Anonymous asked: Who are your favorite drivers?
There is a laundry list, but I have a particular soft spot for these lovely people:
Bernd Rosemeyer. He was a factory driver for Auto Union in the 30s. He was, naturally, and “honorary” member of the SS, but he never wore the uniform and took steps to actively undermine his military superiors. At the 1937 German Grand Prix, he landed a plane on the tarmac at the Nürburgring. At the start of the race, he led a rebellion against the Nazi injunction against the un-manly and un-Aryan practice of kissing wives and girlfriends before the race, and went, along with every other driver on the grid, to the paddock wall to do just that.
Here is is driving his Auto Union Type C at the aforementioned Grand Prix.
Juan Manuel Fangio. This is how much I love this guy:
We take selfies together outside of the Mercedes-Benz museum in Stuttgart.
Michele Mouton. In a sport dominated by men, she drove for Audi’s factory rally team and took runner-up in the 1982 driver’s championship. She is lovely and talented and an antidote to so much of the macho bullshit that is synonymous with racing.
Sir Jackie Stewart. I like Scottish drivers of all stripes, (get it? It’s a tartan joke.) Colin McRae and Alan McNish, in particular, but Sir Jackie is my favorite, mostly for the following:
Thanks for the question. Who are yours?
Ferrari Friday … from dusk till dawn …
a Ferrari 512M at the 1971 24 Heures du Mans
"He is a fantastic man. When he won at Spa and we heard the US anthem, we were cheering and crying at the same time. " - Jo Ramirez on Dan Gurney
"I shut my eyes, hit the seat belt release and leapt out. I was on fire, everything was on fire, but for a fraction of a second I saw the other side of the road and just ran that way. I didn’t see anything after that. I was taken to some sort of first aid place. They bandaged me all over, hands, head. You never hear about the spectators who used to get hurt in the Targa, but a young boy was brought into the room — I won’t describe the details, but he died while I was there. It was like your worst nightmare.
Nobody at Porsche knew where I was. I couldn’t communicate, and I still couldn’t see, because my eyes were burned shut. Meanwhile Pedro Rodriguez and Richard Attwood had been searching all over Sicily for me, and about 10 o’clock that night they found me. They took me back to the hotel, Porsche’s doctor got going with the pain killers, and next day they flew me back to Manchester.” - Brian Redman on Targa Florio