The Grand Prix De Monaco

Imagine, if you Can, This Situation: the Mayor of New York bans all traffic from the center of the city, ropes off a two-mile area in the general vicinity of Times Square, erects grandstands on the sidewalks, lines the streets with hay bales, and declares a state holiday, all for the purpose of staging an automobile race. Fantastic? Yes. But that is exactly what happens every year in Monte Carlo with the running of the Grand Prix de Monaco, since 1929 the greatest and most spectacular sporting event on the European calendar. Now that the Mille Miglia and the Carrera Panamericana are no more, this annual Grande Êpreuve is the only existing road race worthy of the name, belonging – with everything else in "the jewelbox of the Mediterranean" – to a more romantic era. The tendency is toward nostalgia. Yet the hard fact is that the speed festival is as good today as it was thirty years ago. The difference is in the cars: they are smaller and they go faster.

American champion Phil Hill regards the Monaco circuit as a "Mickey Mouse" course. "If it were anywhere else," he says, "it would be a joke." But it isn't anywhere else. It is in the most glamorous city of the most glamorous country in the world, and for that reason is loved by the people, spectators and residents alike. Thousands who find no special thrill in watching automobiles either at rest or in motion, who would not dream of attending any of the airport and artificial-road-course races comprising the bulk of the season's events, flock to Monte Carlo every May. They enjoy the race, for that is the spectacle's highlight, but it is not solely, or even primarily, the race that draws them. It is Monte Carlo at the summit, at the absolute peak of its excitement. That it is a truly fabulous place is (continued on page 56)Grand Prix(continued from page 52) evident in the fact that Monte Carlo doesn't even exist – not, at any rate, in the way that most people suppose. Contrary to popular legend, it is not a country, nor a tiny empire, nor even a duchy. It is, instead, one of the four distinct sections making up the Principality of Monaco. The other three are Old Monaco, an ancient village sitting on The Rock; La Condamine, a residential district; and the burgeoning industrial area, Fontvielle.

Incredibly, the Grimaldis have reigned over this independent state for more than five hundred years. They were a Genoese family, and first appear in history as having assisted William, Count of Provence, and the Emperor Otho I, in expelling the Saracens. In gratitude, the Emperor gave Monaco to one of them, while the others were rewarded with fiefs near Nice and in the Maures.

The descendants of Gibelin Grimaldi were at first only seigneurs, but eventually they became sovereigns, and the family went on to great power. Until the Seventeenth Century they had a flotilla of galleys, which served in many local wars. Rainier II, Prince of Monaco, entered the service of Philip the Fair in 1302 and, in 1304, was the first to lead a Genoese fleet through the Straits of Gibraltar into the ocean. Of all the Grimaldis, he is the one who seems to have had the combined instincts of privateer, bon vivant and soldier of fortune, and so one may assume that it was, at least to a small degree, his influence that gave the present sovereign his early reputation.

Prince Rainier III is now a serious and mature ruler, loved and respected by the 2200 Monégasques (and 20,000 permanently resident non-citizens) who are his subjects. It is pleasant to report, however, that in the days when he was called The World's Most Eligible Bachelor, Rainier attended to the sowing of wild oats with great élan. That the Grand Prix continues on the grand scale is due to his abiding enthusiasm for motor sport. (It is a little-known fact that in 1953 Rainier actually participated in the running of the tortuous and demanding Auto Tour de France. He entered as Louis Carlades and came very close to death when his mechanic, an official member of the palace staff, lost control of their DB and crashed into a tree at high speed.) Since his celebrated marriage to the former actress Grace Kelly, he has settled into the sober dignity that befits his station, and – somewhat sad to relate – has even given up his stable of high-performance sports cars. Enthusiasts of Grand Prix racing look at the distinguished Chief of Government and sigh, remembering the days when he used to jump into his Lancia and tour the course at a hairraising clip before each Monaco G.P. But they understand. Rainier must think of his country now.

And think of it he does. For he realizes that Monaco has always been a miniature paradise, and that it is up to him to keep it that way. He gazes down upon his princedom from the majestic height of a feudal palace, one of the few absolute monarchs left in the world, fully empowered to order the immediate decapitation of any of his subjects; yet he rules democratically, through a Minister of State and a National Council. There are no customs barriers between France and the principality, yet Monaco has its own army, its own police, its own postage stamps (accounting for greater revenue than the Casino itself), even its own coinage. Citizens pay no income taxes, inheritance taxes or death duties. As the British journalist Douglas Rutherford observed in his excellent book The Chequered Flag, "This same legal independence makes it possible for the Authorities to close the streets of a thriving city for two mornings and an afternoon of practice and for almost the whole of the Sunday on which the race is run."

It is difficult to imagine and impossible to describe, with any accuracy, the setting for this Course dans la Cité. It must be seen, for no photograph or painting could embrace the 360-degree panorama. The buildings which rise, tier upon tier, to form a great amphitheatre, are not handsome individually; but taken together they are magnificent. The center they surround is the natural deep anchorage which first attracted the Saracens centuries ago and led them to build their citadel above the bay, protected to left and right by high, unscalable slopes. Here, in this calm basin of blinding blue, entered by a slender gateway in the encircling rock wall, anchor the foremost pleasure yachts of the world, all dressed in formal white, like matron ladies, surrounded by a retinue of smaller craft. Behind the basin, the pastel hills, the great amphitheatre of palaces and apartments and hotels and terraced villas, all pink and blue and green and blazing white, rise up to the scrubbed sky. To one side you look along the French coast toward the fabulous resorts of Nice and Cannes and St. Tropez; to the other toward Cap Martin and the Italian Riviera.

The port of Monaco is an almost perfect square, landlocked on three sides and edged with a broad promenade. The Grand Prix circuit begins in the middle of the central strip, the Quai Albert Premier. This wide, tree-lined esplanade, normally closed to all traffic except bicycles and perambulators, serves as the pit area and start-finish line for the Grand Prix. Ahead lie two miles of streets bordered by curbs, balustrades, thick, unyielding walls, lampposts, and the waters of the harbor itself, which may explain why this is the slowest, most difficult and most demanding circuit on the calendar. Last year's race, considered by many to have been the greatest of all time, was won at an average speed of 67.68 mph. In 1937 the German Champion Rudolf Caracciola, driving a supercharged Mercedes of 5.6 liters which developed well over 600 brake horsepower, turned a lap at a fraction better than 67 mph.

When the idea of holding a race through the streets of the city was first formulated, in 1929, Monte Carlo was, in the words of the travel writer S. Baring-Gould, the "moral cesspool of Europe." That is, it was the hub of gaiety, the heart of all dreams, the glamor capital of the world. Gambling was basic to its economy. It lived on the hopes of mankind, and lived well: Monégasques played host every year to over one million visitors, all of whom were drawn then, as now, by the lure of the Casino. So brisk was the gaming trade at that time that one of the first orders of business in planning the opening event was the construction of a bridge over the track, to insure that the motor race would not prevent players from visiting the tables. Moralists were warning people away from the city on all grounds, including prostitution and cruelty to animals (pigeon shooting has always been a popular Monte Carlo sport). Cried Baring-Gould, in his Book of the Riviera: "How much better were it in the Maremma or the Campagna, where the risk to health and life would add zest to the speculation with gold. As long as men people the globe there will be gambling, and it is in vain to think of stopping it. All the lowest types of humanity... resort to it with passion, and the unintellectual and those without mental culture throughout Europe will naturally pursue it as a form of excitement. It is therefore just as well that there should be places provided for these individuals of low mental and moral calibre to enjoy themselves in the only way that suits them, but again, the pity is that one of the fairest spots of Europe, this earthly paradise, should be given over to harlots and thieves, and Jew moneylenders, to rogues and fools of every description." Of course, he – and all his worried breed – succeeded only in making the place even more irresistible than it actually was.

Physically, the city has changed very little during the past thirty years. The architecture was, and is, wholly rococo, (continued on page 110)Grand prix(continued from page 56) except for a few modern buildings slicing their razor-backed way up among the palaces today.

The circuit itself is identical to that used for the first event. Hay bales are used in place of sandbags (it was said that most of Monaco's small beach was stacked about the course during that premier running), and the little electric streetcars are gone, but no other significant aspect of the course has changed.

According to the motoring journalist Gordon Wilkins, who attended the first Grand Prix de Monaco: "The noise was deafening as the starter dropped his yellow flag and sixteen engines, all supercharged, screamed to peak revs. Fifteen cars tore away, De Rovin struggling on the grid with his 1½-liter Delage. [The] start was behind the pits... and four Bugattis hurtled into the Sainte-Devote turn in a tight bunch and screamed up the hill to the Casino, followed by a howling white Mercedes. Lehoux, 'Philippe' and Etancelin (in tweed cap, back to front) were driving two-liters and Davergne a 2.3, while Caracciola was at the wheel of the Mercedes. But as they emerged from the tunnel, it was 'Williams,' a British driver resident in France, who led, on a green-painted Bugatti. As they hurtled down into a vicious S-bend leading to the harbor's edge, there came the first of many crashes at that point. Lehoux went broadside, broke three of the beautiful cast alloy wheels of his Bugatti, walked to the pits and calmly walked back against the stream of racing cars trundling three new wheels..."

"Williams" went on to win the first G.P. of Monaco, at an average speed of 50.23 mph. Sentiment ran high that year. The race was hailed as the most spectacular of all time, and the stands were crowded to capacity for the second event. It was won, and fiercely won, by René Dreyfus, today the gentle proprietor of one of New York's finest restaurants, Le Chanteclair. 1931 was the year of the Monégasque Louis Chiron, still one of racing's best-loved figures, who ran away from the field in a twin-camshaft Type 57 Bugatti. By 1932 the tramlines had been taken up, and faster lap times were possible. Chiron crashed badly in that year's event, which was won by the legendary Tazio Nuvolari, aboard a scarlet 2.3-liter Alfa-Romeo. Now the average had risen to 55.81 mph, and everyone thought that was close to the limit. But in 1933, after a vicious dog-fight with Nuvolari, Achille Varzi came in the victor at 57.04.

Through 1937, and the temporary end of international motor sport, Monte Carlo was the scene of auto racing's most dramatic moments. Veterans still reminisce about the time Nuvolari tried to win even though his car was on fire, about the invasion of the great and all-conquering Mercedes and Auto-Union teams, the thrusting attacks of Robert Benoist (whose heroism during the Resistance caused him to be hunted down and tortured to death by the Nazis), the hammer-and-tongs scrap between Caracciola and von Brauchitsch, who were members of the same team and had no business fighting but couldn't help it, the terrible multiple crashes, the surprise victories, the overwhelming defeats.

It was great then, and the greatness did not fade. After the storm, eleven years later, the streets of Monte Carlo echoed again to the thunder of racing exhausts. The 1948 event was taken by Giuseppe Farina, a doctor (and nephew of designer Pinin Farina) who was to become a world champion. The race lapsed in 1949, but was revived in 1950. Everyone looked forward to a fine Alfa-Romeo-Ferrari duel, but it was not to be. At the corner of the harbor, by the little tobacconist's shop, Farina slid on a wet patch; his Alfa caromed off the stonework and crashed into Gonzalez' Maserati. Within seconds the road was choked with spinning machines, none of which emerged unscathed. Miraculously, Fangio got through the mess and won the G.P. at a record 61.33 mph.

The 1952 race was a sports car event. Though exciting, it didn't seem to be the real thing, and interest flagged. The speed festival was called off until 1955, at which time it was revived in all its old greatness. That was the year of the Mercedes comeback, and people expected the silver cars to walk off with everything. But Monaco has always defied racing tradition. Its winding streets took the heart out of the German machines and gave the crown to an affable wine-grower named Trintignant, aboard the supposedly obsolete Ferrari. The great Alberto Ascari came close to winning, but a moment's inattention hurled him and his Lancia off the road, through the hay bales and into the Mediterranean. It was a spectacular accident, the worst anyone had ever seen, but Italy's champion emerged without a scratch. (Four days later, at Monza, he was road testing a friend's Ferrari. Coming around a turn just a shade too fast, he left the road, rolled over slowly and died.)

Stirling Moss, the perpetual bridesmaid, came into his own in 1956, snatching victory from the late Peter Collins. 1957 saw another sensational pile-up, as Moss, Mike Hawthorn and Collins all crashed at the harbor chicane. Fangio again threaded his way through the debris, with contemptuous ease, and took the checkered flag. Then, in 1958. Trintignant won for the second time at the wheel of a newcomer to Formula I ranks: a Cooper-Climax. John Cooper, of Surbiton, England, had made a considerable name for himself in the manufacture of Formula III (500 cc) machinery, but few gave his absurd, spindly little car any chance at all in full-blooded G.P. competition. When a Cooper won again in 1959, with the Australian dirt-track driver Jack Brabham at the wheel. Cooper's creation changed the face and heart of Grand Prix machines forevermore. From the beginning they had been great bellowing metal beasts, rubber-shod brutes that were not so much driven as ridden. It took strength, endurance and courage to master them. Then came the Cooper, looking like nothing so much as a kiddy-car alongside its elders. But the kiddy-car, with its rear-mounted 2½-liter Coventry-Climax engine (originally desgined to power a fire pump), went faster than any other competition machine, and since 1959 all the manufacturers have followed John Cooper's example. Now the fire-breathing monsters are gone.

The last of them, a Ferrari, was seen during the 1960 Grand Prix de Monaco, and a fine farewell appearance it was. Phil Hill was the driver. He sat up straight and proud in the cockpit and thrashed the clumsy giant through the streets as through it hadn't seen its day. But it had. Even though the Ferrari finished third, it was clearly something out of another time, an antique, admirable in its gallant refusal to give up, but also a bit pathetic. In the midst of the nimble, darting, flicking little Coopers and Lotuses and BRMs, it was like an old owl among chicken hawks.

1960 also ushered out the 2½-liter formula. From now on G.P. cars must limit their engine capacity to 1500 cc, which means even smaller, lighter machines. The FIA, international governing body which makes all the major decisions in autosport, is seeking by this change to curb speeds, but they are not taking into consideration the engineering genius of such men as Cooper, Enzo Ferrari and Colin Chapman. These three, along with practically everyone else in the game, fought the move for a while, but then accepted it – as a challenge. And reports indicate that the new cars are faster than ever.

The 1961 race promises to be one of the greatest in the history of the event, but it will have to go some to better 1960. The swan-song nature of last year's spectacle was only a bonus; the Grand Prix itself was classic.

• • •

We flew to Nice a week before the race. The nine-mile drive to Monte Carlo, most of it along the sea front, allowed just enough time for anticipation to reach a peak. In the little gasoline to stations along the way there were Citroens and Renaults and Panhards, as usual; but crouched in the shadows were several of the sleek, sharklike Formula Junior cars that were to participate in Saturday's curtain raiser. The Juniors look very much like regular Formula I machines, only smaller, slower and a great deal less expensive. Count Giovanni Lurani dreamed them up originally as the answer to Italy's chronic driver shortage. In his concept, a single-seater utilizing the components of stock passenger sedans, such as Austin and Ford, would permit anyone with a bit of money to prepare for a career of professional race driving. And so it was, for a time. Then Cooper and Chapman got into the act, and Britain began to domainate. Soon Formula Junior Lotuses and Coopers were traveling at speeds only slightly below those attained by the all-out bombs, prices zoomed (you can pick up a little trainer for $5000) and once again Italy was stuck with its problem.

Monte Carlo was quiet when we arrived. But the air was electric, and if that sounds mysterious, try stepping off a plane into a Nassau night just before Speed Week, or going from Luxembourg into Germany for the running of the Nürburgring: you'll experience the same thing, a feeling of something different. The course was already carved out. The grandstands were erected. The fences were up. It gave the impression, somehow, of a city under siege.

For a few days we relaxed, wandering about the opulent Hôtel de Paris, one of the finest hotels in all of Europe, or girl-watching along the tiny stretch of beach. Bikinis were born in Monaco, and that country still seems to be one of the few places where they are completely at home. When we tired of this diversion, we visited the fabled Casino. Once it was the greatest gambling palace in the world, today it reminds one of a giant hollow tooth with very little gold left; yet, despite its efforts at modernization, its dreary slot-machines (all Las Vegas castoffs, painted a depressing gray), and its humble position in Monte Carlo's economy (accounting for less than four percent of the overall wealth), it remains an exciting and mysterious place. Standing in the Salon Privé, listening to the turn of the roulette wheels, the hop of the little white balls, the soft drone of the croupiers' voices, the murmur of winners and the decorous groan of losers, one travels back to another age; and suddenly the giant hall seems to be filled with the ghosts of ex-kings, maharajas, racketeers, solidiers of fortune, spies, pimps, film stars and crew-cut, sabre-scarred barons. For a few moments, anyway, one believes all the old legends: the young man who loses a fortune, dashes out to the garden and shoots himself, only to have his pockets stuffed with money by representatives of the management; the millionairess who finds herself temporarily short of funds, borrows a few thousand from you, and turns out not to have been a millionairess after all ...

The city, as noted, was already excited when we arrived; a few days later it began to run a fever, for that was when the aficionados – or lifosi – moved in. Suddenly the quiet streets thundered to the high-revving engines of Ferraris and Maseratis and Aston Martins and Alfa-Romeos and Porsches and Austin-Hea-leys and Mercedes-Benzes. The murmur of French became mixed with the chop-and-slash of German, the calm, confident drone of British, the high song of Italian. The sidewalks were bright rivers overnight, flowing with the costumes of a dozen different countries. Then the Grand Prix circus itself arrived. The drivers, heroes or fools, all of them, all direct descendants of St. George and Baron von Richtofen, shy, bold men come from everywhere in the world to gamble their lives while others gambled their money; their mechanics and managers silent and worried; their women, beautiful as the dolls you can buy in the most expensive Paris shops; the whole bright anachronism, moving in, taking over.

The talk was of Stirling Moss, the finest and unluckiest driver in the world. He had put the race in his pocket the previous year, only to go out with mechanical bothers. Would he break the jinx this time? Would his Lotus hold together? Would he get a decent start toward the world championship he so richly deserved? And what about Lance Reventlow and his Scarabs? They were the first all-American Formula I cars Europe had seen since Jimmy Murphy's French G.P.-winning Duesenberg, in 1921. Would they put the U.S. back into the motor racing picture? Then there was the experimental rear-engine Ferrari to consider, and the new BRMs, one of them to be driven by the phenomenon from Riverside, California, young Dan Gurney...

The betting was on Jack Brabham to win. He was, after all, the champion of the world, and he'd got there by a remarkable series of fast, steady victories. He was not particularly liked; neither was he disliked; he was, to most, a colorless example of that new breed, the businessman driver. Those swaggering buccaneers Portago and Castelotti would have eclipsed Brabham anywhere, except on the track. There the Australian has always been in command, yielding only to Moss, Moss was faster, everyone knew, but there was that jinx of his, this time a complicated, non-standard gearbox designed by the Italian Colotti.

"It is the greatest gearbox in the world," says Ami Guichard, publisher of the estimable Automobile Yearbook. "Unfortunately, it does not work."

It worked well enough during the practice session. Moss' privately entered Lotus toured the course in the astounding times of one minute 36.3 seconds – an absolute record. No other driver matched that, but all came close. So close, in fact, that the sixteenth and last car on the starting grid was separated from Moss by a mere three seconds.

Qualifying runs are always exciting. During the actual race the drivers are using tactics. Some try Moss' system – "Assume the lead as quickly as possible and then improve your position" – while others attempt to emulate the great Fangio, who stated once that"the point of a motor race is to win at the slowest possible speed." Some charge from the start, some hang back and conserve their energies for the final laps, others simply watch and wait. Maurice Trintignant prefers the latter system and, though he attracts little attention, he wins plenty of races. Qualifying, however, is another matter. Because of the danger of multiple crashes, only sixteen cars are allowed to enter, these selected on the basis of recorded times. Therefore, one may be sure that each of the twenty-five or thirty drivers is going just as fast as he knows how, and there is nothing quite so exhilarating as the sight of a Formula I car traveling at peak capacity.

It was evident, in the first hour, that 1959's records were going to tumble; no one guessed, though, that in order to qualify at all, even for the last place on the grid, one would have to go faster than last year's fastest qualifying time. Yet it was so.

Few will ever forget the duel staged by the hopeful entrants in 1960. All the lambs, the cautious, careful watch-and-waiters, became ravening tigers, clawing for that extra tenth of a second that would get them into the race. Masten Gregory, one of America's most aggressive drivers, flailed his outdated Centro Sud Cooper-Maserati about the course in a manner that brought screams from the grandstands. He turned times that would have put him on the front row of any other race, in any other year. Yet he failed. Reventlow's Scarabs went around and around, both Lance and his chief driver Chuck Daigh extracting from the new machines every last ounce of speed. Their times were splendid, good enough for a fine starting spot in any race but this one. They failed. The Briton Brian Naylor made the field as the result of a terrifying lap in his home-built J.B.W.-Maserati, but he was out a few moments later as Alan Stacey covered the 1.97-mile course tenths of a second faster. Out went Naylor again, for another hair-raising lap. Then Stacey. No driver could ever be sure of his position, so all were going enough too fast to look like insane men. Only Moss seemed to be secure, but even he was standing ready. Toward the end of the session the greatest drama of the day occurred. Trintignant, like Gregory stuck with a relatively slow, year-old Cooper-Maserati, announced that he would make a last try, "Petoulet" as he is called, is a small man. He is a gentle man. As owner of a great and prosperous vineyard, he has no need to race except the need prompted by his enthusiasm for the sport. No one gave him any chance. He was getting along in years, after all, his reactions were slowing, his temperament was mellowing.

The middle-aged Frenchman had time for only two laps. As he roared away from the start-finish line, spectators began to drift off to their hotels or to the numerous cafés nearby. Those who remained saw one of the most incredible driving exhibitions ever witnessed, at Monaco or anywhere else. Trintignant was no longer recognizable as he drifted down the S-bend onto the harbor straight. Hunched forward in the cockpit, his head held high and rigid, his face a dark mask of concentration, he seemed no longer a man at all but a demon. The Cooper-Maserati slid within inches of an iron bollard the size of a small barrel, spasmed itself more-or-less straight and shrieked, twitching, toward the next bend. It disappeared in a blur of scarlet. The crowd was silent. You could hear the Maserati engine howling against the high-tiered buildings all around the course. Farther away, a distant buzz, rising and falling with the lightning gear-changes, then turning into a howl again, coming closer. This time the left rear tire kicked up a spray of straw as the Cooper-Maserati negotiated the S-bend. No one had ever seen such abandon, or such control. An extra fraction of an inch and the car would have cannoned through the hay bales and either smashed itself to pieces against a bollard or plunged into the sea.

The announcer, normally calm, shrieked with excitement. "Ladies and gentlemen! Ladies and gentlemen! He's done it! Qualifying is over and Trintignant is in the race!"

Nor was the race itself a disappointment. As we sat on the terrace of the Hôtel de Paris, sipping Cinzano, we joined in the classic pre-event speculation: Who would come through first in that hell-for-leather opening lap? Moss, surely. Or Brabham. But which? The city hushed. The engines were started, a sound of sixteen angry lions. The starter began to count down. Off beyond our vision, a flag was dropped. The loudspeakers exploded, a babel of French and English lost under the thunder of accelerating machines. The street before us was empty. There was that long, delicious, agonizing moment of suspense, then the ferocious sound of the cars as they rocketed up the hill and toward the hotel turn.

"Is it Moss?"

"Is it Brabham?"

Neither. The first car around, bellowing as it sank its fingernails into the cement, was a low-slung, dark-blue BRM, and the driver was Sweden's champion, Joakim Bonnier. Snapping at his heels was Jack Brabham, in a Cooper, and joined to Brabham was the Lotus of Stirling Moss. A few yards behind came the British dental surgeon Tony Brooks and the young ace whose career ended tragically a few weeks later at Spa-Francorchamps. Chris Bristow. Then the rest of the pack, snarling and pushing. Baron Wolfgang Berghe Graf von Trips, known to intimates as Taffy, or Von Crash, provided momentary horror as his Ferrari burst into flames. Von Trips might have evacuated the machine, but chose instead a different method. He went so fast toward Beau Rivage that the downrush of air simply blew out the fire. He continued in ninth place.

Meanwhile, Bonnier was building his lead. The BRM had a reputation for unreliability, but while it kept together it was a formidable machine. To anyone unfamiliar with its history of burst engines and broken suspensions, it must have seemed unbeatable. And so it was, for a great many laps. Then Moss decided it was time to stop hanging about. He passed Brabham and took after Bonnier. At the ten-lap mark, the bearded Swede led by just 0.8 second.

As if this were not exciting enough, races within races were going on back in the field. Phil Hill was whipping his immense Ferrari past car after car, and was now preparing to bull by Brooks. Little Richie Ginther, of California, had a handful with his rear-engine prototype, but he was rear-engine prototype but he was driving smoothly and the experimental Ferrari was ahead of several lighter, faster machines.

On lap seventeen Moss roared into the lead and began to pull away. Then Brabham passed Bonnier, and the stage was set for another battle of the giants. But Bonnier, refused to cooperate. He went by Brabham and set off after Moss, who was now 4.7 seconds ahead. All three were traveling at an average speed which was considerably faster than the lap records of other years.

Then it began to rain. To the spectators this was a mild discomfort; to the drivers, a nightmare. The streets became slippery as oiled glass. A feeling of dread crept into the air, as the inevitable incidents started. Roy Salvadori went by his pits indicating that he would need a visor. Suddenly his Cooper slid out of control and collided viciously with the barriers at the Virage des Gazometres. Phil Hill tried to hang onto his brute at the Casino bend, lost it, got it back somehow, and slithered on. Brabham the Careful was suddenly going like a madman. He got closer to Moss every lap, then, on the thirty-fourth, passed into the lead, which he began to stretch. Moss was expected to attack, but he did not. Perhaps he knew what was going to happen. It is difficult to explain otherwise how he was able to avoid disaster. For on the forty-first lap, Brabham spun. Moss came around Sainte-Devote to find the lead Cooper revolving wildly. An accident seemed inevitable, but Moss gave the wheel a quick flick, missed the gyrating Cooper by millimeters, and went through. Brabham ended his race against the retaining wall.

And still it rained. Dark mist capped the terraced hills, turning the bright houses gray. We sat wondering now, with everyone else, if Moss had beaten his jinx. His lead seemed unassailable, yet – –

On the sixtieth lap the dark-blue Lotus failed to come around. The crowd groaned. Moss was out of it, cheated again. But only for a few moments. He had stopped at the pits when the power had begun to fail in his engine. A plug lead had come adrift. Moss replaced it himself and continued.

More incidents occurred. McLaren lost control of his Cooper, allowing Phil Hill and Graham Hill to catch up. Then Graham Hill lost his BRM, crashing into the Radio Monte-Carlo commentary box and all but demolishing the building – fortunately with no serious harm to anyone.

Now the rain slacked off. Moss turned a number of incredible laps below one minute 36.8, under the mistaken impression that he had only five instead of thirty-five to go, then settled into a steady winning pace. Bonnier dropped out, after a fine run. Gurney, never confident of the car, brought his BRM into the pits with broken suspension. Other machines limped in, like cripples, or stopped dead.

The spectators were all cheering for Moss, praying that nothing would happen to stop a well-deserved victory. Nothing did. The checkered flag fell on the dark-blue Lotus, and Stirling Moss won the Eighteenth Grand Prix de Monaco at 67.68 mph by 52.1 seconds from Bruce McLaren (Cooper-Climax), who was followed home by Phil Hill (Ferrari) and Tony Brooks (Yeoman Credit Cooper).

Moss was buried in roses. The little Lotus, which had gone so fast, sputtered around the city for its victory lap, and you could see only the roses and the driver's happy smile. The G.P. was over. The sky turned gray, and the rain began to fall again in a silver mist. And all that was left of the danger and the excitement now were three broken rose Petals, glowing red in the dark street.

But the festival was not yet completed. For now it was time for the traditional Gala. The drivers went to their hotels, scrubbed the grease and oil from their skin, doffed their racing overalls, donned their soup-and-fish and scurried over to the Hôtel de Paris. We joined them in the Empire Room, and marveled at the transformation that had taken place. No longer were they heroes and fools. They were young men having a spree. Deadly enemies only a few hours earlier, the Pilotos were now gathered in wild camaraderie on the dance floor of the elegant Empire Room, dancing mambos, trading partners, and generally having a hell of a time. Traditionally, the Prince and Princess joined the celebration, but they didn't slow it down. The regal, ermine-cool Grace made an entrance out of The Prisoner of Zenda – slow drum roll, crowd standing at attention – but very soon she melted and joined the mad melee on the floor, which lasted until dawn.

• • •

They'll be dancing there again this year. The streets will thunder again, and again there will be the thrill of speed, the joy of victory and the bitter challenge of defeat. Hard as it is to imagine, the festival will probably be greater than ever. Porsches will be joining the fray, Ferrari will have its super-light, 290-horsepower threat, and you may be sure the Coopers and Lotuses won't be slower, and maybe the new rear-engine Scarabs will be ready. You can never be sure about Grand Prix racing.