Against Death and Time: One Fatal Season in Racing's Glory Years (24 page)

Coltrin, who spoke Italian fluently, moved easily through the
crowd and went up to a small, well-built young man lounging in a
corner. He was darkly handsome with a proud, aquiline nose and a
pair of goggles draped around his neck. They spoke quickly in Italian
before the man smiled, gave Coltrin a gentle cuff on the cheek, and
walked away.

"That's Castellotti," said Coltrin, returning. "He's hot stuff with the
babes in Italy. They call him "Il Bello," the beautiful one. Now that
Ascari's gone, he's Italy's best. He told me that he got a quick time in
practice. If anybody can run with Hawthorn in the Jaguar and Fangio
in the Mercedes, it's Castellotti."

"Where's Enzo Ferrari?" I asked.

Coltrin laughed. "Are you crazy? The old man never comes to the races. Never, except sometimes to the Italian Grand Prix at
Monza. He stays home in Modena and runs the whole show by
telephone. They say he's only been out of Italy once or twice in his
whole life. The general never visits the front line. And believe me,
this is a war."

I looked down the pit lane. The race cars were parked along the
narrow straightaway, a strip of macadam that seemed only half as
wide as that at Indianapolis. I could see the jaguars and Austin-
Healys from England, all painted in British racing green. The
Mercedes and Porsches were muted silver, while the French cars scattered among them were light blue. The Italian Ferraris and Maseratis
were all bright, bloody red. The cars carried no sponsor decals or
identifying logos other than large numbers painted in white roundels
for easy identification by the scoring teams at night. The cars represented not only their manufacturers, but more importantly, their
nations of origin. Car colors at Le Mans were based on nationality
and not on the styling whims of individual owners like those at
Indianapolis. No Zink Pinks here.

A slight, sharp-featured young man came up. He seemed edgy and
growled to Coltrin in tense, truncated sentences about the narrowness of the track, then jittered back into the crowd.

"Who's that?" I asked.

"Phil Hill. California guy. First shot at the big time. Nervous as
a cat on Benzedrine. Like that all the time. But he calms down in
the race car. Very bright. Maybe too bright for this business.
Thinking too much is not good. Stab it and steer it. Anything
more and you're asking for trouble." Coltrin was permitted into
the Scuderia Ferrari pits, but the doors to the major teams' boxes
remained closed. Thankfully he had access to the Scuderia's hospitality suite, above the Ferrari pits-where a wide view of the
action was available. Better yet, a small bar in the corner offered
wine and cheese during the race. Coltrin was a hard man to know, but without him I was doomed to a distant back seat for the
upcoming drama.

The Indianapolis 500 had started on a cloudy Indiana morning,
but Le Mans, the phenomene de Mans as the French called it, was
launched at four o'clock on a Saturday afternoon, to then run twice
around the clock for a Sunday afternoon finish. Coltrin and I arrived
at the circuit early, hoping to beat the crowd, estimated to expand to
more than three hundred thousand. We parked in the press lot
behind the pits, and, displaying our leather armband press credentials, were allowed access to almost anywhere on the property. We
had both decided to stay in the paddock area behind the Ferrari,
Mercedes-Benz, and Jaguar pit boxes rather than take seats in the
giant press-tribune grandstands across the track, the same as I had
done at Indianapolis.

The place was awash in the aromas of crepes, frying bacon, hot
pastries, and pungent cheeses-a sharp contrast to the heady odors
of hot dogs and French fries that permeated the air at Indianapolis.
Wine rather than beer was the drink of choice. In the distance, the
tinkle of a merry-go-round calliope drifted over the chatter of the
crowds while, towering above the track in the distance, a giant
Ferris wheel rotated majestically, making me think of the State Fair
at Syracuse.

Beyond the pits, on both sides of the circuit, an immense camping area called the enceintes popularies had been laid out. The area
was littered with tents of all sizes and shapes, offering the campers
access to the track, which split the area in a series of ess-bands.
Adjacent was the honky-tonk carnival compound, where everything from belly dancers to trained-dog-and-pony acts to boxing
exhibitions went on for the duration of the race. A small, temporary Catholic chapel had been erected in the midst of the placehere Mass was said several times during the early Sunday hours.
Offsetting the piety were tents housing teams of hookers who had migrated from their customary Parisian haunts to service the predominantly male crowd.

I was overwhelmed. In less than two weeks I had moved from
the essence of the American heartland to what seemed not just
another continent, but another time altogether. Following Coltrin,
I made my way past two credential checkpoints and into the inner
sanctums of the paddock, now piled high with spare tires and extra
parts for quick repairs during the race. Among the clutter were
small trailers to be employed by the drivers for snippets of sleep
during their off-duty hours. The cars would be manned by twodrivers each, each running four-hour shifts, or twelve full hours
behind the wheel. During the twenty-four hours, 2,500 miles of
driving would be unwound, both in the Sarthe sunshine and in the
nighttime hours, when ground fog haunted the long Muslanne
straight.

My notebook and small Kodak in hand, I stepped out with Coltrin
onto the main straightaway, where the cars were parked diagonally
along the pit counters. At Indianapolis, the start was made at speed,
with the cars following a pace car. At Le Mans, by contrast, the race
began on foot. The drivers lined up across the track, then sprinted to
their silent cars, leapt aboard to start their engines, and powered away
in a mad dash toward the giant Dunlop pedestrian bridge that arched
over the track.

Drivers, crews, important guests, and legions of journalists lingered among the all-green Jaguars. Lined up with them was the
Cunningham, D-type, painted in traditional American racing colorsstark white with two wide, blue stripes running down its spine.
Nearby were the three red Ferraris and the trio of silver 300SLR
Mercedes-Benzes, all contenders for victory.

High above the grandstand a small Esso blimp floated into the
light breeze, reminding me that while I was in a foreign land, the long
arm of the Standard Oil was omnipresent. I spotted Fangio, the reigning world champion Mercedes team engineer, speaking intently
with Uhlenhaut, no doubt over opening race strategies.

There was little doubt that world champion Fangio would start the
race, with his teammate, Moss, taking the second four-hour shift.
Fangio would play the rabbit for Mercedes, goading the fastest
Jaguar-surely to be driven by Mike Hawthorn-and Castellotti's
Ferrari into a furious race for the lead, possibly causing them to break
under the strain. The Ferrari and Jaguar teams were planning the
same tactics for the opening laps, which assured us of a wild race
between the three. The plan was simple: to send one of the three cars
out at top speed, while the other two maintained slower, more reliable
paces. If the "rabbit" held up, all the better. But if it failed under its
lashing, a pair of backup machines was ready to move into contention.

The team of Fangio and Moss had to be considered the favorite.
But the Jaguar of Hawthorn, with his co-driver Ivor Bueb, and the
lead Ferrari of Castellotti and Marzotto, were no doubt quick enough
to keep pace. In the second tier were cars like the Mercedes of Fitch
and Levegh, who would run steadily and be ready to take up the fight
should the lead car fail. So too for the second Jaguar team, to be
driven by A. P. R. "Tony" Rolt and Duncan Hamilton, a hard-drinking
man known among the British motor sports press as "Drunken
Duncan." These two well-born amateurs had won the race for Jaguar
in 1953, while Rolt had run second with another driver, Peter
Whitehead, the following year. As we sidled down the track, scanning
the contending cars, Rolt was chatting with a collection of English
journalists. Suddenly he dropped one of his leather driving gloves. He
quickly stooped down to pick it up.

"Oh shit growled Coltrin. "That's all we need."

I thought of Agabashian and Vukovich's dropped helmet. "Bad
luck?" I asked.

"Yeah, bad. Drivers are spooked about gloves and helmets. Ascari
didn't wear his own helmet at Monza, and look what happened."

"You know that Vukovich dropped his before the race? I saw it
happen."

"I didn't know," said Coltrin, his face tightening with concern.
"That only adds to it."

"What do you think about all that superstition?"

"Hell, who's to know? I guess when you operate on the edge, you
don't mess with the fates," he said grimly.

Whistles began a shrill chorus as a battery of gendarmes began
clearing the track. I looked at my watch. Half an hour until the start.
Waggling their batons and tooting their whistles, the police herded
the crowds off the track, leaving only the crews and the drivers to
make final preparations for the start.

Coltrin led me through a maze of corridors and up a rickety set of
stairs to the Ferrari hospitality box above the Scuderia's pits. The
space was jammed with Italian journalists and elite Ferrari customers, all stacked around a tiny bar where a white-jacketed bartender frantically served drinks. A corner table was piled with breads,
cheese, and sausages. I thought of the grubby little cafeteria in
Gasoline Alley and understood why the Europeans tended to view
our form of motor sports as marginally barbaric. A band appeared on
the track and began playing a series of national anthems, beginning
with "La Marsellaise" and ending with the "The Star Spangled
Banner." By then, the drivers, all fifty-two of them, had lined up
across the track from their cars, helmets strapped in place. Some
stretched and limbered up, as if readying for a hundred-yard dash.
The sprint to the cars was little more than fifty feet long, but a quick
run meant a chance to leave the pits before the mob scene of iron,
aluminum, steel, and rubber clogged the narrow stretch of macadam.
Behind the drivers, the crowd, hundreds deep, jammed shoulder to
shoulder beyond the low earthen fence that formed the outer barrier
of the track. They craned their heads for a better look, forming a sea
of faces within spitting distance of the cars and drivers.

An enormous Rolex clock cantilevered over the pits served as
the official timepiece for the race. All eyes turned to its stark white
face as the minute hand clicked toward the start. The drivers
tensed, all hunched forward. They were a strange collection, all
sizes and shapes. Rolt tall and gangly, Castellotti lean and muscular. Fangio, who was forty-four years old and the most senior
driver in the field next to Levegh, looked stubby and bandy-legged
in contrast to the blond, barrel-chested Hawthorn, who was
dressed in his trademark Eisenhower field jacket, white shirt, and
bow tie that served as his fashion nod to the days of yore, when
true gentlemen went motor racing.

The minute hand clicked into position. Four o'clock. A wild
cheer surged through the crowd. The public address system
announcer screamed in French as the drivers sprinted across the
track and plunged into their cockpits. The younger, more athletic
ones vaulted over the closed doors, while the older men, like
Fangio, oozed into their seats deliberately, understanding that the
saving of a few seconds at the start meant nothing in the course of
twenty-four hours. As a stout man at the start-finish line furiously
waved a blanket-sized French tri-color, the first engines exploded
into life and a gaggle of cars squirted away, leaving ugly scars of
rubber on the pavement.

"Look at Rolt," Coltrin shouted. "He's having trouble." I thought of
the glove. Were they real, these superstitions? After the field cleared,
the Jaguar engine finally caught and Rolt was off, a few miles behind.

Over the din of the cheering crowd, the chatter of an Italian radio
broadcast that had been piped into the box escalated to the edge of
apoplexy. "The broadcast says Castellotti has the lead. This place will
go crazy when he comes by," said Coltrin.

Heads craned down the track toward a small kink, at a corner
called Maison Blanc a kilometer away. A blink of red. The scream of
a high-revving engine. Mad cheers around me. Wine and champagne were poured as the clot of Ferraristas went wild. Castellotti powered
past the pits to lead the first lap. It meant nothing in the long term,
but for an Italian driver in an Italian car to lead the opening round
meant a celebration in the little box that lasted for three more laps.
Then the relentless pursuers-in the form of Hawthorn's green
Jaguar and Fangio's silver Mercedes-hunted down the Italian and
passed him.

With the field strung out around the massive circuit, the smaller
machined buzzing fecklessly among the more powerful cars, the race
quickly centered on a vicious battle between Fangio and Hawthorn,
with Castellotti driving with his typically feverish style to keep up.
Two hours into the race, the lead between the Argentinian and the
Englishman had been swapped countless times, reminding me of the
mad duel between McGrath and Vukovich only two weeks earlier. I
fervently hoped that this one would end with less violence.

I was wrong.

Peering down pit row from the Ferrari box, I could see a Jaguar
mechanic holding up a large board with a chalked message that read,
"fuel-in." The Ferrari crowd was more subdued and the screaming of
the radio broadcaster had descended into dispassionate muttering.
Castellotti had spun entering the Mulsanne corner, and had fallen back
to a distant third. "Hawthorn is getting ready to stop," said Coltrin.
"One more lap. About time, considering the way he's running."