Page 14, June 1955
<http://www.motorsportmagazine.com/archive/issue/june-1955>
With Moss in the Mille Miglia
On May 1st motor-racing history was made, for Stirling Moss won the
1,000-mile Mile Miglia, the first time in twenty-two years that this has
been achieved by a British driver, and I had the very great privilege of
sitting beside him throughout this epic drive.
But let us go back to the beginning, for this win was not a fluke on the
spur of the moment, it was the result of weeks, even months, of
preparation and planning. My enthusiasm for the Mille Miglia race goes
back many years, among the reasons being the fact that it is permissible
to carry a passenger, for this event is for all types of road-going
cars, from family saloons to Grand Prix-type racing/sports cars, and
when I had my first taste of the lure of the Mille Miglia as a
competitor last year, with Abecassis in the H.W.M., I soon set about
making plans for the 1955 event.
Regular /Motor Sport/ readers will remember that last year I enthused
over a little private dice that Moss gave me in a Maserati, and at the
time I mentioned to him my desire to run in the Mille Miglia again. Then
in September, whilst in discussion with the American driver John Fitch,
we came to the decision that the only way a non-Italian could win the
Mille Miglia was by applying science. At the time he was hoping to be in
the official Mercedes-Benz team for the event, and we had long talks
about ways in which the driver could use a passenger as a mechanical
brain, to remove the responsibility of learning the circuit. When it is
realised that the race is over 1,000 miles of ordinary, unprepared
Italian road, the only concession to racing being that all traffic is
removed from the roads for the duration of the race, and the way through
towns is lined with straw bales, it will be appreciated that the task of
one man learning every corner, every swerve, gradient, hummock, brow and
level-crossing is nigh impossible. Even the top Italian drivers, such as
Taruffi, Maglioli, Castellotti, etc., only know sections of the route
perfectly, and all the time they must concentrate on remembering what
lies round the next corner, or over the next brow.
During the last winter, as is well known, Moss joined the Mercedes-Benz
team and the firm decided that it would not be possible for Fitch to
drive for them in the Mille Miglia, though he would be in the team for
Le Mans, so all our plans looked like being of no avail. Then, just
before Christmas, a telephone call from Moss invited me to be his
passenger in the Mille Miglia in a Mercedes-Benz 300SLR, an invitation
which I promptly accepted, John Fitch having sportingly agreed that it
would be a good thing for me to try out our plans for beating the
Italians with Moss as driver.
When I met Moss early in the new year to discuss the event I already had
some definite plan of action. Over lunch it transpired that he had very
similar plans, of using the passenger as a second brain to look after
navigation, and when we pooled our accumulated knowledge and ideas a
great deal of ground work was covered quickly. From four previous Mille
Miglia races with Jaguars Moss had gathered together a good quantity of
notes, about bumpy level-crossings, blind hill-brows, dangerous corners
and so on, and as I knew certain sections of the course intimately, all
this knowledge put down on paper amounted to about 25 per cent. of the
circuit.
Early in February Mercedes-Benz were ready to start practising, the
first outing being in the nature of a test for the prototype 300SLR, and
a description of the two laps we completed, including having an accident
in which the car was smashed, appeared in the March MOTOR SPORT. While
doing this testing I made copious notes, some of them rather like
Chinese due to trying to write at 150 m.p.h., but when we stopped for
lunch, or for the night, we spent the whole time discussing the roads we
had covered and transcribing my notes. The things we concentrated on
were places where we might break the car, such as very bumpy
railway-crossings, sudden dips in the road, bad surfaces, tramlines and
so on. Then we logged all the difficult corners, grading them as "saucy
ones", "dodgy ones" and "very dangerous ones", having a hand sign to
indicate each type. Then we logged slippery surfaces, using another hand
sign, and as we went along Moss indicated his interpretation of the
conditions, while I pin-pointed the place by a kilometre stone, plus or
minus. Our task was eased greatly by the fact that there is a stone at
every kilometre on Italian roads, and they are numbered in huge black
figures, facing oncoming traffic.
In addition to all the points round the course where a mistake might
mean an accident, and there are hundreds of them, we also logged all the
long straights and everywhere that we could travel at maximum speed even
though visibility was restricted, and again there were dozens of such
points. Throughout all this preliminary work Moss impressed upon me at
every possible moment the importance of not making any mistakes, such as
indicating a brow to be flat-out when in reality it was followed by a
tight left-hand bend. I told him he need not worry, as any accident he
might have was going to involve me as well, as I was going to be by his
side until the race was finished. After our first practice session we
sorted out all our notes and had them typed out into some semblance of
order, and before leaving England again I spent hours with a friend,
checking and cross-checking, going over the whole list many times,
finally being 100 per cent. certain that there were no mistakes.
On our second visit to Italy for more laps of the circuit, we got down
to fine details, grading some corners as less severe and others as much
more so, especially as now we knew the way on paper it meant that we
arrived at many points much faster than previously when reconnoitring
the route. On another lap I went the whole way picking out really
detailed landmarks that I would be able to see no matter what the
conditions, whether we had the sun in our eyes or it was pouring with
rain, and for this work we found Moss' Mercedes-Benz 220A saloon most
useful as it would cruise at an easy 85 m.p.h. and at the same time we
could discuss any details.
Our whole plan was now nearing completion, we had seventeen pages of
notes, and Moss had sufficient confidence in me to take blind brows at
90-100 m.p.h., believing me when I said the road went straight on;
though he freely admitted that he was not sure whether he would do the
same thing at 170 m.p.h. in the race, no matter how confident I was. He
said he'd probably ease it back to 160 m.p.h. for, though that 10 m.p.h.
would make no difference to the resulting crash if I had made a mistake,
it comforted him psychologically! Throughout all this training we
carefully kept a log of our running time and average speeds, and some of
them were positively indecent, and certainly not for publication, but
the object was to find out which parts of the 1,000 miles dropped the
overall average and where we could make up time, and our various
averages in the 220A, the 300SL and the 300SLR gave us an extremely
interesting working knowledge of how the Mille Miglia might be won or lost.
Our second practice period ended in another accident and this time a
smashed 300SL coupe*, for Italian army lorries turn across your bows
without warning just as English ones do. Rather crestfallen, we
anticipated the rage of team-chief Neubauer when we reported this second
crash, but his only worry was that we were not personally damaged; the
crashed car was of no importance; these things happened to everyone and
anyway their only interest was to win the Mlle Miglia, regardless of cost.
Leaving Italy for another brief respite, we both worried-out every
detail we could think about, from every aspect, the car, the route, our
hand signals—for we could not converse in the 300SLR—any emergencies
that might arise, anywhere we could save seconds, details of our own
personal comfort which would avoid fatigue, and so on. We lived and
breathed Mille Miglia day in and day out, leaving no idea untried. The
joy of all this was that Daimler-Benz were doing exactly the same things
on the mechanical side, supervised by engineers Uhlenhaut, Kosteletzky
and Werner, while the racing department were working unceasingly and
Neubauer was worrying-out every detail of the race-organisation in
Italy. We were putting all our efforts into this race, knowing that they
were negligible in comparison with those of the factory.
After Easter we went out to Brescia for our third and final practising
session, the technical department, with Kling and Herrmann, having
already made an extra one. During their practice period they had
thrashed the prototype car up and down the section from Rome to
Florence, for this part of the route was the hardest. There are few
straights, but all the time the car is averaging nearly 100 m.p.h., the
chassis being subjected to strains from every possible angle, and as the
58-gallon petrol tank would be full when leaving Rome, this part of the
route would be the most likely on which a breakdown would occur.
By now our details of the route were perfected and I now wrote them all
down on a special sheet of paper eighteen feet in length. Moss had had
an alloy case made, on the map-roller system, and for our final practice
I employed this machine, winding the paper from the lower roller to the
upper one, the notes being read through a Perspex window, sealed with
Sellotape in the event of the race being run in rain. A complete lap in
a 300SL was done as a sort of dress rehearsal, this car being ideal as
it had a maximum of nearly 140 m.p.h., good acceleration, and was a very
good approach to racing conditions, while at the same time we could
speak to each other if the need arose, though normally all our
conversation was done by hand signals, there being about fifteen
altogether, to cover every aspect of conversation. During this dress
rehearsal we employed an amusing technique in the more deserted parts of
the route, especially in the mountains, where I kept an eye on the
approaching road out of the side windows, and even out of the rear one
on mountain hairpins and, by continually shouting "Yes" while the road
was clear, Moss could have a real go at "nine-tenths" on the section of
road just in front of him, certain in the knowledge that no traffic was
approaching, for it must be remembered that all our practice was being
done on normal Italian roads, open to the public. This technique, while
being amusing to us, was also useful to Moss as it meant he could get
the feel of the road surface conditions at racing speeds. By now the
Mile Miglia date was approaching and all round the 1,000 miles we saw
more and more signs of growing enthusiasm, occasionally seeing other
competitors practising parts of the route, while the police were
beginning to leap off the pavement, stop the traffic and wave us on over
crossroads with excited cries of "Mille Miglia—via" and, of course, the
Italian populace were leaping straight up into the air with joy as Moss
fought the sliding SL through many of the corners. It was interesting
that the average English enthusiast would turn his head and look if he
saw a 300SL being really motored, whereas the Italians, from errand boys
to bank managers, will spontaneously leave the ground and spin
completely round, with excited waves, at the same sight, and then rush
to another point in the hope of getting a further glimpse of the
speeding car. We completed our third practice period without any
crashes, though the "hack" SLR decided to give-up-the-ghost while we
were having a final run in it, but we were entirely blameless; old age
creeps on the best vehicles, and this one had done the equivalent of at
least six Mille Miglias in the hands of Moss, Fangio, Kling and
Herrmann, the four drivers for the race.
A week before the event we went to Stuttgart to try out the actual car
we were using in the race, and several laps of the fast Hockenheim
circuit convinced us that we had a truly magnificent 3-litre sports car
under us, the eight-cylinder fuel-injection engine giving well over 290
b.h.p. on normal pump petrol, and the car geared to give a maximum of
170 m.p.h. at the peak revolutions of 7,500 r.p.m., though we were given
no ultimate limit, should the car wind itself over this downhill. On
this SLR the seats were made to measure for us, being cut-and-shut just
like a tailor would make a suit, while every detail in the cockpit
received our personal attention, and anything was altered to our desire
without question. When we finally left the racing department at 5 p.m.
on Tuesday, April 26th, we had the pleasant feeling that we had just
left an organisation that knew no limit to the trouble they would go to
in order that we might start the Mille Miglia with everything on our side.
Next day we flew to Brescia and when we went round to the garage in the
evening the cars were already there, having been driven down in the fast
racing lorries overnight. We were now satisfied with almost everything
we could think about; we had practised wheelchanging over and over
again, in case we had tyre trouble, and I would add that we impressed
the Mercedes-Benz mechanics by changing a rear wheel in 1 min. 25 sec.
from stopping the car to starting off again, including getting the tools
and spare wheel out of the boot and putting everything back again. We
had practised fitting the temporary aluminium aero-screens that went in
front of the Perspex screen should it be broken by a stone—Mercedes-Benz
engineers remembering how Hermann Lang was nearly suffocated at 170
m.p.h. at Donington Park in 1938 when his windscreen was broken. We had
tried changing plugs; we had studied the details of the pipes of the
fuel-injection, the petrol pumps, various important parts of the wiring
system, how the bonnet catches functioned; we were given spare ignition
keys, shown where numerous small spares were stowed should we stop by
the roadside with minor trouble; and by the end of the week we felt
extremely confident that we could give of our best in this toughest of
motor races, lasting for more than 10 hours over every known road
condition, over mountains and through cities, for 1,000 miles.
On the Friday before the race we did a final test on the nearby
Autostrada, to try-out some windscreen modifications to improve the
air-flow along the cockpit sides. Also Moss tried out a new mechanism
fitted to the gear-change that would prevent him from changing from
second gear to fifth gear. The gear-gate is exposed, with first
left-forward, second centre-rear, third centre-forward, fourth
right-rear, and fifth right-forward. Being used to four-speed boxes Moss
was occasionally going across the gate from second to fifth, and when he
told the engineers about this the racing department set to and designed,
drew and made an entirely foolproof link mechanism that fitted on the
top of the gate that would prevent this. He mentioned this on Tuesday
afternoon and on Friday morning the new parts arrived in Brescia and he
was trying the mechanism out before lunch—at such speed does a true
racing department work.
For the week before the race I had been going to bed extremely early and
getting up extremely early, a complete reversal of my normal life, for
to suddenly get up at 6 a.m. gives me a feeling of desolation until well
past mid-morning. Moss had been employing similar tactics, so that when
we went down to the start at 6.30 a.m., on the morning of May 1st we
were both feeling ready for anything.
All the previous week a truly Italian sun had blazed out of the sky
every day and reports assured us that race-day would be perfectly dry
and hot, so we anticipated race speeds being very high. I had a list of
the numbers of all our more serious rivals, as well as many of our
friends in slower cars, and also the existing record times to every
control point round the course, so that we would have an idea of how we
were doing. We had privately calculated on an average of 90 m.p.h.–2
m.p.h. over the record of Marzotto, providing the car went well and the
roads were dry. Mercedes-Benz gave us no orders, leaving the running of
the race entirely to each driver, but insisting that the car was brought
back to Brescia if humanly possible. Moss and I had made a pact that we
would keep the car going as long as was practicable having decided in
practice at which point we could have the engine blow-up and still coast
in to the finish, and how many kilometres we were prepared to push it to
the finish, or to a control. At Ravenna, Pescara, Rome, Florence and
Bologna there were Mercedes-Benz pits, complete with all spares. changes
of tyres should it start to rain, food, drink and assistance of every
sort, for in this race there are no complicated rules about work done on
the car or outside assistance; it is a free-for-all event.
The enormous entry had started to leave Brescia the previous evening at
9 p.m., while we were sleeping peacefully, the cars leaving at 1-min.
intervals, and it was not until 6.55 a.m. on Sunday morning that the
first of the over-2,000-c.c. sports cars left. It was this group that
held the greatest interest, for among the 34 entries lay the outright
winner of this race, though many of the 2-litre Maseratis and smaller
Oseas and Porsches could not be overlooked. Starting positions were
arranged by ballot beforehand and the more important to us were: Fangio
658, Kling 701, Collins (Aston Martin) 702. Herrmann 704, Maglioli
(Ferrari) 705; then there went off a group of slower cars, and Carini
(Ferrari) 714, Scotti (Ferrari) 718, Pinzero (Ferrari) 720, and then us
at 7.22 a.m. There was no hope of seeing our team-mates, for they left
too long before us, as did Maglioli, but we were hoping to catch Carini
before the end. Our big worry was not so much those in front, but those
behind, for there followed Castellotti (Ferrari 4.4-litre) 723,
Sighinolfi (Ferrari 3.7-litre) 724, Paulo Marzotto (Ferrari 3.7-litre)
725, Bordoni (Gordini 3-litre) 726, Perdisa (Maserati 3-litre) 727 and,
finally, the most dangerous rival of them all, that master tactician,
Taruffi (Ferrari 3.7-litre) 728. With all these works Ferraris behind us
we could not hang about in the opening stages, for Castellotti was
liable to catch us, and Sighinolfi would probably scrabble past us using
the grass banks, he being that sort of driver, and Marzotto would stop
at nothing to beet the German cars, so if we didn't press-on straight
away there was a good chance of the dice becoming a little exciting, not
to say dangerous, in the opening 200 miles.
Neubauer was ever present at the start, warning Moss to give the car
plenty of throttle as he left the starting ramp, for Herrmann had nearly
fluffed his take-off; he also assured us that we could take the dip at
the bottom of the ramp without worrying about grounding. The mechanics
had warmed the engine and they pushed it up onto the starting platform
to avoid unnecessary strain on the single-plate clutch, one of the weak
points of the 300SLR. The route-card which we had to get stamped at the
various controls round the course was securely attached to a board and
already fitted in its special holder, the board being attached by a cord
to one of my grab-rails, to avoid losing it in the excitement of any
emergency. We both settled down in our seats, Moss put his goggles on, I
showed him a note at the top of my roller device, warning him not to
apply the brakes fiercely on the first corner, for the bi-metal drums
needed a gentle application to warm them after standing for two days.
Thirty seconds before 7.22 a.m. he started the engine, the side exhaust
pipes blowing a cloud of smoke over the starter and Sig. Castegnato and
Count Maggi, the two men behind this great event, and then as the flag
fell we were off with a surge of acceleration and up to peak revs, in
first, second and third gears, weaving our way through the vast crowds
lining the sides of the road. Had we not been along this same road three
times already in an SLR amid the burly-burly of morning traffic, I
should have been thoroughly frightened, but now, with the roads clear
ahead of us, I thought Moss could really get down to some uninterrupted
motoring. We had the sun shining full in our eyes, which made navigating
difficult, but I had written the notes over and over again, and gone
over the route in my imagination so many times that I almost knew it by
heart, and one of the first signals was to take a gentle S-bend through
a village on full throttle in fourth gear, and as Moss did this, being
quite unable to see the road for more than 100 yards ahead, I settled
down to the job, confident that our scientific method of equalling the
Italians' ability at open-road racing was going to work. At no time
before the race did we ever contemplate getting into the lead, for we
fully expected Fangio to set the pace, with Kling determined to win at
all costs, so we were out for a third place, and to beat all the
Ferraris. Barely 10 miles after the start we saw a red speck in front of
us and had soon nipped by on a left-hand curve. It was 720. Pinzero,
number 721 being a non-starter. By my right hand was a small grab rail
and a horn button; the steering was on the left of the cockpit, by the
way, and this button not only blew the horn, but also flashed the
lights, so that while I played a fanfare on this Moss placed the car for
overtaking other competitors. My direction indications I was giving with
my left hand, so what with turning the map roller and feeding Moss with
sucking sweets there was never a dull moment. The car was really going
well now, and on the straights to Verona we were getting 7,500 in top
gear, a speed of 274 k.p.h., or as close to 170 m.p.h. as one could wish
to travel. On some of these long straights our navigation system was
paying handsomely, for we could keep at 170 m.p.h. over blind brows,
even when overtaking slower cars, Moss sure in the knowledge that all he
had to do was to concentrate on keeping the car on the road and
travelling as fast as possible. This in itself was more than enough, but
he was sitting back in his usual relaxed position, making no apparent
effort, until some corners were reached when the speed at which he
controlled slides, winding the wheel from right to left and back again,
showed that his superb reflexes and judgment were on top of their form.
Cruising at maximum speed, we seemed to spend most of the time between
Verona and Vicenza passing Austin-Healeys that could not have been doing
much more than 115 m.p.h., and, with flashing lights, horn blowing and a
wave of the hand, we went by as though they were touring. Approaching
Padova Moss pointed behind and looked round to see a Ferrari gaining on
us rapidly, and with a grimace of disgust at one another we realised it
was Castellotti. The Mercedes-Benz was giving all it had, and Moss was
driving hard but taking no risks, letting the car slide just so far on
the corners and no more. Entering the main street of Padova at 150
m.p.h. we braked for the right-angle bend at the end, and suddenly I
realised that Moss was beginning to work furiously on the steering
wheel, for we were arriving at the corner much too fast and it seemed
doubtful whether we could stop in time. I sat fascinated, watching Moss
working away to keep control, and I was so intrigued to follow his every
action and live every inch of the way with him, that I completely forgot
to be scared. With the wheels almost on locking-point he kept the car
straight to the last possible fraction of a second, making no attempt to
get round the corner, for that would have meant a complete spin and then
anything could happen. Just when it seemed we must go head-on into the
straw bales Moss got the speed low enough to risk letting go the brakes
and try taking the corner, and as the front of the car slid over the dry
road we went bump into the bales with our left-hand front corner,
bounced off into the middle of the road and, as the car was then
pointing in the right direction, Moss selected bottom gear and opened
out again.
All this time Castellotti was right behind us, and as we bounced off the
bales he nipped by us, grinning over his shoulder. As we set off after
him, I gave Moss a little handclap of appreciation for showing me just
how a really great driver acts in a difficult situation.
Through Padova we followed the 4.4-litre Ferrari and on acceleration we
could not hold it, but the Italian was driving like a maniac, sliding
all the corners, using the pavements and the loose edges of the road.
Round a particularly dodgy left-hand bend on the outskirts of the town I
warned Moss and then watched Castellotti sorting out his Ferrari, the
front wheels on full under-steer, with the inside one off the ground,
and rubber pouring off the rear tyres, leaving great wide marks on the
road. This was indeed motor-racing from the best possible position, and
beside me was a quiet, calm young man who was following the Ferrari at a
discreet distance, ready for any emergency. Out of the town we joined an
incredibly fast stretch of road, straight for many miles, and we started
alongside the Ferrari in bottom gear, but try as the Mercedes-Benz did
the red car just drew away from us, and once more Moss and I exchanged
very puzzled looks. By the time we had reached our maximum speed the
Ferrari was over 200 yards ahead, but then it remained there, the gap
being unaltered along the whole length of the straight. At the cut-off
point at the end we gained considerably, both from the fact that we knew
exactly when the following left-hand corner was approaching and also
from slightly superior brakes. More full-throttle running saw us keeping
the Ferrari in sight, and then as we approached a small town we saw
Castellotti nip past another Ferrari, and we realised we were going to
have to follow through the streets, until there was room to pass. It was
number 714, Carini, so soon, and this encouraged Moss to run right round
the outside of the Ferrari, on a right-hand curve, confident from my
signals that the road would not suddenly turn left. This very brief
delay had let Castellotti get away from us but he was not completely out
of sight, and after waving to Peter Collins, who had broken down by the
roadside before Rovigo, we went into that town at terrific speed.
Straight across the square we went, where in practice we had had to go
round the island; broadside we left the last right turn of the town,
with the front wheels on full opposite lock and the throttle pedal hard
down. Castellotti was in sight once more but out on the open roads he
was driving so near the limit that on every corner he was using the
gravel and rough stuff on the edges of the road. This sent up a huge
cloud of dust, and we could never be sure whether or not we were going
to enter it to find the Ferrari sideways across the road, or bouncing
off the banks and trees, for this sort of hazard a scientific route
navigating method could not cope with. Wisely, Moss eased back a little
and the Ferrari got ahead of us sufficiently to let the dust clouds settle.
Along the new road by the side of the River Po we overtook Lance Macklin
in his Austin-Healey, and he gave us a cheery wave, and then we went
through Ferrara, under the railway bridge, over the traffic lights and
down the main streets and out onto the road to Ravenna. All the way
along there were signs of people having the most almighty incidents,
black marks from locked wheels making the weirdest patterns on the road,
and many times on corners we had signalled as dangerous or dodgy we came
across cars in the touring categories lying battered and bent by the
roadside, sure indication that our grading of the corner was not far
wrong. To Ravenna the road winds a great deal and now I could admire the
Moss artistry as he put in some very steady "nine-tenths" motoring,
especially on open bends round which he could see and on those that he
knew, and the way he would control the car with throttle and steering
wheel long after all four tyres had reached the breakaway point was a
sheer joy, and most difficult to do justice to with a mere pen and
paper. Approaching the Ravenna control I took the routecard board from
its holder, held it up for Moss to see, to indicate that we had to stop
here to receive the official stamp, and then as we braked towards the
"CONTROLLO" banner across the road, and the black and white chequered
line on the road itself, amid waving flags and numerous officials, I
held my right arm well out of the car to indicate to them which side we
wanted the official with the rubber stamp to be. Holding the board on
the side of the cockpit we crossed the control line, bang went the
rubber stamp, and we were off without actually coming to rest. Just
beyond the control were a row of pits and there was 723, Castellotti's
Ferrari, having some tyre changes, which was not surprising in view of
the way he had been driving.
With a scream of "Castellotti!" Moss accelerated hard round the next
corner and we twisted our way through the streets of Ravenna, nearly
collecting an archway in the process, and then out on the fast winding
road to Forli. Our time to Ravenna had been well above the old record
but Castellotti had got there before us and we had no idea how Taruffi
and the others behind us were doing. Now Moss continued the pace with
renewed vigour and we went through Forli, waving to the garage that
salvaged the SL we crashed in practice, down the fast winding road to
Rimini, with another wave to the Alfa-Romeo service station that looked
after the SLR that broke its engine. I couldn't help thinking that we
had certainly left our mark round the course during practice. Ever since
leaving the start we had had the rising sun shining in our eyes and,
now, with the continual effects of sideways "G" on my body, my poor
stomach was beginning to suffer and, together with the heat from the
gearbox by my left buttock, the engine fumes, and the nauseating
brake-lining smells from the inboard-mounted brakes, it cried "enough"
and what little breakfast I had eaten went overboard, together with my
spectacles, for I made the fatal mistake of turning my head sideways at
150 m.p.h. with my goggles lowered. Fortunately, I had a spare pair, and
there was no time to worry about a protesting stomach, for we were
approaching Pesaro, where there was a sharp right corner.
Now the calm, blue Adriatic sea appeared on our left and we were on the
long coastal straights, taking blind brows, and equally blind bridges at
our full 170 m.p.h., and I chuckled to myself as I realised that Moss
was not lifting his foot as he had threatened. We were beginning to pass
earlier numbers very frequently now, among them some 2-litre Maseratis
being driven terribly slowly, a couple of TR2 Triumphs running in
convoy, and various saloons, with still numerous signs of the telling
pace, a wrecked Giulietta on the right, a 1,100-c.c. Fiat on the left, a
Ferrari coupé almost battered beyond recognition and a Renault that had
been rolled up into a ball. Through Ancona the crowds were beautifully
controlled, barriers keeping them back on the pavements, and we were
able to use the full width of the road everywhere, and up the steep hill
leaving the town we stormed past more touring-car competitors who had
left in the small hours of the morning while we were still asleep. All
this time there had been no signs of any of our close rivals. We had
passed the last of the Austin Healeys, driven by Abecassis, a long way
back, and no Ferraris had appeared in our rear-view mirror.
It was a long way down to the next control point, at Pescara, and we
settled down to cruising at our maximum speed, the car giving no
impression at all of how fast it was travelling, until we overtook
another competitor, who I knew must be doing 110 m.p.h., or when I
looked sideways at the trees and hedges flashing past. It was now
mid-morning and the sun was well above us but still shining down onto
our faces and making the cockpit exceedingly hot, in spite of having all
the air vents fully open. Through the dusty, dirty Adriatic villages we
went and all the time I gave Moss the invaluable hand signals that were
taking from him the mental strain of trying to remember the route,
though he still will not admit to how much mental strain he suffered
convincing himself that I was not making any mistakes in my 170 m.p.h.
navigation. On one straight, lined with trees, we had marked down a hump
in the road as being "flatout" only if the road was dry. It was, so I
gave the appropriate signal and with 7,500 r.p.m. in fifth gear on the
tachometer we took off, for we had made an error in our estimation of
the severity of the hump. For a measurable amount of time the
vibro-massage that you get sitting in a 300 SLR at that speed suddenly
ceased, and there was time for us to look at each other with raised
eyebrows before we landed again. Even had we been in the air for only
one second we should have travelled some 200 feet through the air, and I
estimated the "duration of flight" at something more than one second.
The road was dead straight and the Mercedes-Benz made a perfect
four-point landing and I thankfully praised the driver that he didn't
move the steering wheel a fraction of an inch, for that would have been
our end. With the heat of the sun and the long straights we had been
getting into a complacent stupor, but this little "moment" brought us
back to reality and we were fully on the job when we approached Pescara.
Over the level crossing we went, far faster than we had ever done in
practice, and the car skated right across the road, with all four wheels
sliding, and I was sure we were going to write-off some petrol pumps by
the roadside, but somehow "the boy" got control again and we merely
brushed some straw bales and then braked heavily to a stop for the
second control stamp. Approaching this point I not only held the
route-card for the driver to see, but also pointed to the fuel filler,
for here we were due to make our first refuelling. However, I was too
late, Moss was already pointing backwards at the tank himself to tell me
the same thing. Just beyond the control line we saw engineer Werner
holding a blue flag bearing the Mercedes-Benz star and as we stopped
everything happened at once. Some 18 gallons of fuel went in from a
gravity tank, just sufficient to get us to our main stop at Rome, the
windscreen was cleaned for it was thick with dead flies, a hand gave me
a slice of orange and a peeled banana, while another was holding a small
sheet of paper, someone else was looking at the tyres and Moss still had
the engine running. On the paper was written "Taruffi, Moss 15 seconds,
Herrman, Kling, Fangio," and their times; I had just yelled "second, 15
seconds behind Taruffi" when I saw a uniformed arm trying to switch off
the ignition. I recognised an interfering police arm and gave it a
thump, and as I did so, Moss crunched in bottom gear and we accelerated
away as hard as we could go. What had seemed like an age was actually
only 28 seconds!
Over the bridge we went, sharp right and then up one of the side
turnings of Pescara towards the station, where we were to turn right
again. There was a blue Gordini just going round the corner and then I
saw that we were overshooting and with locked wheels we slid straight
on, bang into the straw bales. I just had time to hope there was nothing
solid behind the wall of bales when the air was full of flying straw and
we were on the pavement. Moss quickly selected bottom gear and without
stopping he drove along the pavement, behind the bales, until he could
bounce down off the kerb and continue on his way, passing the Gordini in
the process. As we went up through the gears on the long straight out of
Pescara, I kept an eye on the water temperature gauge, for that clonk
certainly creased the front of the car, and may have damaged the
radiator, or filled the intake with straw, but all seemed well, the
temperature was still remaining constant. There followed three
completely blind brows in quick succession and we took these at full
speed, the effect being rather like a switchback at a fair, and then we
wound and twisted our way along the barren valley between the rocky
mountain sides, to Popoli, where a Bailey Bridge still serves to cross a
river. Along this valley I saw the strange sight of about 50 robed
monks, with shining bald pates, standing on a high mound and waving to
us as we went by with a noise sufficient to wake the devil himself. Up
into the mountains we climbed, sliding round the hairpins with that
beautiful Moss technique I described two months ago in MOTOR SPORT, and
then along the peculiar deserted plateau high up in the mountains we
held our maximum speed for many kilometres, to be followed by a winding
twisting road into Aquila, where up the main street the control was
dealt with while still on the move. We certainly were not wasting any
seconds anywhere and Moss was driving absolutely magnificently, right on
the limit of adhesion all the time, and more often than not over the
limit, driving in that awe-inspiring narrow margin that you enter just
before you have a crash if you have not the Moss skill, or those few
yards of momentary terror you have on ice just before you go in the
ditch. This masterly handling was no fluke, he was doing it
deliberately, his extra special senses and reflexes allowing him to go
that much closer to the absolute limit than the average racing driver
and way beyond the possibilities of normal mortals like you or me.
On the way to Rome we hit a level crossing that had been just "bumpy" in
the SL and smooth in the 220A7, the resultant thud threw us high out of
our seats into the airstream, and with a crash we landed back again,
nearly breaking our spines, but the Mercedes-Benz suspension absorbed it
all without protest and there was no feeling that anything had
"bottomed" unduly severely. This sort of thing had happened three or
four times already, for our route noting was not infallible, and it
seemed unbelievable that nothing broke on the car each time. Although we
occasionally saw a train steaming along in the distance we never came
across any closed level crossings, though if we had we had a remedy. In
practice we had tried lifting the barrier, Italian gates being two long
poles that lower across the road, and found that the slack on the
operating cables was just sufficient to allow the car to be driven under
the pole, much to the annoyance of the crossing-keeper. However, this
did not arise and down into the Rome control we had a pretty clear run,
being highly delighted to overtake Maglioli soon after Rieti, he
suffering from an arm injury received in practice, and a car that was
not going well. With a grin at each other we realised that one of our
unseen rivals was now disposed of, but we still had Taruffi behind us on
the road, and no doubt well ahead of us on time, for all this ground was
local colour to him. Coming down off the mountains we had overtaken
Musso driving a 2-litre Maserati and as we had calculated that we were
unlikely ever to catch him, if we averaged 90 m.p.h. for the whole race,
we realised we must be setting a fantastic record speed, but as Taruffi
had been leading at Pescara, his average must be even higher.
The last six miles into the Rome control were an absolute nightmare;
there were no corners that needed signals, and we would normally have
done 150-160 m.p.h., but the crowds of spectators were so thick that we
just could not see the road and the surface being bumpy Moss dared not
drive much over 130 m.p.h. for there was barely room for two cars
abreast. It seemed that the whole of Rome was out to watch the race, and
all oblivious of the danger of a high-speed racing car. While I blew the
horn and flashed the lights Moss swerved the car from side to side and
this had the effect of making those on the very edge leap hastily
backwards, thus giving us a little more room. The last mile into the
control was better organised and I was able to show Moss the control
card, point backwards at the fuel tank and also at the fibre disc wired
to the steering column which had to be punched at this control. "Bang"
went the stamp and we then drew into the Mercedes-Benz pit and switched
off the engine; this was our first real stop since leaving Brescia
nearly 3 1/2 hours ago, and our average speed to this point was 107
m.p.h., the average to Pescara having been 118 m.p.h., the mountain
section causing it to drop from there to Rome.
As we stopped Moss leapt out to relieve himself, I felt the car rise up
on the jacks and heard the rear hub nuts being beaten off, the
windscreen was cleaned and a welcome shower of water sprinkled over me,
for I was very hot, very tired, very dirty, oily and sweaty and must
have looked a horrible sight to spectators. The fuel tank was being
filled, someone handed me a drink of mineral water and an orange, and
offered a tray of sandwiches and cakes, but I felt incapable of eating
anything firmer than a slice of orange. A hand appeared in front of me
holding a sheet of paper and I snatched it and read "Moss, Taruffi,
Herrman, Kling, Fangio" and the times showed we had a lead of nearly two
minutes. Bump went the car as it was dropped down off the jacks, and
with a lithe bound Moss was into the driving seat again and as we took
the hairpin after the control I managed to yell in his ear "First by
more than one minute from Taruffi" and then the noise of the exhaust and
wind prevented any further words. On the next bend we saw a silver
Mercedes-Renz, number 701, well off the road among the trees and badly
wrecked. We knew it was Kling and exchanged long faces with each other,
wondering how badly hurt he was, but this had no effect on Moss and he
now began to put everything he knew into his driving, on this most
difficult section, while I had to concentrate hard in order to give him
warnings and signals of the approaching road conditions, for this was
indeed a difficult section for both of us. Past Monterosi we waved to
the "Agip" service station, where we had a sheep-killing incident in
practice, and then we sped on our way through Vitterbo, sliding this way
and that, leaving the ground on more occasions than I can remember, yet
all the while feeling completely at ease for such is the confidence that
Moss gave me, and round the corners I never ceased to marvel at the
superb judgment with which he weighed up the maximum possible speed at
which he could go, and just how far he could let the car slide without
going into the ditch or hitting a wall or rock face. Now there was the
continual hazard of passing slower cars, though it must be recorded that
most of them gave way splendidly, keeping one eye on the mirror. Just
after Aequapendente I made my first and only mistake in navigating, that
it was not serious is why you are reading these words now; having just
given warning of a very dodgy right-hand bend I received a shower of
petrol down my neck and looking round to see what had happened we
arrived at another similar corner, and I missed the signal. Fortunately
Moss had recognised the corner, for he knew many parts of the course
extremely well, and after seeing that the petrol was coming from the
tiller due to surge, I looked back to see an irate Moss face saying very
rude things at me and shaking his fist, all the while cornering at a
fantastic speed. How serious the fuel surge was I did not know, and as
the exhaust pipes were on the side of the car I decided it would he all
right and said nothing to Moss, as he appeared not to have received any
of the spray. For the next 10 or 15 miles I received this gentle spray
of cold fuel, cooling in the enormous heat of the cockpit, but a little
worrying in case it got worse. Up the Rodicofani Pass we stormed, and
the way the car leapt and slithered about, would have really frightened
me had I not already had a lot of experience of its capabilities and of
the skill of Stirling Moss; as it was I sat there and revelled in the
glorious feeling of really fast motoring. Over the top of the pass we
swept past a saloon car competitor, into a downhill right-hand bend
followed by a sharp left-hander. Now, previous to this Moss had been
pointing to the front of the car and indicating that a brake was
beginning to grab on occasions, and this was one of them. Without any
warning the car spun and there was just time to think what a desolated
part of Italy in which to crash, when I realised that we had almost
stopped in our own length and were sliding gently into the ditch to land
with it crunch that dented the tail. "This is all right," I thought, "we
can probably push it out of this one," and I was about to start getting
out when Moss selected bottom gear and we drove out - lucky indeed!
Before we could point the car in the right direction we had to make two
reverses and as we accelerated away down the mountainside I fiddlef
about putting the safety catch back on the reverse position of the
gear-gate, while we poked our tongues out at each other in mutual derision.
At the Siena control we had no idea of whether we were still leading or
not, but Moss was quite certain that Taruffi would have had to have
worked extremely hard to catch him, for he had put all he knew into that
last part of the course he told me afterwards. Never relaxing for an
instant he continued to drive the most superb race of his career,
twirling the steering wheel this way and that, controlling slides with a
delicateness of throttle that was fairy-like, or alternatively provoking
slides with the full power of the engine, in order to make the car
change direction bodily, the now dirty, oily and battered collection of
machinery that had left Brescia gleaming like new still answering
superbly to his every demand, the engine always being taken to 7.500
r.p.m. in the gears, and on one occasion to 8,200 r.p.m., the excitement
of that particular instant not allowing time for a gear change or an
easing of the throttle, for the way Moss steered the car from the sharp
corners with the back wheels was sheer joy to experience.
On the winding road from Siena to Florence physical strain began to tell
on me, for with no steering wheel to give me a feel of what the car was
going to do, my body was being continually subjected to terrific
centrifugal forces as he car changed direction. The heat, fumes and
noise were becoming almost unbearable, but I gave myself renewed energy
by looking at Stirling Moss who was sitting beside me, completely
relaxed, working away at the steering as if we had only just left
Brescia, instead of having been driving for nearly 700 miles under a
blazing sun. Had I not known the route I would have happily got out
there and then, having enjoyed every mile, but ahead lay some
interesting roads over which we had practised hard, and the anticipation
of watching Moss really try over these stretches, with the roads closed
to other traffic, made me forget all about the physical discomforts. I
was reminded a little of the conditions when we approached one corner
and some women got up and fled with looks of terror on their faces, for
the battered Mercedes-Benz, dirty and oil-stained and making as much
noise as a Grand Prix car, with two sweaty, dirty, oil-stained figures
behind the windscreen, must have looked terrifying to peaceful peasants,
as it entered the corner in a full four-wheel slide. The approaches of
Florence were almost back-breaking as we bounced and leapt over the
badly maintained roads, and across the tramlines, and my heart went out
to the driver of an orange Porsche who was hugging the crown of the
steeply cambered road. He must have been shaken as we shot past with the
left-hand wheels right down in the glitter. Down a steep hill in second
gear, we went, into third at peak revs. and I thought "it's a brave man
who can unleash nearly 300 b.h.p. down a hill this steep and then change
it into a higher gear." At speeds up to 120-130 m.p.h. we went through
the streets of Florence over the great river bridge, broadside across a
square, across more tramlines and into the control point. Moss had
really got the bit between his teeth, nothing was going to stop him
winning this race, I felt; he had a rather special look of concentration
on his face and I knew that one of his greatest ambitions was to do the
section Florence-Bologna in under one hour. This road crosses the heart
of the Apennines, by way of the Futa Pass and the Raticosa Pass, and
though only just over 60 miles in length it is like a Prescott
Hill-Climb all the way. As we got the route-card stamped, again without
coming to rest, I grabbed the sheet of paper from the Mercedes-Benz man
at the control, but before I could read more than that we were still
leading, it was torn from my grasp as we accelerated away among the
officials. I indicated that we were still leading the race, and by the
way Moss left Florence, as though at the start of a Grand Prix, I knew
he was out to crack one hour to Bologna, especially as he also looked at
his wrist-watch as we left the control. "This is going to be fantastic,"
I thought, as we screamed up the hills out of Florence, "he is really
going to do some nine-tenths plus motoring" and I took a firm grip of
the "struggling bar" between giving him direction signals, keeping the
left side of my body as far out way as possible, for he was going to
need all the room possible for his whirling arms and for stirring the
gear-lever about. Up into the mountains we screamed, occasionally
passing other cars, such as 1900 Alfa-Romeos, 1,100 Fiats and some small
sports cars. Little did we know that we had the race in our pocket, for
Taruffi had retired by this time with a broken oil pump and Fangio was
stopped in Florence repairing an injection pipe, but though we had
overtaken him on the road, we had not seen him, as the car had been
hidden by mechanics and officials. All the time l had found it very
difficult to take my eyes off the road. I could have easily looked
around me, for there was time, but somehow the whole while that Moss was
really dicing I felt a hypnotic sensation forcing me to live every inch
of the way with him. It was probably this factor that prevented me ever
being frightened for nothing arrived unexpectedly. I was keeping up with
him mentally all the way, which I had to do if I wasn'tto miss any of
our route marking, though physically I had fallen way behind him and I
marvelled that anyone could drive so furiously for such a long time, for
now it was well into Sunday afternoon. At the top of the Futa Pass there
were enormous crowds all waving excitedly and on numerous occasions Moss
nearly lost the car completely as we hit patches of melted tar, coated
with oil and rubber from all the other competitors in front of us, and
for nearly a mile he had to ease off and drive at a bare eight-tenths,
the road was so tricky. Just over the top of the Futa we saw a
Mercedes-Benz by the roadside amid a crowd of people, it was 704, young
Hans Herrmann, and though we could not see him, we waved. The car looked
undamaged so we assumed he was all right.
Now we simply had to get to Brescia first, I thought, we mustn't let
Taruffi beat us, still having no idea that he had retired. On we went,
up and over the Raticose Pass, plunging down the other side, in one long
series of slides that to me felt completely uncontrolled but to Moss
were obviously intentional. However. there was one particular one which
was not intentional and by sheer good fortune the stone parapet on the
outside of the corner stepped back just in time, and caused us to make
rude faces at each other. On a wall someone had painted "Viva Perdisa,
viva Maserati" and as we went past in a long controlled slide, we
spontaneously both gave it the victory sign, and had a quiet chuckle
between ourselves, in the cramped and confined space of our travellimng
hothouse and bath of filth and perspiration. On another part of the
Raticosa amid great crowds of people we saw an enormous fat man in the
road, leaping up and down with delight: it was the happy body-builder of
the Maserati racing department, a good friend of Stirling's, and we
waved bark to him.
Down off the mountains we raced, into the broiling heat of the
afternoon, into Bologna along the dusty tram-lined road, with hordes of
spectators on both sides, but here beautifully controlled, so that we
went into Bologna at close to 150 m.p.h. and down to the control point,
Moss doing a superb bit of braking judgment even at this late stage of
the race, and in spite of brakes that were beginning to show signs of
the terrific thrashing they had been receiving. Here we had the steering
column disc punched again and the card stamped, and with another Grand
Prix start we were away through the streets of Bologna so quickly that I
didn't get the vital news sheet from our depot. Now we had no idea of
where we lay in the race, or what had happened to our rivals, but we
knew we had crossed the mountains in 1 hr. 1 min., and were so far ahead
of Marzotto's record that it seemed impossible. The hard part was now
over. but Moss did not relax, for it had now occurred to him that it was
possible to get back to Brescia in the round 10 hours, which would make
the race average 100 .m.p.h. Up the long fast straights through Modena,
Reggio Emilia and Parma we went, not wasting atsecond anywhere, cruising
at a continuous 170 m.p.h. cutting off only where I indicated corners,
or bumpy hill-brows. Looking up I suddenly realised that we were
overtaking an aeroplane, and then I knew I was living in the realms of
fantasy, and when we caught and passed a second one my brain began to
boggle at the sustained speed. They were flying at about 300 feet
filming our progress and it must have looked most impressive, especially
as we dropped back by going round the Fidenza by-pass, only to catch up
again on the main road. This really was pure speed, the car was going
perfectly and reaching 7,600 r.p.m. in fifth gear in places, which was
as honest a 170 m.p.h. plus. as I'd care to argue about. Going into
Piacenza where the road doubles back towards Mantova we passed a 2cv
Citroen bowling along merrily, having left Brescia the night before, and
then we saw a 2-litre Maserati ahead which shook us perceptibly for we
thought we had passed them all long ago. It was number 621, Francesco
Giardini, and appreciating just how fast he must have driven to reach
this point before us, we gave him a salutary wave as we roared past,
leaving Piacenza behind us. More important was the fact we were leaving
the sun behind us, for nice though it was to have dry roads to race on,
the blazing sun had made visibility for both of us tiring. Through
Cremona we went without relaxing and now we were on the last leg of the
course, there being a special prize and the Navolari Cup for the fastest
speed from Cremona to Brescia. Although the road lay straight for most
of the way, there were more than six villages to traverse, as well as
the final route card stamp to get in the town of Mantova. In one
village, less than 50 miles from the finish, we had an enormous slide on
some melted tar and for a moment I thought we would hit a concrete wall,
but with that absurdly calm manner of his, Moss tweaked the wheel this
way and that, and caught the car just in time, and with his foot hard
down we went on our way as if nothing had happened. The final miles into
Brescia were sheer joy, the engine was singing round on full power, and
after we had passed our final direction indication I put my roller-map
away and thought "If it blows to pieces now, we can carry it the rest of
the way." The last corner into the finishing area was taken in a long
slid, with the power and noise full on and we crossed the finishing line
at well over 100 m.p.h, still not knowing that we had made motor-racing
history, but happy and contented at having completed the whole race and
done our best.
From the finishing line we drove round to the official garage, where
the car had to be parked and Stirling asked "Do you think we've won?" to
which I replied, "We must wait for Taruffi to arrive, and we don't know
when Fangio got in"—at the garage it was finally impressed upon us that
Taruffi was out. Fangio was behind us and we had won. Yes, won the Mille
Miglia, achieved the impossible, broken all the records, ruined all the
Mille Miglia legends, made history. We clasped each other in delirious
joy, and would have wept, but we were too overcome and still finding it
hard to believe that we had won. Then we were swept away amid a horde of
police and officials, and the ensuing crush amid the wildly enthusiastic
crowds was harder to bear than the whole of the 1,000-mile grind we had
just completed.
Our total time for the course was 10 hr. 07 min. 48 sec., an average of
more than 157 k.p.h. (nearly 98 m.p.h.) and our average for the miles
from Cremona to Brescia had been 123 m.p.h. As we were driven back to
our hotel, tired, filthy, oily and covered in dust and dirt, we grinned
happily at each other's black face and Stirling said "I'm so happy that
we've proved that a Britisher can win the Mille Miglia, and that the
legend 'he who leads at Rome never leads at Brescia' is untrue–also, I
feel we have made up for the two cars we wrote off in practice," then he
gave a chuckle and said "We've rather made a mesa of the record, haven't
we-sort of spoilt it for anyone else, for there probably won't be
another completely dry Mille Miglia for twenty years."
It was with a justified feeling of elation that I lay in a hot bath, for
I had had the unique experience of being with Stirling Moss throughout
his epic drive, sitting beside him while he worked as I have never seen
anyone work before in my life, and harder and longer than I ever thought
it possible for a human being to do. It was indeed a unique experience,
the greatest experience in the whole of the 22 years during which I have
been interested in motor-racing, an experience that was beyond my
wildest imagination, with a result that even now I find it extremely
hard to believe.
After previous Mille Miglias I have said "he who wins the Mille Miglia
is some driver, and the car he uses is some sports car." I now say it
again with the certain knowledge that I know what I'm talking and
writing about this time.—D. S. J.
/In view of the space devoted, we feel justifiably, to the Mille Miglia
race, "Readers' Letters" are held over until next month.–Ed/
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