airplane, reaching the outskirts of Modena as the sun dipped into the horizon to the west, reflecting off the shimmering thirteenth century Duomo and the various campaniles scattered around the city.
Modena, once known as Mutina to the Romans, had been a center of commerce on the vast Padana plain since Etruscan prehistory. Controlled by the powerful E
ste family during the Renaissance, Modena-a center of metal crafts, porcelain works, and machine-tool industries-was the thriving capital of Emilia-Romagna known for its heavy Lambrusco red wine, its "Zamponi," stuffed pigs' feet, and swarms of summer mosquitoes that bred in the marshes of the Panaro River. The uncrowned king of the city was Commendatore Enzo Ferrari, at the height of his powers, running the Scuderia Ferrari racing stable and producing the most exotic, powerful, and expensive cars in the world. But, unknown at the time, a challenger to his throne was on the rise. A young, robust twenty-year-old schoolteacher was refining his stunning tenor voice, hoping someday to leave school and enter the opera. Six years later, he would shake the music world with his power and range, when he debuted in La Scala's La Boht me. This Modenese teacher and aspiring singer was named Luciano Pavarotti.
The Albergo Real, owned by an ex-madame, was set on the Via Emilia, which sliced through the center of the city, bordering the edge of the elegant Garibaldi Square. Diana pointed to a cross-street as we eased toward the hotel. "Ferrari and his family live down there. Eleven Viale e Trieste. An apartment on the second floor over the old race shop. The main factory is a few miles out of town on the Abetone Road. Down there about a mile is Maserati. Owned by the Orsi family. Ferrari and the Orsis hate each other. Bad blood."
We entered the lobby, a slightly threadbare example of provincial Italian baroque. The staff, with typically grand gestures, hauled off our luggage. As we headed to the elevator, Diana spun away and rushed into the arms of a slight handsome man. I immediately recognized Eugenio Castellotti.
The Albergo bar was crowded with a cacophony of chatter in Italian, English, French, and German by the time Coltrin wandered in. He was still growling about the evil behavior of his Fiat.
"Was your ride with Diana OK?" he asked, knocking back a second Scotch.
"The woman can drive, I'll say that."
"She's something. Half the guys on the Grand Prix circuit are in love with her. But she's elusive."
"Not with Castellotti. She was all over him like a cheap suit when we got here."
"And that shot your dreams in the ass, right?"
"My mama didn't raise no fool."
"Relax. She may have the hots for of Gino, but he's all hooked up with an Italian movie star, Delia Scala. The two are Italy's heartthrobs. He's from Lodi. Old Italian aristocracy. Ego the size of the Coliseum. A little self-conscious about his height, so he wears elevator shoes. But now that Ascari is dead, he's the great hope of Italy to run with Fangio and Moss. If Ferrari lets him live long enough, he might have a shot."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning the old man-that's what we call Ferrari-plays crazy mind games with his drivers. Keeps them on the edge, tweaking them to go faster. They call him an `agitator of men."'
"Americans have the idea that he's this towering genius and a kind of benign father figure."
"Yeah, like Mussolini. He's one crafty old son-of-a-bitch and a small-town Paisano. You'll see later."
"He's coming in here?"
"Regular as clockwork. About eight. His home life is a nightmare. His wife, Laura, is an ex-putana from Torino and his mother is an old shrew who lives with them. His only son, Dino, is twenty-three and dying of something-maybe muscular dystrophy and nephritis, who knows? Although some claim he contracted incurable syphilis in his mother's womb."
"Man, what a mess."
"That's only the half of it. He's got a mistress named Linda Lardi who lives in a little village, Castelvitro, near here, and she's got Enzo's ten-year-old bastard son, Piero. Laura knows about the kid and keeps Enzo's feet to the fire. He comes over here-it's just around the corner from his house-to get away from her."
"Can you blame him?"
"The best part of it is that he's maybe the biggest ass man in northern Italy. Hard to figure, but he always has women, including a few of his customer's wives. The Rasputin of automobiles. He's amazing. I think the only thing he likes better than his cars is pussy."
Diana's fierce red head eased through the crowd. She came up, dressed in an elegant silk blouse and tight-fitting leather pants, riding on four-inch stiletto heels. Slick-haired Italian heads swiveled in her wake.
"Are you all settled in?" she asked.
"My little home away from home," I said.
"Sorry we left you, Peter. But I guess you made it all right," she said, turning to Coltrin.
"Better late than never," he answered.
"We should get some dinner. There's a little trattoria around the corner.
"I figured you'd be eating with Gino," I said.
"Don't be silly. We're just old friends. Tomorrow he's testing the Grand Prix car at the Autodrome. I'll see him there. Are you going, Peter?"
"Wouldn't miss it for the world. And I'll bring my American cousin here." He gestured to me.
Coltrin had settled in with a sweet, slightly round Italian woman in a small apartment, but seemed to spend his waking hours either at the Albergo bar or haunting the various car businesses scattered around Modena. He joined us for dinner-heaping portions of tortellini, the favored local pasta, and endless glasses of Lambrusco.
"What is it about this world of motor racing that so intrigues you?" I asked Diana. "I mean, you were raised in the movie industry. Hollywood. All that glamour. Why this?"
"The people. The joie di vivre. Living on the edge, I guess. Hollywood is so plastic. So filled with poseurs. This is real."
"Yeah, real. Like maybe a hundred dead in Le Mans. I was there when Vukovich got it. And Chet Miller. Then Ascari. Maybe that's too real."
"Oh, I know. Sometimes it's terrible. But the rest of it-alive, vibrant. Packed with fascinating people. Like tomorrow. Gino trying out a new car. The noise. The power. The fumes. To me it's haunting."
Outside the restaurant, a Maserati roadster fired up, its blatting six-cylinder instantly recognizable compared to the V-12 shriek of a Ferrari. Its driver powered away, the roar of the engine echoing off the shuttered buildings lining the narrow street.
"You don't hear a sound like that on Wilshire Boulevard," said Diana.
"Hot rods and fatso Cadillacs," sneered Coltrin. "The whole damn Los Angeles basin is a nightmare. I was there last year-never again. The politicians are talking about building thousands of miles of their so-called freeways and it's `drive-in' everything-hamburger joints, movie theaters, shopping centers. Even a drive-in church in Garden Grove."
Coltrin raged on about the decadence of Southern California until Diana forcibly changed the subject.
"I suppose you guys have been so locked up with automobile racing that you haven't been paying any attention to what's going on in the rest of the world. Like maybe the movies?"
"The last one I saw was Birth of a Nation," grumped Coltrin.
"That's what I thought. But maybe I can give you a scoop. There's this young actor my father says is going to set the world on fire. A super-talent. His first movie opened in March. The Steinbeck novel East of Eden directed by Elia Kazan. Then he shot a picture for Warner's called Rebel Without a Cause and after that he's in an adaptation of Edna Ferber's Giant. Then Rocky Graziano bio-pic Somebody Up There Likes Me. His name is James Dean. Remember that."
"Another flash-in-the-pan movie hero. Who cares?" sniffed Coltrin.
"You'll care because he's also a major racing talent. When he got to Hollywood from Broadway, he bought an MG, then a Porsche Speedster, and won his first race at Palm Springs. He ran very quickly again at Bakersfield and then at Santa Barbara over the Memorial Day weekend. He just finished Rebel and now he's in Marfa, Texas, with Liz Taylor and Rock Hudson shooting Giant. The studio has made him stop racing until production finishes in September, but everybody says he's a terrific talent on the racetrack."
"Seems like he'll have run to more than three amateur sports car races before anyone would recognize it," I said.
"Bill Hickman, his pal and the stunt driver on Rebel, says Jimmy is a natural. He grew up in a little Indiana town.
Loved the Indy 500. It's in his blood," she replied.
"Yeah, Diana, I've seen a million of these playboy racers come and go," said Coltrin. "They buy a fast car, run against some wankers in a few minor races, and when they get with the big boys they fade like watercolors in the noonday sun." Said Coltrin.
"OK but they say he's the master of Mulholland. Nobody beats him there," she snapped.
Mulholland. Coltrin's head jerked up at the word. Mulholland Drive was a legendary serpentine road that ran along the rim of the Santa Monica Mountains connecting Laurel Canyon in Hollywood to Topanga Canyon in Woodland Hills. Nineteen miles of endless tight corners and switchbacks that demanded maximum skill to negotiate at speed. "He's quick there?" Coltrin asked.
"The best, they say. Unbeatable. So he's got to have talent."
"We'll see. You can run like a raped ape on the public roads and still be a back-marker."
"Remember that name. James Dean," Diana said firmly.
"OK, OK," said Coltrin. "I'm installing his name in my memory bank right now. The future world champion, Mr. James Dean." Smiling, he pointed his index finger at his frontal lobe with a screwing motion and knocked back another glass of wine.
After I had doled out a wad of inflation-bloated lire for dinner, we drifted back to the Albergo Real bar, where a crowd had gathered around Enzo Ferrari. He was nearly a head taller than his admirers, instantly identifiable with his shock of white hair and huge aquiline nose. He spoke in grand gestures in a Modenese dialect that might as well have been Swahili to me. Finishing off a glass of Lambrusco, he yelled "andiamof' and headed for the front door.
"It's race time," said Diana. "This will be fun."
"The Biella Club is going to have a race," said Coltrin.
"The Biella Club?"
"A little social group of Ferrari and his cronies. Members of the Scuderia. Tavoni, Ugolini, Amarotti, Giberti. They eat, drink, and whore around together."
The little crowd burst onto the street, where a stack of bicycles leaned against the Hotel Fascia. Ferrari was the first to haul his huge frame aboard.
