Le Mans, along with Monaco, has to be one of the
most evocative circuits in the racers’ lexicon. This year is the 72nd running of the Sarthe Classic and for the
first time in almost 50 years an acquaintance of mine (it would be presumptuous
to call him my friend) will forgo his pilgrimage to Sarthe. He is still a sprightly 77 year old but
failing eye sight and arthritis has made him just a little cantankerous and he
says that one trip to France in a year is enough besides he’s too old for all
that nonsense now. He’s a good
engineer, although if it hadn’t been for the Second World War he probably would
have been a farmer. Digging for England and the Home Guard seemed very tame
when he was sixteen so a slight alteration to his birth certificate, he was
always big for his age, meant he could take the queens shilling finishing up in
the Royal Engineers. He probably would have never been involved with racing
either if it hadn’t been for Le Mans in 1955.
1955 was the first time he had set in foot in France
for nearly ten years; he’d been persuaded by his new wife to go to Paris so he
loaded up the Alvis (well engineered you know, built military vehicles as well,
even drove one once) and headed across the channel. He had picked the date to coincide with another anniversary and
the drive to Paris was a poignant one. After a few days in the city they
decided to explore some countryside taking their time to get back to the port.
On the second morning at a small hotel just outside Evreux he heard the
familiar sound of a starter cranking a dead engine, the car was an Austin
Healey that belonged to a delightful young couple from Edgware. The points had
closed up and in no time he had the car was running, they had told him of their
trip to see the Jags and Healeys running at Le Mans with the works Mercedes.
He’d never been to a motor race but the enthusiasm was infectious so he pointed
the nose of the Alvis south and headed for the circuit in convoy with the
Healey.
The atmosphere of the event captured him completely,
being English he loved the look of the Jaguars and he always said that the
Mercedes impressed him but he could never understand why Stirling would drive
for them. Perhaps it’s not his age that
made him cantankerous, perhaps he already was.
He left early on the eleventh of June and only heard about the tragedy
later, but the sports car bug had bitten him and he was back five years later
as engineer/team manger with a privateer Lotus. You could fill a book with what
happened over the next ten years, but he always went back to France once a year
and he always went to Le Mans.
This year he was on his way to France and stopped
off at the farm to say hello a couple of days before my birthday, he wasn’t his
usual self to start with seeming pre occupied with the impending trip. His hips play him up so he walks with a
stick and looking round the cars in the workshop he often stops, leans on his
stick, and makes some acerbic comment regarding the quality, or otherwise, of a
car or driver that he remembers. On
this occasion he focussed on a T44 Bugatti that we had in the workshop. It was ‘born’ the same year as he was, but
as he put it ‘in better nick’. I
pointed out to him that it hadn’t been.
When it came in the brake drums were worn out, the blocks were cracked,
the crank was cracked, the hubs were totally worn out, as were the wire wheels
and a thousand other little maladies.
So I told him he probably wasn’t bad really and in-fact it had cost over
£60,000 to turn it into a usable, race ready, touring car. He gave me a bit of an impish grin and said
‘Well, I’ve got £60,000 can you fix me?
… and a few improvements wouldn’t go amiss either!’ A quick dig in the ribs with the walking
stick reinforced the point and then his long suffering wife loaded him into the
Alvis (restored when he retired a dozen years ago) and drove him to Dover.
Le Mans evokes many and mixed emotions. Bugatti won the race, but his son was killed
testing for it. In its way it’s a
battle and there’s not too much room for passion, just a dogged determination
to get the job done and not be beaten.
It’s a test of mental and physical endurance and success hinges on the
organisational ability and strategy of the team when things are going well and
the resourcefulness of its members when it isn’t. I think that’s why the old boy liked it so much, it was a
spiritual home for him giving an opportunity to use his training and talents,
bitterly learnt at an early age and never forgotten. I was at Silverstone on my
birthday and he was in France, joining comrades in commemorating sixty years of
the first time he ever went there.
At 77 years old the T44 is for sale, ready to do Le
Mans or just drive down the pub. A part
exchange or even several part exchanges are welcome – a chance to write your
own entry into Le Mans history.