CARS AT SPEED - Grand Prix's Golden Age

by Daley, Robert

  They then race five hundred yards straight down the side of the horseshoe with nothing at all between them and the water except a few yards of "road." Then there is a final 90-degree left, and the cars race back along the base of the horseshoe toward the starting line.

  On the whole, drivers seem to like the Grand Prix de Monaco, considering it a true test of driving skill, though some speak scornfully of the low speeds. Speeds are so low, and gears are changed so often that the circuit is a real car-wrecker. In a normal year, only 6 of 16 starters will still be running at the end. The rest will break apart, blow up, or crash.

  Very few crashes at Monte Carlo involve only one car. The circuit is too tight for that, and there are so few places to pass that drivers tend to ride nose-to-tail until the moment comes to zip by. Thus, if the lead driver so much as misses a shift, the following driver will bash him. Since this will very likely happen in a blind bend or a narrow one (Monte Carlo has no other kinds), pileups are inevitable.

  Among the great Monte Carlo pileups, the most spectacular have been these:

  —April 13, 1936. The seventh Grand Prix de Monaco. A gray day, rain pouring down, the streets very slippery.

  Leaving the tunnel on the first lap, an Alfa Romeo engine blew up, and its oil spilled on the street. The car staggered as far as the chicane where the street turns onto the promenade surrounding the harbor. It had doused the surface in oil most of the way. Rudi Caracciola and Tazio Nuvolari just managed to slither through. To go straight on would have meant crashing into the temporary roadblock. To turn left onto the promenade and then be unable to straighten out would have meant plunging into the harbor.

  So Caracciola and Nuvolari got by, but Louis Chiron lost control and crashed into the roadblock. Half sticking out into the street, he was promptly bashed by the cars of Nino Farina, Count Trossi, and Mario Tadini. While these drivers were struggling to extricate themselves, Manfred von Brauchitsch's Mercedes rocketed out of the tunnel and rammed Farina's Alfa, virtually blocking the road.

  Flagmen jumped down into the street and signaled surviving cars to slow down. No more joined the wreckage, but of five cars involved only two restarted and neither lasted much longer. A sixth car later crashed in the same spot, skidding on the sand that had been put down over the oil. Caracciola, always sensitive to the play of a car in the wet, won this race at an average speed of 51 miles an hour. Only the first Grand Prix de Monaco in 1929 has ever been run slower.

  —May 21, 1950. Only the second Grand Prix since the war, only the third since the multiple collision of 1936, there having been no race in 1938 or 1939. Weather: fine.

  On the starting grid, 19 cars. This time the crack-up came even before the first lap was over. Again it came at the chicane. Again Nino Farina was involved.

  Farina spun just at the chicane. As it was the first lap, the cars were more bunched than they would be normally. Froilan Gonzalez rammed Farina. Luigi Fagioli managed to stop, but Louis Rosier could not. Trying, he spun sideways into the stalled Fagioli. At the exit from the tunnel the flagmen were waving frantically, but the warning came too late. The road was blocked as the tunnel spewed forth car after car. One by one they banged into the pack. Steel rang against steel, drivers were trying to shout and curse above the few engines still roaring. Six, seven, nine cars piled up, one upon the other. Only a very thin alley was left between the wreckage and the wall. Fangio, arriving in a hurry, spied it, put his foot down and barreled through. The race was two laps old, and Fangio was alone, a lap in front.

  Some of the wrecked cars were junk. Others could be disentangled. Drivers sweated and tugged, freeing some cars. Gonzalez, short, fat, barrel-shaped, strong as a weightlifter, dragged his Maserati loose, leaped back in and took up the pursuit. He made it just past the pits before discovering that the car was on fire. His face white with fear, he jumped out and watched it burn.

  The crash knocked out 10 of 19 cars.

  --May 19, 1957. Weather: fine. Stirling Moss in a Vanwall, and Peter Collins in a Ferrari, surged away from the start. Moss was ahead. Collins got on Moss' tail and stuck there, only inches away. Moss tried everything to shake him, though there was no need so early in the race. Nor was there any need for Collins to follow so close, with nearly three hours of racing ahead. At 70 miles an hour average, over 100 miles an hour in some sections, they were apparently playing a game to see if Collins could hang on despite all Moss' efforts to dislodge him. They were grinning; you could see their faces as they sped by, enjoying themselves immensely.

  Moss was going faster and faster, braking at the absolute limit, sliding his corners. Collins was still there, inches behind.

  Finally, the two cars came to the chicane on lap three. Moss was going too fast to turn up onto the promenade, knew it, and decided not to risk diving into the harbor. Instead he plowed into the barrier dead ahead.

  Collins probably was not even aware of the disaster until Moss ducked out from in front of him. He too was going too fast, but opted for the left-hand barricade, instead of the one Moss had struck. His car came to rest, he started to crawl out of it, then ducked down quickly.

  For Mike Hawthorn, who had been following at a prudent distance, was caught in the middle of all this "playfulness." The wreckage of the two barriers was now all over the road. Something tore off one of Hawthorn's wheels, and his car shot forward toward Collins', climbed its back, and expired there. Hawthorn, Collins, and Moss got out of this with scratches. Fangio (again) got through the scattered poles, sandbags, and pieces of race car without touching anything, and went on to win the race.

  The Grand Prix de Monaco is rarely a thrilling race, but it often is exciting, even spectacular, simply because of the setting. Monte Carlo itself is beautiful, sophisticated. Monegasque police in gorgeous dress uniforms guard the royal box, and 50,000 or more people watch from hillsides and balconies all over town.

  Speeds at Monte Carlo are relatively so low, and the balance and brakes of race cars so nearly perfect, that it is difficult for a driver to injure himself on the streets of the principality. One can watch cars crashing into the chicane, spinning out of control to whack hard into the straw bales, burning to charred hulks, even (on one occasion) plunging like a high diver into the harbor itself—usually one can watch such spectacles with enjoyment, rather than with fear for the lives of the drivers.

  Only one driver has ever been killed at Monte Carlo, Luigi Fagioli, and he died more because he was an old man with no resistance left, than as a result of the accident. Fagioli had begun racing in 1926, a strong, unshaven fellow with a broad peasant face, a man who fought to win always, at all costs. He lived only for racing. He would fight even a teammate wheel-to-wheel into a dangerous corner, forcing the other man to give way or risk being killed. He had no use for team discipline. He considered himself the best driver in the world. He had a right to win. He won Grands Prix for Maserati, Mercedes, and Alfa Romeo, and there were men who believed he was the best, as he claimed, and who called him with affection "the old Abruzzi robber."

  When war came to Europe, Fagioli was 41 and at the end of the trail. No one ever expected to see him at the wheel of a race car again. But for six years he chaffed and waited, and when the bombs stopped falling and the armies went home, he was among the first to drag old and rusting race cars from the barns and stables where they had been hidden all through the war. He went on racing, as unshaven as ever, but now grizzled and short-tempered.

  In 1950 he drove for Alfa Romeo as fourth man, no longer the Abruzzi robber who had mauled other drivers in the early 1930s, but steady and coldly calculating, good enough still to finish second in two Grands Prix and high up in others.

  The next year he again drove for Alfa. In the Grand Prix de France he skidded off the road at high speed, felled a sign post, hurdled a ditch, and shot through trees back onto the road. He did not even wait to have the car checked, for Villoresi ahead was faltering and in a moment Fagioli could be in second place.

  This happened on
the ninth lap. On the 22nd the old man came in for gas and tires, urging his mechanics to hurry, hurry—he was second but gaining fast, and believed he could win. But when the car was ready, Fangio, who had broken down early, jumped off the pit counter into the cockpit and roared away, leaving Fagioli standing there. The pit manager explained that Fangio was No. 1 team driver, and had the right to take over any car he chose. The pit manager had ordered the switch.

  Fagioli could not believe it. He had been replaced as if he were any newcomer or incompetent. He was so upset he could not talk. The old man's unshaven chin quivered like a boy's and it was seen that he was on the verge of tears. Heartsick, he watched a younger man win a race he might have won himself.

  After that he would not drive for Alfa anymore.

  He was 54 years old, married, father of a grown son, but all he wanted in life was to drive race cars. The better teams would not have him now, but the 1952 Grand Prix de Monaco was for sports cars, and the old man turned up driving a borrowed Mercedes. He had twice crashed at Monte Carlo, once spectacularly, and in 1935,17 years before, had won the race outright. No one there thought of refusing his entry, merely because he was no longer young.

  He drove well, too, pushing the big Mercedes high up in the practice fight for places on the starting grid. Then, on Saturday afternoon, when the sun was beginning to fade and practice was nearly over, he lost control inside the tunnel, swept out of it broadside, smashed into the stone balustrade, and turned over.

  He had been thrown out, and when they picked him up he was unconscious and it was seen that his helmet was crushed and torn. Removed to the hospital, doctors found that one arm and one leg were broken, and that he was cut and bleeding in many places. But X-rays proved that his skull was not fractured, and it was announced to the press that the old Italian's crash helmet had saved his life.

  Nonetheless, he was in a coma four days, his wife and son at his bedside, flowers and gifts piling up in the hospital room. Then he came out of the coma, rallied, began to eat, and even to joke with visitors. Two weeks passed. He was weak, but appeared to be out of danger. Then, midway through the third week, he suddenly worsened. He died in the arms of his wife on the 21st day after his crash.

  His nervous system had failed, doctors said. He was 54 years and many Grand Prix victories old, and tributes poured in from all over the world.

  With so many multiple crashes, with no more than half a dozen cars surviving mechanically in most years (only four in 1960), the Grand Prix de Monaco is rarely a tense race. Many years, in fact, it is won by default. Twice Maurice Trintignant has "won" because he was cruising comfortably in fifth place and the first four cars crashed or broke down. Once Jack Brabham won in the same way.

  As for great races—as opposed to the spectacular—there has been only one, the von Brauchitsch—Caracciola interteam duel in 1937.

  Von Brauchitsch and Caracciola had been teammates many years, respected each other coolly, and left each other alone. Caracciola may have been the most dedicated race driver of all time. The roar of the engines, the wind whistling past his ears, was everything to him. He lived and breathed racing, and he had won more Grand Prix races than any man who ever lived. And if he were killed? "It would be good to die this way--quickly," he said once. What was death compared to the intoxication of speed, "the toughest, hardest, yet most wonderful sensation that fate can give!"

  He was quiet, reserved, avoided publicity, shunned night spots, and lived like a recluse when away from the track. If he loved being a celebrity he gave no sign of it.

  He drove as quietly as he lived, and he won quietly. No show, no tempestuous hand-waving, no spectacular near-crashes. He was, in 1937, 36 years old, the acknowledged No. 1 Mercedes driver.

  Von Brauchitsch, then 32, was slim, handsome, elegant, from a wealthy family, and appeared to enjoy being charming to girls as much or more than driving. He was an aristocrat's son, trained as an army officer, but he took up racing at 24, and joined the Mercedes team at 29.

  On any other team he might have been a star. With Mercedes he was always second to Caracciola. This hurt his pride, and sometimes he refused to permit Caracciola to ease off toward the end of a race, but would come up and challenge him for the lead.

  Von Brauchitsch drove because it was fun and added to his appeal to girls. Caracciola drove because he was compelled to drive; driving was his whole life.

  And in 1937, the two of them raced 100 laps through the streets of Monte Carlo, first one, then the other leading, the crowd going crazy, the Mercedes pits signaling frantically for them to slow down before they blew each other up or crashed.

  But neither heeded the signals and the furious duel went on lap after lap.

  The two long silver Mercedes were more than two laps in the lead by then. The men came in to refuel, one after the other, were ordered to cut out the nonsense, but gave no sign of listening.

  Von Brauchitsch had complained of a stuck brake. Mechanics, apparently ordered to dawdle while fixing it, held the impatient driver up for 90 seconds.

  Caracciola should have had the race won by then, but when he came in to refuel in turn, a screw fell into the induction system. This required nearly four minutes to find. Perhaps mechanics dawdled here, too. Perhaps, once Caracciola's 90-second lead had evaporated, they were ordered to waste so much time that he could have no chance of catching up, of dicing again with von Brauchitsch, of perhaps blowing up both cars and giving victory to some rival firm.

  But Caracciola was past caring where von Brauchitsch was. He drove like a madman the rest of the race, gaining all the time, finishing only a minute and a half behind, showing to all the world that even in defeat he was the faster driver.

  Monte Carlo was a special place for Caracciola. He was a man whose life held more of victory than most men's. Yet Monte Carlo was, for him, a place of defeat--ordinary defeat like his race with von Brauchitsch in 1937, curious defeat as in the Grand Prix of 1932, another defeat in 1933 that should have crushed him for good and for all, and finally his short, miserable drive in 1934, which the crowd watched in silence and pity.

  He was born in 1901 in Remagen, a German despite the Italian sound of his name, and began racing in 1923. For three years he tried to break into Grand Prix racing, but no one would have him. To keep eating, he worked as a car salesman. He bombarded Mercedes directors year after year with appeals. If they would just trust him with a car, he would show them. Just give him a chance. Just one chance.

  But those were hard times in Germany. Cars were not selling. Dozens of discouraged salesmen imagined themselves capable of driving race cars to fame and fortune. What was there to distinguish Caracciola from the others?

  Only his persistence. In 1926, the Mercedes team decided to skip the German Grand Prix because the date clashed with a more important race in Spain. The Spanish race had history and prestige. The German Grand Prix had never been run before. Caracciola, hearing about this, hurried to the factory at Stuttgart and made another impassioned appeal for a car.

  This time the Mercedes directors weakened. Caracciola had won some hillclimbs and other minor races. Perhaps he might be capable of putting up a respectable showing. They decided to lend him a car, but he must enter as an independent, not as a factory driver. That way, if he failed or crashed, the factory could not be held responsible by the public.

  So Caracciola went to the Avus track in Berlin to race in the first German Grand Prix. Alone, believing this was the only chance he would ever have to prove himself, he climbed into the car and drove as fast and furiously as he could. There was a pelting rainstorm. Half the time he could not see, and when he could it was often just long enough to spy a car that had crashed and was burning, or that had dived into the crowd. He had no experience, no trained pit crew to help him, he had no idea all through the race of where he stood. He simply drove as fast as he could, pressing on and on in the rain, heartsick with the belief that others were ahead of him; he would never catch up, he would fail, and
no factory would ever lend him a car again.

  And then the race ended. He hurtled past the checkered flag, drenched, cold, miserable.

  When they told him he was first by miles he could not believe it. Elation soared through him. He had won, he had won! The aching constricted present had become the limitless future.

  In the glow of victory, he summoned his courage and asked the girl of his dreams to marry him. She had lived in a hotel opposite the Berlin showroom where he sold cars, and he had loved her, mostly from a distance, for months. They got engaged that night. On the strength of that victory, also, Caracciola quit his job. Henceforth he would be a race driver only. "The best," he promised his bride-to-be, "or none at all."

  The next three key races in his life were the Monegasque Grands Prix of 1932, 1933 and 1934.

  Since that first German Grand Prix he had been winning regularly—two more German Grands Prix, the Tourist Trophy, the Mille Miglia. In 1932, Mercedes having ceased to produce fast-enough cars, he signed to drive for Alfa Romeo.

  But there was a catch. The factory wanted him. The other team drivers did not. They were all Italians, Tazio Nuvolari, Mario Borzacchini, Giuseppe Campari. They raced as a team, they split their winnings, they drove a small, light car that they supposed that Caracciola, used to the Mercedes blunderbusses of those years, would not know how to manage.

  But Mercedes was out of it, Caracciola had no other worthwhile offers and so, even in the face of such coldness and distrust, he signed the contract. It stipulated that he was to drive Alfa Romeos as an independent. He was not, officially, a member of the team.

  His first race was the Mille Miglia. He led the pack all the way to Rome, then, possibly due to heavy-handedness, broke down at Verona. When he got back to the factory he bumped into Campari. Other Alfas had finished first, second and third, and the smile Campari gave him was smug, as if to say (Caracciola reported later), "We knew you would be no good in our cars."