WHEN EXACTLY DID IT BEGIN, THIS MYSTICISM, THIS MAGIC?
There must have been a time when Ferrari – yes, even Ferrari – were just another racing team and car constructor. But at what point did the legend take root?
Whenever it was – be it early in Alberto Ascari’s pomp, or perhaps later when John Surtees was the anointed one, but surely earlier than Niki Lauda’s brash era – it would have been the racing cars that sowed the fertile seed. Enzo Ferrari never really cared about the road cars he built, not in the way he lived and breathed for the racing machines that bore his name. After all, going racing was all he had ever wanted.
The founder’s involvement in the sport that would define him dated back to 1919 and his first employment by his beloved Alfa Romeo. In 1929 his Scuderia was born, represented by the prancing black horse of an Italian WWI fighter pilot he’d never met. The coat of arms of Count Francesco Barraca, set against the vivid yellow of Enzo’s hometown of Modena, would become a symbol for all that we love about motor racing. He could never have known back then.
How delicious that Ferrari’s team should be created to serve as little more than a humble customer satellite for Alfa, catering for the demands of wealthy amateurs – just the sort of
garagiste Enzo would hold in such contempt in much later years. Alfa Romeo’s decision to close their in-house racing operation allowed the Scuderia a graduation to official works status in 1933, an equivalent not far removed from the likes of lowly Sauber becoming BMW’S works team 11 years ago. But Enzo returned to employee status when the mothership changed tack and in 1938 founded Alfa Corse, of which he became manager. A year later Ferrari finally and truly struck out alone, albeit under the less than memorable nomenclature of Auto Avio Costruzioni, thanks to a non-competition clause with Alfa. Just as well that one didn’t stick.
It was only in 1947, after the war and a move in ’43 from Modena to the village of Maranello, that Ferrari named a car eponymously. He had years of racing experience earned under the wing of Alfa Romeo; now he would be torn to the soul by a potent on-track rivalry with his old masters. But in terms of what really mattered, namely grand prix racing, it would be Ferrari, not Alfa, who would last the course.
In this context, you could argue the legend had taken root before Ferrari had even become Ferrari. It surely dates back to the days when Tazio Nuvolari drove Scuderia-run Tipo Bs to victories, such as his wondrous defeat of mighty Mercedes and Auto Union at the Nürburgring in 1935. For those old enough to understand, The Flying Mantuan remains the greatest of Ferrari’s
drivers. But it wasn’t until the 1950s that the legend really flourished.
The Alfa vs Ferrari battle of 1951 fed that growth, with bulky Argentine José Froilán González (aka The Pampas Bull) scoring Ferrari’s first world championship victory at Silverstone. Juan Manuel Fangio and his 1.5-litre supercharged Alfetta would claim the crown against the Scuderia’s 4.5-litre unblown horses, but to Enzo’s genuine sorrow, it would be a last hurrah for Italy’s aging superpower. The following two-year hiatus, in which the world championship was run to F2 regulations, would mark Alfa’s grand prix departure – and open the door for unchallenged Ferrari dominance.
In recent years, when we have considered the damage done by the total Mercedes dominance of Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg, we would have done well to consider this: between 22 June 1952 and 23 June 1953, no driver other than Alberto Ascari and his neat, nimble Ferrari 500 won a world championship GP. This resulted in ‘only’ nine consecutive race victories, since it doesn’t take into account the numerous and prestigious non-championship wins that were part of the fabric of early F1. In 2013 Sebastian Vettel would equal Ascari’s run of nine in the second half of a dominant season for Red Bull. Purists and tifosi alike breathed a quiet sigh of relief when he didn’t carry the run into the next calendar year and take the record all for himself.
Think of Ferrari in their first decade and Ascari should always spring to mind before any other. Stocky, like Fangio and González, the double champion of ’52-’53 was said to have the frame of a wrestler – more muscle than bustle according to those who knew him. And Enzo loved him, almost like a son.
It must have been mutually painful, then, when Ascari walked away at the end of 1953 as Enzo threatened to withdraw from racing – a threat he wouldn’t shy from using to his advantage in future years. Alberto joined Lancia on the promise of Vittorio Jano’s forthcoming, and subsequently late, D50. After spending most of 1954 without a competitive car, Ascari looked set for rejuvenation the following year, only to die in a Ferrari sportscar while testing at Monza just four days after taking a plunge into the harbour at Monaco.
These were tough times for Ferrari, in their early years, but then again, that was the case for motor racing as a whole. Four days after Ascari died, American racing’s great hero Bill Vukovich was killed at Indianapolis. And 12 days after that, more than 80 spectators lost their lives when Pierre Levegh’s Mercedes was launched into the stands at Le Mans. This was ‘sport’?
Ferrari’s nascent legend could have withered and died in that fateful season. But Italian
“ASCARI, THE DOUBLE CHAMPION OF ’52-’53, WAS SAID TO HAVE THE FRAME OF A WRESTLER – MORE MUSCLE THAN BUSTLE. AND ENZO LOVED HIM, ALMOST LIKE A SON”
industry answered Enzo’s cry for help. When Lancia pulled the plug on their grand prix ambitions, Fiat offered a financial incentive to Ferrari, along with Jano’s brilliant D50. Renamed the Lancia-ferrari for ’56 and with Mercedes having departed motorsport in the aftermath of the Le Mans disaster, the pontooned racer enabled Fangio to take his fourth title, although Fangio and Enzo were by then on terms comparable to those that festered in another time between Fernando Alonso and Ron Dennis.
For Enzo, the turbulence didn’t end with Fiat’s financial boost, despite the Fangio and D50inspired revival. That summer he would lose his son, Dino, to Duchenne muscular dystrophy, and the personal withdrawal into the darkness at Maranello that had already become apparent was complete. Now he would seldom travel to races, making only annual appearances at Monza.
The second half of Ferrari’s first full decade would be marked by soaring triumphs – but also more notable tragedies of a scale that could have sunk all his ambitions. Pressure continued to build on motor racing following the devastation at Le Mans in ’55, and Enzo was not immune to the heat. Two years after Le Mans, further devastation led to the end of the famous Mille Miglia – the 1,000-mile Italian road race that had become established pre-war as a sportscar test rivalled only by the great French 24 Hours. Count Alfonso de Portago, a good-looking Spanish playboy and all-round sportsman, died along with his co-driver and nine spectators (five of them children) when his Ferrari blew a tyre.
Today, motorsport might not have survived such carnage, particularly when racing drivers died so regularly in the pursuit of what was still considered a pastime for gentlemen. But back then, men with racing in their blood, such as Enzo Ferrari, would allow the dust to settle and then simply press on regardless.
It was in these times that Ferrari, hiding from sight behind the ever-present shades and within the corridors of Maranello, cultivated his growing reputation as a self-professed “agitator of men and ideas”, like some spider manipulating the strands of an increasingly sticky web. British racers and best mates Mike Hawthorn and Peter Collins were two to feel the power of his influence, pitched into the Scuderia against the Latin faction led by Luigi Musso. The stakes were high in 1958 – and Ferrari enjoyed raising them among his brave gladiators.
Musso would run out of road at Reims, and then Collins would win at Silverstone – only to lose his life the next time out at the Nürburgring.
“MIKE HAWTHORN’S LANDMARK SPARKED A REVOLUTION, AS BRITISH DRIVERS GAINED MOMENTUM TO BECOME THE MOST CONSISTENTLY SUCCESSFUL NATION IN F1’S FUTURE DECADES”
Even for larger-than-life Hawthorn, who’d been the unintentional trigger for the Le Mans disaster back in ’55, the loss of his ‘Mon Ami Mate’ was too much. Devastated, he vowed to claim the world title for his friend, then retire immediately. Kidney failure would likely have killed him within the next few years; as it was he died in a road accident just outside Guildford, months after becoming the first British driver to win the world championship.
Hawthorn’s landmark sparked a revolution, as British drivers gained momentum to become the most consistently successful nation in F1’s future decades, but it also marked the end of an era, for his was the last title won by a driver in a front-engined car. The rear-drive revolution, with drivers powered by motors behind their shoulders rather than in front of their feet, might have been obvious to those who cared to look. But just as he had initially done with disc brakes, Enzo chose to look the other way.
Stirling Moss had already taken his little Cooper T43 to victory in the heat of Argentina at the start of ’58, and now the cars from humble Surbiton in leafy Surrey were set to steal Ferrari’s thunder. Gritty Australian Jack Brabham would make hay in 1959 and ’60, with Colin Chapman quickly catching on at Lotus. Meanwhile, Ferrari plugged away with the (admittedly very pretty) Dino. Not even the understated talents of Tony Brooks and Phil Hill could make any difference.
Would it have been different had the most obvious ‘what-if’ partnership materialised? Particularly in the wake of Fangio’s retirement in ’58, Stirling Moss was considered by those who should know to be head and shoulders above the rest. His talent alone would likely have been enough, but it was his commitment, professional standards and commercial savvy that really set him apart from his peers. Combined with the size and resources of Ferrari, what could have been achieved had they joined forces?
It would forever remain a moot point. As long ago as 1951, Stirling had fallen out with Ferrari over what turned out to be a phantom drive at the Bari Grand Prix. Enzo made an enemy that day, and although Moss couldn’t avoid continental cars such as the wondrous Maserati 250F and the shock-and-awe abilities of Mercedes’ F1 and sportscars, he made a point of always choosing British machinery, if he could – especially if the alternative was a Ferrari. That attitude would mellow in the early years of the next decade – but right here, right now, he was very happy with his Rob Walker-run Coopers and Lotus, thank you very much.
The natural conservatism that had served Enzo well through his years under Alfa’s tutelage was threatening to become his downfall as the 1950s began to draw to a close. Funding continued to be troublesome, even though there was growing demand for his increasingly exotic road cars, fed in part by development success at Le Mans – a race he hated despite Ferrari’s growing roster of victories in France. But in F1, where it mattered, his team was on the back foot.
Then again, what was new? Ferrari’s company had survived the growing pains of a tumultuous first decade – even if his son and countless drivers hadn’t. The boom-and-bust cycle would become a common theme of Ferrari’s legend, and, as the 1960s got under way, the Scuderia’s extremes of soaring heights and depressing lows would only increase.
The mysticism and romance were already deep-rooted; so too were the frustrations and capacity to regularly self-destruct. From the start, Enzo Ferrari bore his flaws with a defiance in the face of logic, and that fed the legend, too. But then again, who wants perfection?