MILLE MIGLIA
Pasta… wine… riposo… and the small matter of an endurance race under the Tuscan sun
SPRINGTIME IN ITALY AND SOME much-needed sunshine warms your face. You’ve just finished a light lunch of perfect pasta washed down with something red and slightly chilled. A meal impossible to replicate at home. As you sink into a chair that looks out over the rolling countryside, the towers of a hill town silhouetted against the blue sky in the distance, you close your eyes to contemplate a nap…
You still feel tired as you open your eyes again, like you’ve been up since before dawn, and you find you’re staring at a face in a small round mirror. It looks a bit like you… but in panda form. You put your hand up to your cheek and smear the oil and grime across your skin. A strong smell of fuel reaches you and you look round to see petrol splash on the red bodywork behind you as a mechanic slams the filler shut. Then you realise everyone is staring expectantly and the mechanic is shouting and waving his arm vigorously.
Instinctively you start the engine, grab the round top to the metal gearlever and slot it top-left into first on the open gate. As the adrenaline suddenly hits your muscles you give it too many revs and light up the skinny rear tyres as you roar off over the cobbles. You hammer between tall buildings, the bark of the V12 filling the streets, and then, as you flash past a statue, you recognise the piazza from the day before. This is Florence!
There is no one in the seat next to you, but somehow you seem to know where to go. You pass a small car with 116 on the side. An early start for them. As the buildings recede, replaced by beautiful countryside, so the road begins to climb. You’re driving the fearsome Futa Pass like a local, with a speed and commitment that should be frightening.
The car seems to be dominated by the engine in front of you and as you slide the rear through a corner you realise you’re controlling the de Dion rear axle with the middle pedal. A hairpin approaches and your foot moves right to scrub off speed, now blipping the raucous centre throttle as you go down two gears. It should be confusing, but as the slipstream builds once more and the whine from the transmission climbs to fever pitch, it feels natural. A young spectator sitting on a low wall shouts ‘Ferrari!’ excitedly as you thunder past, the car catching a little air over a bump.
It feels like you’re on home turf as you race towards Bologna, doing in excess of 170mph now the road is flat and straight again. Bringing the car to a hurried halt in the city, the clock shows just under an hour since you left Florence. Muscles momentarily relax, arms aching from working the wooden-rimmed wheel. Not long to Brescia and the Mille Miglia’s finish line.
A mechanic runs over with a bottle of water and some coffee. ‘Acqua? Caffè?’ he enquires. But there’s no urgency in his voice. You open your eyes. ‘Signore? Oh, scusa. I didn’t realise you were sleeping,’ says the waiter. Just a dream.
‘ YOU’RE DRIVING LIKE A LOCAL, WITH A SPEED AND COMMITMENT THAT SHOULD BE FRIGHTENING’