Nobody mentioned the core strength and the bruises. That's all I can think as I barrel hell for leather through a long left-hander in a single-seater Fifties Grand Prix car without the comfort or security of seatbelts. Of course, belts are actually fitted, I just want to try and ape the sensations of GP drivers from way back when. The kind of men - and yes, it was pretty much exclusively men back then - for whom getting thrown clear in the event of an accident was preferable, and sipping on a glass of champagne and lighting a cigarette on a hot exhaust in the pits wasn't regarded as the absolute insanity it seems like today. The idea they were a different breed is totally understandable. Even by the standards of the day I have to conclude early GP drivers were either excruciatingly brave, or daft as lamp posts. Probably a bit of both.
Still, there's an art to this. Wedge one's knees into the recesses of the bodywork, tuck your elbows into wherever they'll fit, possibly even lean a bit, and bear down. No matter what you do, you'll feel like you've been run over after about 40 minutes - goodness only knows how they did it for hours on end, in company, at significantly faster speeds, bouncing around on transverse leaf springs and swing axles. And without, it has to be noted, on-site medical facilities or helicopter transfers to hospitals with MRI scanners. They were lucky if there was a tent set up in the pits with some plasters and beef tea. This? This is just the barest whisper of what original Grand Prix racing was really like, the ghost of glory days where lives were literally on the line - in the first decade of Formula One, 18 drivers died. It was not a sport for the worriers.
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