Against Death and Time: One Fatal Season in Racing's Glory Years (23 page)

"Is he good enough?" I asked.

"Probably. But you never know. It takes more than the physical
things-reflexes, eyesight, endurance. All that. It's a head thing. You
either have it or you don't. We'll have to see with Walters."

"Vukovich had it. And see what it got him," I said.

"Braver than Dick Tracy. That I'll give him."

"So who's gonna win this thing?" I asked.

"Jaguar has to be the favorite. Won it the last two years. Hawthorn's
their lead driver. Very quick. Then there's Mercedes-Benz. Three new
super cars. They carry air brakes-big panels that flip out of the
rear deck to help them slow down at the end of the Mulsanne
straight. Three flat-out miles that end with a forty-mile-an-hour
right-hander. They've got Juan Manuel Fangio, the world champion, teamed up with Stirling Moss. Two of the best drivers in the
world." Coltrin paused and lit a cigarette, a foul-smelling Gauloise.
"But one of their cars is a bit of a joke. Very political, those
Germans."

"Meaning what?" I asked.

"Meaning they've teamed John Fitch with a Frenchman, Pierre
Levegh. Mercedes picked a Frenchman and an American to gain a few
points with the French public. He's over fifty years old. Maybe fiftyfive, for god's sake. They call him the `Bishop: Weird man. Stony and
distant. Two years ago he tried to run the whole damn twenty-fours
hours solo. Insanity. He got in a fugue state. Delirious. Round and
round like an automoton. With less than an hour to go, he had a lead
of twenty-five miles. Three goddamn laps on the second-place
Mercedes. Then he missed a shift and broke the engine. All of France
went insane. He hid out in Paris for two weeks. Real name is
Bouillion. His Uncle, Louis Levegh, drove for the French Mors team
back around the turn of the century. Bouillion legally changed his
name in honor of his uncle.

"He got the ride with Mercedes when another Frenchman, Paul
Frere, a very good driver and a journalist, turned down the seat
because he had already signed with Aston Martin. So the Krauts
thought they could score a few public relations points with the Frogs
by signing poor old Levegh."

"His teammate is John Fitch. He ran with Cunningham, didn't he?
Now he's with Mercedes?"

"Yeah, the guy is really good. Won the grand touring class for
Mercedes at the Mille Miglia. Finished fifth overall in a basically stock
gullwing coupe. That got him the ride here." Coltrin took a long drag
on the cigarette, exhaling the smoke through his nose. "Fitch ran the
Millie with a guy named Kurt Gessel as his so-called navigator. A
reporter for some Hamburg newspaper. Never even been to a race
before, and they stuck him in a car for a thousand miles of the wildest
driving in the world. Scared the shit out of him, but it got Mercedes
some good press. They were lucky Fitch was good enough so he didn't
crash and kill the poor bastard. Mercedes' little public relations game
would have backfired then."

"It doesn't sound like you've got a whole lot of love for the
Germans or the French."

"You spend time in Italy and you'll know why."

"Ferrari?" I asked.

"Yeah, Ferrari. The food. The women. The sense of humor. No
place like it on earth. You come to Modena and I'll show you what I
mean." Coltrin continued to grump about practically everything in
sight as I left him and introduced myself to Cunningham and
Walters. They were both reserved easterners, endowed with that subtle elan that radiates from old money and privilege. They invited me
to sit down, and the conversation turned quickly to the event at hand
and Walters' future.

"Phil will be leaving us, and we'll miss him;" said Cunningham.
"From here he's headed to Modena. Ferrari wants him to drive for the
Scuderia. No American has ever run Formula One, so we're hoping Phil
gets a fair shot," said Cunningham. "They say that Rex Mays was invited
to join the Alfa Romeo team after he ran so well at the Vanderbilt Cup
on Long Island in'37. But when Rex heard that you had to dress for dinner and be very social, he said `to hell with it' and stayed in California."

"So I guess you've brought along your tux," I said to Walters.

"It's in my luggage, right next to my helmet," he said, smiling.

"What do you think about running for a European team?" I asked.

"It'll be different. Old man Ferrari is a real character. Pretty much
a tyrant. But running Formula One will be a kick. Going against
Fangio and Moss and Hawthorn will be a real challenge. Right after
this I'm going down there to test. Phil tells me the politics are pretty
tricky at the factory."

Walters was referring to young Phil Hill, a talented Californian
who was already on the Ferrari team as junior sports car driver and
was running his first race for the Scuderia at Le Mans. He would be
teamed as the second driver with Umberto Maglioli, although his
chances to compete in the more challenging Formula One cars
seemed dim, at least for the near future.

"We'll just have to wait and see how the Italians treat us,"
Walters mused.

"At least you'll make a little money," said Cunningham.

"I won't be rich. Tavoni, the team manager, says I'll get 40 percent
of any appearance money they wangle out the of the promoterswhich won't be much, considering that I'm unknown in Europeand 50 percent of my winnings. Whatever that might be."

"The Europeans all think Americans are rolling in money. So they
get us to race for nickels and dimes. And we're so eager we'll take anything. There are ten Americans running here and not one of us will
make enough to buy a new suit. I suppose that's our fault,"
Cunningham shrugged.

A lanky man with a wide smile walked up and sat down. John Fitch
was taller and thinner than I had expected, once again affirming that
race car drivers come in all sizes and shapes. Yet they seem to share
one characteristic. It was the eyes. Someone had once described them
as "gunfighter's eyes," even and clear, deeply penetrating, unblinking,
laser-like at their target. Eyesight was one of the most important ele ments in fast driving, and Fitch was not only accomplished in all conditions, day and night, but had been a trained P-51 fighter pilot in the
recent World War.

After some light banter between the three about how their old
teammate had deserted Cunningham for a ride with the vaunted
Mercedes-Benz, the conversation turned to the upcoming race.

Between them, the trio had dominated American sports car racing for three years, and it was Fitch and Walters who had driven a
Cunningham to third overall in 1953 at Le Mans. It was to be the
highest finish for the team in the legendary contest. The same year,
the pair won the Sebring 12-Hour, thereby becoming the first allAmerican team in history to win an international championship
endurance race. Because of the long bond between the three, the
conversation flowed freely, even though Fitch now belonged to a
major rival.

"Your Merc looks damned good," said Walters.

"The thing is amazing. Rock solid. The engine's unbelievably
responsive. Fuel-injected. Magnesium bodywork. The air brake is like
an anchor at the end of the Mulsanne."

"Is the team as good as they say?" asked Cunningham, referring to
the legendary organization led by Mercedes-Benz chief engineer
Rudolph Uhlenhaut and team manager Alfred Neubauer, both veterans of over twenty years of competition.

"You can't believe it. Every detail is attended to. Like an army. I
thought we were pretty good when we ran together, but these people
are amazing.

I watched the exchange with interest, recalling the banter
between Vukovich and McGrath prior to the 500. It had been profane and hard-edged, full of good-natured threats and rough talk.
But now the chat was civilized and understated. Fitch, dressed in a
tailored tweed jacket and perfectly creased slacks, appeared to have
stepped out from a Brooks Brothers store window, the epitome of country chic. When the waiter asked for his drink order, he spoke
in French.

"What about Levegh?" asked Cunningham, referring to Fitch's
co-driver.

"A good fellow. I had dinner with him and his wife a few nights
ago. A bit morose. Still haunted by his failure to win here a couple of
years ago. Has mixed feelings about the Germans, of course, like a lot
of Frenchmen. They're the ones who beat him when his Talbot broke
and now they're giving him a chance to win again. That seems to
gnaw at him."

"He's at least fifty years old. Maybe more," said Walters.

"Yes, but he can find his way around here blindfolded. He probably has more miles under his belt at Le Mans than anybody. And
this time no one-man heroics. He'll follow team orders. He's going
to run the first four hours. Kind of a salute to his devotion to the
race over the years."

"Still, he's damned old for this sort of stuff," said Walters.

"This will be his last race if he wins it, you can be sure of that," said
Fitch. "But Le Mans rules his entire life. A bit intense for me, but a
decent teammate. Our plan is to run easily for the first half of the
race, then up the pace. Levegh isn't particularly comfortable with the
car. Hates driving on the left side for some reason and maintains that
the circuit-especially the front straight-is too narrow for the current cars.

"He's probably right. I'd be hell trying to run three abreast. In the
old days with skinny-tired Alfas and Bentleys, maybe. But not today,"
said Walters.

"The car looks fantastic," said Cunningham, referring to Fitch's
Mercedes.

"About perfect. We tested at Hokckenheim for twenty-four
hours last month. The whole track was pitch-black at night, except
for some tiny lanterns they'd placed on the tops of the corners. The headlights were a bit weak, which made for some bad moments.
But they've fixes that with a big pair of extra lights in the grille. I
think we're ready."

"You've moved," said Cunningham, changing the subject.

"Yes, to Lugano. Lovely place. Elizabeth is pregnant, you know.
So she's staying there until the baby. Sometime later this summer,
we expect."

Again I was struck by the civility of it all. Living in a beautiful
Swiss resort, staying in the best hotels, dining in the finest restaurants, and driving with a bunch of gentlemen in exotic sports cars.
Cunningham, a man of great wealth and social stature, heir to
uncounted millions-able to race cars and yachts as his mission in
life. I thought of Vukovich's family, now struggling to survive, his
legacy amounting to little more than a pair of gas stations, a small
house, and two Ford convertibles.

Were these gentlemen as hard-edged and courageous as the flinty
professionals who risked everything at Indianapolis? Was this form of
sport as elemental, as fiercely challenging and physically demanding
as that which I had witnessed at Indianapolis and Syracuse? My exposure to sports car racing at Watkins Glen had indicated otherwise. A
thin layer of artifice and faintly feminine gentility had pervaded the
atmosphere, counterbalanced only by the professionalism of the
Cunningham team.

"Was doing the movie fun?" asked Cunningham, referring to
Fitch's work on the soon-to-be-released The Racers starring Kirk
Douglas and Belle Darvi. He had been critical to the production,
arranging for three faux Grand Prix cars to be created from old
Maseratis and doing extensive driving as Douglas's double in various
European locations.

"Good fun. Hard work. The Hollywood types are very professional. Everything on schedule. Like the Germans."

"What was Kirk Douglas like?" asked Walters. "A good guy?"

Fitch laughed. "Douglas? Never met him. He never came to
Europe. Stayed back in Los Angeles and shot all that footage in the
cars at the studio. The magic of motion pictures. They call it rearscreen projection. He just sat there, sawing the wheel back and forth,
looking fierce, while the scenery was rolled in behind him." Fitch
stood up to leave. "Got to run. Another meeting. The Germans love
meetings."

He turned to me. I had remained silent during the conversation. "I
enjoy your magazine," he said. "We get it by airmail in Lugano." He
reached into his coat, pulled out a small leather packet, and withdrew
an engraved business cards. "If you ever get to Lugano, don't hesitate
to call. Elizabeth and I enjoy entertaining our American friends
involved in the sport." Fitch handed me the card, which read: "John
Cooper Fitch. Via Seminario 2, Lugano, Switzerland."

"Thank you sir. Perhaps the next time I'm in Europe," I responded,
blithely implying that I was a regular traveler to the Continent.

"Perhaps," said Fitch politely.

"If you see me in your rearview mirrors, make sure you get out of
the way," said Walters, smiling widely.

"Of course I will," returned Fitch, laughing. "Because that will
mean I'll be slowing down to make a pit stop."

With that good-natured jab, Fitch drifted back into the crowd.

After a few more perfunctory exchanges, I thanked the men and
returned to Coltrin. "Maybe I'll take you up on that offer to go to
Modena," I said.

"You can drive down with me. I'll get you a room at the Albergo
Real, the hotel where all the action is. And I mean real action."

Thanks to Coltrin, who could speak reasonable French, I was able
to work my way through the Byzantine madness of gaining proper
press credentials from the track officials, a maddening process of
furious paper shuffling, endless signatures and jackhammer rubber
stamping on a pile of duplicate forms. Irascible, as he was, Coltrin knew the right moves in the middle of the shouting, arguing, and
pandemonium as journalists from all over the world fumed and
raged with the officials, who icily stood their ground behind their littered desks.

I rode with Coltrin to the track in his tiny Fiat, thinking twice if
this was the vehicle I would choose to take over the Alps to Italy. We
rattled and wheezed into a press parking compound and went to the
paddock behind the pit area, a long, low building linking the front
straight. Unlike at Indianapolis, the Le Mans pits were enclosed on
three sides-open-faced boxes with a second story housing officials
and guests in open galleries rented by the teams for hospitality during the long hours of the race. Entrance to the pits was through a
guarded door at the back. Squeezing through the piles of tires, spare
parts, and toolboxes was difficult. Following Coltrin, I edged my way
into one of the Ferrari pits, where a swarm of mechanics in greasy
coveralls worked on a shimmering red sports racing car to be driven
by the star of the team, Eugenio Castellotti, and his co-driver,
Giannino Marzotto, a wealthy textile manufacturer who had won the
1953 Mille-Miglia for Ferrari.