意大利车神Tazio Nuvolari画传

He was the greatest racing driver in the world, but he couldn’t win. Not any more. Now he had entered the German Grand Prix, a race he should never have tried. Some of his rivals were twenty years younger than he. The new German Mercedes and Auto- Unions were far faster than his old-fashioned Alfa Romeo. But Tazio Nuvolari was a patriotic Italian, faithful to his Italian car. The Alfa Romeo had won for him in the past. It must perform well one more time. No one gave the little Italian a chance. On the long, winding run down the pine-clad moun- tainside, he was far behind. But the crowd forgot one thing. It was raining. And Tazio Nuvolari was famous for his skill in maneuvering on dangerous rain-soaked roads. Excitement and suspense highlight NUVOLARI AND THE ALFA ROMEO. The vivid line, and fast pace authenticity of Briggs’ pictures make you feel as if you are actually driving if the race. Tazio Nuvolari was the greatest racing driver in the world. But he was getting old, and so was his car. His bright red Alfa Romeo looked high and old-fashioned on the front row of the start- ing grid, between the two silver German racing cars. A few years before, Tazio Nuvolari was always winning races. He was called “the Flying Mantuan” because he drove so fast and his home was in Mantua, Italy. Not only his wife and children, but all Italians were proud of their great champion. Now he was in Germany for the German Grand Prix. It was a race he had never won. He was determined that he would win it with his Alfa Romeo. Nuvolari was 43 years old. Some of his German rivals were twenty years younger. But Nu- volari was as daring and as clever as when he was a young man racing motor cycles. Nuvolari’s trouble was his car, not his age. He was a patriotic Italian and he loved Italian cars. He had won his greatest victories in Italian cars. But his Alfa Romeo was no longer fast enough. The new German Mercedes and Auto-Unions were faster and they were driven by young, keen men determined to beat the old veteran, Tazio Nuvolari. On the morning of July 28th, 1935, the day of the German Grand Prix, the rain was falling on the Nurburgring racing circuit, and the flags of the nations hung limply from their posts. The spectators in the grandstand and packed deep along the sides of the wide track hardly no- ticed the grey skies and the rain. For they had come to watch Germany’s greatest motor race, and it was almost time for the start. “Which of the German aces is going to win?” they were asking each other. Would it be the number one Mercedes driver, Rudi Caracciola, the tubby, thoughtful champion? Already that year he had won the Eifel Races, and the Tripoli, French and Belgian Grands Prix. A lot of people among the excited crowds were calling the name of another German driv- er. “Brauchitsch! Brauchitsch! Brauchitsch!” they were shouting. Manfred von Brauchitsch was a rich aristocrat with wide-set eyes and a serious expression. Once he had been a wild driver. Now he was more skilful, and faster than ever. Then there was Bernd Rosemeyer. He was the idol of the young, a dark, handsome, tall driver. As soon as he appeared from his pit in his white overalls and white cloth helmet a cheer rose from those who spotted him. No one gave Nuvolari a chance of winning against these men. All the drivers were walking out across the damp concrete track to their cars, surround- ed by reporters and cameramen, and their mechanics and team managers. Among them was Tazio Nuvolari, the smallest of them all. He wore light driving shoes below his laced-up overall trousers, and carried in his hand a visor instead of goggles. A visor was better in the rain. Nuvolari had a long, hatchet-like face, skin the colour of the olives of his native land, deep brown eyes that missed nothing, and black hair swept back. His expression was serious but when someone cracked a joke his whole face creased into a smile of delight and he showed his brilliant white teeth. From his neck hung a small charm. Nuvolari never raced without it. Even in the light rain, Nuvolari had his overall sleeves rolled up, showing the strong mus- cles of his hairy brown arms. A photographer ran ahead, squatted down and took a picture. Almost all the press men were German. But an Italian reporter patted Nuvolari on the back. “Buona fortuna! (Good luck!)” he said to him. Tazio Nuvolari would need more than luck. He would need all his skill and experience as well to defeat the silver German cars. It was almost 11 o’clock and the crowds were silent with expectation. Suddenly there was a roar as the engine of a Maserati at the back of the grid was started, and the blue smoke from its exhaust drifted high into the damp air. Two mechanics were plugging an electric starter into the back of Rosemeyer’s rear-engined Auto-Union. More electric motors started the engines of the sleek racers on each side of Nuvolari’s red Alfa Ro- meo. The noise of their superchargers rose to a loud shriek that echoed back from the grand- stand. Nuvolari climbed into the cockpit of his Alfa Romeo. Its engine was small enough to be started by a mechanic with a crank. Nuvolari pulled down the visor over his face and raced the motor. He glanced across to Caracciola beside him, and then turned in his narrow cockpit seat. Behind him was the rest of the field, a great roaring pack of red and silver and green cars, eager to be off on the race. Through the rain and the smoke Nuvolari could just recognise the Auto-Union of Bernd Rose- meyer and von Brauchitsch’s Mercedes. These were his most dangerous enemies in the great race. But there were many more cars as fast or faster than his Alfa Romeo. Thirty seconds to go! Ahead of Nuvolari stretched the wide concrete track, dangerously slippery in the wet. In his underpowered Alfa Romeo he had to keep ahead of these new Ger- man racing cars and their eager young drivers. “This is going to be a tough one,” he was think- ing. “I’ll just have to be faster through the corners.” He settled his small body deep into the cockpit seat, touched his lucky charm with his gloved fingers, and glanced down at his instru- ments. The starting lights were showing yellow. Fifteen seconds. Ten. Five. Suddenly the light switched to green. Caracciola in his Mercedes shot away from the front row like a bullet, leaving a cloud of spray behind him. Nuvolari made a perfect get-away, too, judging the speed of his engine so that there was little wheelspin on the wet road. The Auto-Union was skating about danger- ously. These German cars had 400 horsepower engines and they had to be tamed carefully. Along the wide straight in front of the grandstands the red Alfa Romeo was just behind Caracciola’s silver Mercedes Nuvolari could see it through the spray streaming off his visor. He held on to its narrow streamlined tail through the curve to the right, along the short narrow straight and into the sharp Sudkerve that brought them on to the parallel track in the opposite direction. The glistening road was dead straight. Here was Nuvolari’s chance to take the lead. He put his foot hard on the throttle, snatched the gear shift into third, accelerated again. The thunder of his supercharged engine beat against his ears. “Corri! (come on!)” he called out to his Alfa Romeo. But the sound of his own voice was lost in the uproar, and Caracciola’s Mercedes was too fast for him. It had gained distance at the end of the straight, and in the square rear-view mirror set into the left of the Alfa Romeo’s scuttle Nuvolari could see more silver German cars hard on his tail. Ahead lay fourteen miles of twisting mountainous road before they came back to the pits and grandstand at the end of the first lap. Nuvolari knew every inch of the slippery concrete, every corner and every gradient. He knew all the dangers, and he was famous for his skill in the rain. Up into the pine-clad mountains he held the faster Mercedes, braking later at each corner, and jamming his foot hard down on the throttle again. The Mercedes was too fast, and Carac- ciola was gaining time on him. On the long winding run down the mountainside Nuvolari was a quarter mile behind, but he could not catch up. The famous Karussell was ahead. This was a steeply banked corner that made almost a complete circle. It was like driving around the rim of a saucer. It was no place to get into a slide- especially with a dozen hurtling racing cars on his tail. The crowds packed tight among the pine trees watched the old master of motor racing, Tazio Nuvolari, dash into the Karussell, braking hard and steering his front wheels deep into the concrete ditch. He held the car low down all the way around the circle, gaining yards on Caracciola’s Mercedes. Nuvolari shifted into third, and the Alfa Romeo’s engine note rose to a scream. Shift into fourth. The car was a red blur against the dark green of the pine trees. Only a few seconds be- hind was another of the Mercedes, and then Rosemeyer’s Auto-Union, a hunch-backed mon- ster of a car with a speed of 180 miles an hour. After another fifteen corners, the leading racing cars in the German Grand Prix were on the long straight leading back to the grandstand. Caracciola was twelve seconds ahead of Nu- volari and there was nothing the Italian champion could do to close the gap. The Alfa Romeo was just not fast enough. The racing cars flashed past the grandstand. The crowds were on their feet, waving and cheering them on. A group of young people were chanting, “Rose-mey- er! Rose-meyer! Rose-meyer!” Bernd Rosemeyer was going like the wind. He went through the Sudkerve in his ugly Au- to-Union faster than anyone, checking perfectly the tail-slide of the big rear-engined racing car. He was catching up Nuvolari, there was no doubt about it. Nuvolari was driving like a demon, struggling to hold on to his second place. Through one of the slow corners high up in the pine forest, a group of spectators heard his voice calling out above the sound of his engine. “Corri! Corri! Corri!” He was appealing to his beloved old Alfa Romeo, and beating the side panel of his car as if he were a jockey urging on his horse. It was no use. The German cars were too fast. First a Mercedes, then the Auto-Union of Rosemeyer slipped past after a corner, and Nuvolari was back to fourth place. “It’s not his lucky day,” people were saying about Nuvolari. “But what can he do with that old car against our wonderful new ones?” The cries went up again. “Rose-meyer! Rose-meyer! Caracc-iola! Caracc-iola! Brauch-itsch! Brauch-itsch! Manfred von Brauchitsch was hard behind. On a short straight the Mercedes edged by, its supercharger howling in triumph. Nuvolari held grimly on to its tail, his muscular arms saw- ing the air as he swung the wheel one way then the other along the twisting track. There was the Karussell again. No one could go through the Karussell faster or more fear- lessly than Nuvolari. He roared towards the steep saucer, watching for von Brauchitsch to brake. When the Mercedes slowed, Nuvolari just kept right on. He slipped past the silver car on the inside, holding his Alfa Romeo steadily, then stamping hard on his brakes. No one in the crowd could see how the Italian ace could get around the corner. “He’s going to crash!” one man shouted. Nuvolari held the wheel with his strong arms, and his Alfa Romeo skidded side- ways. It did not turn over. He was going so fast that he even began to catch up Caracciola. Rosemeyer had fallen back to change a wheel. Now he had rejoined the race and regained his position among the leaders There had never before been a battle like this at the Nurbur- gring Everybody in the grandstand was standing up, climbing on the seats to get a view. A bunch of cars was tearing up the long straight, and in the midst of the wheel-spray there was one red car—Nuvolari’s. Nuvolari was leading the German Grand Prix! People had said it was impossible. He had passed the German champion, Caracciola. Rosemeyer had passed the German champion, too, so the order was now Alfa Romeo, Auto-Union, Mercedes, and only yards separated them. The race was half run. Fuel tanks were low, and tyres were worn. At the pits the mechan- ics were ready for the cars. Nuvolari was still leading by a few yards from Rosemeyer. The little Italian pulled over to the right and shifted gear to second and braked hard. There was his pit. He skidded to a halt beside it and leaped from the cockpit. Someone handed him half a lemon, and he paced up and down sucking it while the mechanics jacked up the rear axle and changed the wheels, and others poured cans of fuel and oil through funnels. The German cars had stopped, too, their mechanics in white overalls bustling about the silver cars like ants. This was another sort of race, a race by mechanics to get the cars ready again. All the Germans were faster than the Italians. Alfred Neubauer the tubby German Mer- cedes team manager, directed his mechanics so quickly that von Brauchitsch was first. He was back in his cockpit. A mechanic secured the detachable steering wheel in front of him while two others re-started the engine with the electric starter. The German driver was away. Then Rosemeyer in his Auto-Union. Caracciola accelerated away, a screaming silver rocket. Still the Italian mechanics worked on the Alfa Romeo. For a full minute Nuvolari was left standing on the track while the race went on without him. At last he leaped back into the narrow cockpit, the engine was cranked up. As he raced past the Mercedes pits the German mechanics waved and laughed good-humouredly. “He’ll never catch up now,” they were saying to one another. Nuvolari was back to fourth place, a long way behind. Soon von Brauchitsch was leading by more than a minute. The sun came out for a moment, smiling on the good fortune of the German driver .”Brauch-itsch!” came the triumphant cry of the crowds around the track. An- other victory for Germany! The race was not over yet. As Nuvolari drove faster than he had ever driven before, luck at last came his way. Rosemeyer’s engine began to run badly and he had to come in to his pit. Nuvolari raced by. Now for Caracciola! Nuvolari’s old Alfa Romeo was running perfectly, giving out all its power as if determined that its driver would do the impossible. Nuvolari’s eyes behind the visor picked out the line of the winding road unerringly, and his dark face was set in an expression of concentration. Only once or twice as he closed in on the Mercedes did he call out again to his car, “Corri! Corri!” and beat the outside of the cockpit panel with his hand. Caracciola was ten yards ahead, a silver bullet streaking along at 150 miles an hour. At the next corner Nuvolari braked late and closed right up. For mile after mile he clung to the tail of the Mercedes while the crowd cheered on the German. At the Mercedes pit the “Faster” sign was hung up. Caracciola could go no faster. The German was driving at the very limit. It seemed impos- sible that anyone could go any faster. But from the hidden reserves in his wiry little body, Tazio Nuvolari, “the Flying Mantuan”, found the spirit and the courage he needed at this critical mo- ment. Suddenly the red Alfa Romeo was alongside the silver Mercedes, wheel to wheel with it. The corner raced up. Nuvolari edged a few feet ahead. The Mercedes fell back, and the Italian charged through the corner just in front. Nuvolari was second again. Now for the second Mercedes— now for von Brauchitsch. There were three more laps to the end of the German Grand Prix. Von Brauchitsch in his Mercedes was leading by more than a minute. On the next lap Nuvolari went so fast that he had cut this lead by a half, and Neubauer ordered out the “Faster” sign again. He began to pace anxiously up and down the track in front of the Mercedes pit. It was the last lap of the German Grand Prix. Nuvolari had fought a magnificent lone bat- tle—one old red car against a swarm of modern silver machines. The crowds in the grandstand had seen von Brauchitsch go by in the lead. Nuvolari was still a long way behind. Surely the race was over and a German victory was certain. But the rain had started again, and no one in the world was as fast as Nuvolari in the rain. The loudspeakers in the grandstand were giving news of how the race was going up in the mountains. “Nuvolari is catching up!” Nuvolari was driving like a demon. Ahead of him he could see a cloud of spray, and within it a silver shape. It was von Brauchitsch’s Mercedes. There were ten miles to go to the finish, ten miles to catch the German. Out of the pine forest they shot, one behind the other, into the open bowl of the Karussell. Suddenly Nuvolari saw the Mercedes swerve as if von Brauchitsch had made a mistake and was going to crash. The Mercedes swerved the other way and slowed. Nuvolari thundered up in his Alfa Romeo. The Mercedes was just crawling along on the inside of the saucer of the Karussell and Nuvolari had to pull out wide to pass. He glanced at the Mercedes as he shot by. It had burst a rear tyre. Von Brauchitsch might have cut the corner too fine and hit a marker stone. Nuvolari was in the lead. The old Alfa Romeo was winning-and there were only a few miles to go. The fateful words came over the loudspeakers. “Von Brauchitsch has burst a tyre—Nuvol- ari has passed him!” The crowds stood up in silence. Not a sound was to be heard, until from far along the straight came the distant howl of a racing engine. It became louder second by sec- ond. Alone on the wide, rain-soaked track appeared a small red dot. It grew into the up- right shape of an old Alfa Romeo, thundering along at top speed, winning the German Grand Prix. The figure in the cockpit looked small for the car as the Alfa Romeo raced by. The flag fell, and Tazio Nuvolari raised one arm in acknowledgement of the cheers that suddenly burst from the crowd. It was his greatest victory. A few minutes later and after other cars had passed the winning line, there came another sound from along the straight. Slowly von Brauchitsch’s Mercedes appeared, limping along on the rim of its wheel. Again the cheers rose from the grandstand for the defeated German. The Mercedes halted at its pit, and Manfred von Brauch-itsch climbed out. Neubauer was standing there, his arms held wide. Von Brauchitsch collapsed into them, the tears running down his oil-stained cheeks. He had so nearly won. Little Tazio Nuvolari walked quickly up from the Alfa Romeo pit through the rain, the vic- tory wreath hung around his neck. He put an arm on von Brauchitsch’s shoulder. “Tu sei un magnifico guidatore! (You’re a fine driver),” he said. THE CAR The Alfa Romeo P3 Type B Monoposto (single-seat) Grand Prix car of 1935 was derived from the 1750 cc. twin-camshaft sports car designed by Vittorio Jano in 1929. The engine had eight cylinders and a capacity of 2.9 litres. To increase its power and improve its cornering, the car in which Nuvolari won the 1935 German Grand Prix had an engine enlarged to 3.8 litres and had independent front suspension. THE DRIVER After becoming a champion racing motor cyclist, Tazio Nuvolari first regularly drove Alfa Romeo racing cars in 1930 for Enzo Ferrari’s team, the Scuderia Ferrari, He won many Grands Prix races, including the Monaco, Italian and Belgian Grands Prix, and many sports car events like the Mille Miglia and the Tourist Trophy. In 1934 the new German cars, the Mercedes and Auto-Unions, challenged the Alfa Romeos as well as the Bugattis and Maseratis. At first they were unreliable, but soon they were too fast for their rivals, and by 1937 Nuvolari knew that he could never hope to win again in an Alfa Romeo. So he joined the German Auto-Union team and won ma