Against Death and Time: One Fatal Season in Racing's Glory Years (26 page)

"Why is that?" I asked.

"National pride. The effect on their tourism industry. The fact that
some of the critically injured will also croak. Who knows how many
in the end? So they'll keep the number at a minimum."

"Whose fault do you think it was?"

"Fangio and Macklin are saying it was Hawthorn's. That he cut in
front of Macklin and caused Lance to spike the brakes. Levegh had no
room and nailed him in the back. Fangio says in one of the papers
that Levegh raised his hand-warning him-just before he hit
Macklin. That's the German version."

"Are there others?"

"Hell, yes," said Coltrin as he rustled through the pile of papers
beside his chair. He pulled up the London Telegraph and pointed to a
page-one story. "The Brits are blaming Levegh. The Jaguar team
manager, Lofty England, is claiming that the Frenchman was so worried about being overtaken by Fangio on the main straightaway in
front of all his countrymen that he was glued to his rearview mirror
and paying no attention to Macklin and Hawthorn. England says he
has photos to prove that Levegh never changed course when Macklin
veered in front of him. Others are saying it was Macklin's fault,
because he panicked when Hawthorn braked in front of him and
headed for the pits. That's hard to believe. Lance had six Le Mans
under his belt and is a good, steady driver."

"So everybody is blaming everybody," I said.

"Except the French for running a race where cars will go over 180
on a road about as narrow as a country lane. That's the problem.
There is just no damn room for cars that fast to maneuver. It was only
dumb luck that Fangio didn't get into the pits and kill a few dozen
more. They are saying that when he weaved through the mess, his
Mercedes scuffed some paint off Hawthorn's Jaguar. It was that close."

"What do you think will happen? Some politicians in America are
already screaming about banning racing," I said.

"Same thing in Europe. The Swiss government is saying it will ban
all racing immediately and the French and Germans are talking about
at least a hiatus until the investigations are completed. It will raise a
shit storm, I'll guarantee you that."

Briggs Cunningham and Phil Walters came in for breakfast. With them was a rotund man wearing glasses. It was Bill Spear, the skilled
amateur who had co-driven with Walters until their Jaguar expired.
There was no joy at the table. Walters looked particularly morose, sipping a cup of dark coffee and saying nothing.

When we finished, Coltrin gathered up his armload of newspapers
and stopped at the Cunningham table.

"A shitty way to run a motor race," cracked Coltrin.

"Cunningham shook his head and exhaled heavily. "This is the
worst that could happen."

"Will I see you in Modena, Phil? When do you plan to get there?"
Coltrin asked.

Without looking up from his coffee, Walters said firmly, "Never."

"Never?" said Coltrin. "Your contract with Ferrari-what about
that?"

Walters looked up, his clear blue eyes glinting with anger. "Look,
Coltrin, I've been racing for over ten years. I've seen a lot of guys buy
it, especially in the midgets. That was OK. They knew what they were
facing. But this? Those people in the grandstands didn't come here to
risk death. They came to have a good time in the French countryside.
Dying wasn't part of their deal. I can stand guys like me getting killed,
but innocent spectators-that's bullshit. If that's the way it's gonna
be, count me out."

"So no Ferrari?" Coltrin asked, shocked.

"No Ferrari. No Cunningham. No nothing. I just told Briggs I'm
through. Kaput. Finito. I used to love the sport. But after what I saw
yesterday, I don't even want to have anything to do with it."

"So you're quitting."

"Right now. On the spot."

"You could have run with the best of 'em," mused Coltrin.

"Maybe. Maybe not. That we'll never know."

"So what are your plans?" I asked.

"Tomorrow I'm driving to Wolfsburg, Germany, just across the border. The Volkswagen plant. It's a hot little car. It's starting to sell
pretty good in the United States. If I can get a dealership or a distrib-
utionship, I'm in the car business."

"What do you think about losing your star driver?" Coltrin asked
Cunningham.

"That's Phil's call. He's proved his point in a race car. If he feels this
way, we're behind him 100 percent."

We moved away, stunned at the news that one of America's most
accomplished and honored road racing drivers was suddenly retiring,
in turn giving up a chance to drive with one of the greatest Grand
Prix teams in the world.

"That's got to be a kick in the ass for Briggs," said Coltrin. "First he
loses Fitch to Mercedes-Benz, now Walters quits, and the government
is shutting down his car-building operation for tax reasons. Maybe he
ought to try something else." (Cunningham did. While he continued
to race Jaguars, Listers, and Corvettes until the mid-1960s, he also
diverted his talents to ocean racing and skippered the America's Cup
twelve-meter Columbia to victory in 1958.)

We stepped into the square. Traffic was moving routinely. The faint
hum of the race could still be heard. "Sweet Jesus, will they ever stop
that fucking race?" I asked in frustration.

"Three more hours and it's over," said Coltrin, looking at his
watch. Hawthorn and Bueb have it. They're just cruising around hoping the car doesn't break."

"What are your plans?"

"I'll go back to the track and pick up the press clippings and final
interviews. Then a drive back to Modena." He paused, then said, "You
still want to come with me? A lot of laughs. It'll help you forget all this
madness."

"I dunno..."

"Come on. Italy is a gas."

I thought about my alternative. A train to Paris, packed flights to Los Angeles, and back to work. On the other hand, how could a few
days in Italy hurt? A tour of the Ferrari factory and possibly hooking
up with the Commendatore himself might generate more stories. I
was more than halfway there already. Why turn back now?

"What the hell," I said, stepping back from the curb as a leggy
blonde oozed from a Porsche cabriolet that had skidded to a stop. "I'll
pack my stuff and meet you here in twenty minutes."

With a Le Mans victory in hand, Hawthorn's initial remorse over
the crash disappeared and was replaced by a noisy conviction that the
crash had been caused by Levegh's poor judgment and his preoccupation with being overtaken by Fangio and Kling. A year later he met
John Fitch in London, where the American told him he was on his
way to Stuttgart for a meeting with Mercedes-Benz. "Take along a
bomb for me," Hawthorn said bitterly.

Mike Hawthorn raced for thee more seasons, concentrating on the
Formula One Grand Prix competition. In 1958 he won the world
championship by a single point over arch-rival Stirling Moss, yet was
devastated by the death of two of his Scuderia Ferrari teammates, close
friend Peter Collins and the fiery Luigi Musso. Having reached the pinnacle of international motor racing, Hawthorn abruptly announced at
age thirty that he was retiring to concentrate on his thriving automobile business and occasional forays into vintage racing.

On January 22, 1959, he left his home in Surrey for a trip into
London. On the way he met his old friend Rob Walker, gentleman,
sportsman, race car owner, sometime journalist, and heir to the
Johnny Walker liquor fortune. After lunch at a pub, the two began a
casual, high-speed duel between Hawthorn's 3.8 Jaguar-sedan and
Walker's Mercedes-Benz 300SL gullwing coupe. A Jaguar-Mercedes
rematch. This time the results were reversed. On a bypass around the
village of Guildford, Hawthorn's Jaguar skated on a patch of standing
water, and then caromed off an oncoming truck and into a stout
English oak. He was killed instantly.

GROUSING ABOUT THE CHATTERING GEARBOX IN
his road-weary Fiat, Coltrin headed east across France's superb network of Routes Nationales. Two days earlier, we had witnessed the
terrible carnage at Le Mans, and I was happy to be fleeing the morbid
scene. Despite my driver's steady complaining, I could not help liking
him. He insisted the blame for the crash lay with the French for having failed to modernize and widen the Le Mans circuit and for placing the crowds so close to the track that any sort of flying debris
would cause a catastrophe.

The French, Spanish, and German governments had cancelled all
motor sports until further evaluations of safety conditions could be
made. The Swiss had simply outlawed all forms of racing. The Swiss
Grand Prix would never be run again. The Vatican was at full cry
about the savagery of the sport. Meanwhile, Coltrin had spoken with friends at Road & Track magazine in Los Angeles and had been told
that the American Automobile Association, which sanctioned all
major racing in the United States, was considering leaving the sport
entirely. The AAA had edged toward the decision following
Vukovich's death; now the Le Mans disaster seemed to have tipped
the scale. The world of automobile racing was in chaos, with rumors
now filtering out of Stuttgart that Mercedes-Benz, which had been
involved in the sport for half a century, would also drop out at the
end of the season.

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.