[msb-alumni] Stirling Moss, 90, One of the Greatest Racecar Drivers of All Time, Dies on April 19, 2020
- From: Steve <pipeguy920@xxxxxxxxx>
- To: <msb-alumni@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Sun, 26 Apr 2020 17:39:54 -0400
BlankStirling Moss, 90, One of the Greatest Racecar Drivers of All Time, Dies.
By
Douglas Martin.
Known for his brash, puckish persona, he won 212 of his 529 races, including 16
Grand
Prix victories, but never won the Grand Prix Championship title.
In the 1950s, small boys wanted to be Stirling Moss, and so did men.
Boys saw him as the swashbuckling racecar driver whom many considered the best
in the
world. Men saw this and more: Moss made more than $1 million a year, more than
any
other driver, and was invariably surrounded by the jet-set beauties who
followed the
international racing circuit.
Moss died quietly on Sunday at his home in London as one of his sport's great
legends. He was 90 and had been ill for some time.
"It was one lap too many," his wife, Susie, told The Associated Press. "He just
closed his eyes."
Moss was a modern-day St. George, upholding the honor of England by often
driving
English cars, even though German and Italian ones were superior. Polls showed
he was
as popular as the queen.
Moss said courage and stupidity were pretty much synonymous, and may have
proved it
in a succession of spectacular accidents: seven times his wheels came off,
eight
times his brakes failed.
He was a racer, he insisted, not a driver.
"To race a car through a turn at maximum possible speed when there is a great
lawn to
all sides is difficult," he said in an interview with The New York Times
Magazine in
1961, "but to race a car at maximum speed through a turn when there is a brick
wall
on one side and a precipice on the other -- ah, that's an achievement!"
He raced for 14 years, won 212 of his 529 races in events that included Grand
Prix,
sports cars and long-distance rallying, in 107 different types of car. He set
the
Class F land speed record on the salt flats of Utah in 1957. He won more than
40
percent of the races he entered, including 16 Grand Prix.
For four consecutive years, 1955-58, he finished second in the world Grand Prix
championship. And in each of the next three years, he placed third.
"If Moss had put reason before passion," said Enzo Ferrari, "he would have been
world
champion many times."
He was called the best driver never to win the ultimate crown.
He came closest in 1958, but testified on behalf of another driver, Mike
Hawthorn,
who was accused of an infraction in the Portugal Grand Prix. Hawthorn, as a
result,
was not disqualified. When the season ended, Hawthorn had 42 points, which are
given
for factors like fastest lap as well as finishing position. Moss -- though he
had
four Grand Prix wins to Hawthorn's one -- finished second with 41 points.
Polls of other drivers invariably named Moss No. 1, but it was his brash,
puckish
persona that captivated the public. He only reluctantly wore the required
helmet,
always white, saying he preferred a cloth cap.
In 1955, he won the Italian Mille Miglia, a 992-mile road race, in 10 hours,
beating
the field by 31 minutes.
In 1958, he gambled to win the Argentine Grand Prix by not changing his tires
the
entire 80 laps, despite their having a design life of 40 laps.
In 1961, driving a four-cylinder Lotus, he fought off three six-cylinder
Ferraris to
win the Monaco Grand Prix.
In 1960, Moss won the United States Grand Prix five months after breaking both
legs
and his back at a Grand Prix race in Belgium.
A sinewy 5-foot-7, he favored short sleeves so he could get a suntan in his
open
cockpit. His seemingly casual slouch as he pushed howling machines to their
limits
was his signature. And his language elevated his sport almost to poetry.
Motion, he said, was tranquillity.
Why, he wondered, do people walk, since God gave them feet that fit automotive
pedals?
If people watch racing to witness the point where courage converges with
catastrophe,
Moss defined it.
In 1962 at the Goodwood Circuit racetrack in England's West Sussex County, a
plume of
fire shot from his Lotus 18/21 car. The crowd gasped. As Moss tried to pass
Graham
Hill, his car veered and slammed into an eight-foot-high earthen bank. It took
more
than a half-hour to free Moss from the wreckage.
His left eye and cheekbone were shattered, his left arm broken and his left leg
broken in two places. An X-ray revealed a far worse injury. The right side of
his
brain was detached from his skull. He was in a coma for 38 days, and paralyzed
on one
side of his body for six months. He remembered nothing of the disaster. He
considered hypnosis to recover the memory, but a psychiatrist said that might
cause
the paralysis to return.
When he left the hospital, he took all 11 nurses who had treated him to dinner,
followed by a trip to the theater.
A year later, he returned to Goodwood and pushed a Lotus to 145 m.p.h. on a wet
track.
He realized he was no longer unconsciously making the right moves. He said he
felt
like he had lost his page in a book.
Though he believed he remained a better driver than all but 10 or 12 in the
world,
that was not good enough. He retired at 33.
Moss was more than his talent. He was a beautiful name, one that still connotes
high
style a half-century after his crash, evoking an era of blazers and cravats, of
dance
bands and cigarette holders. One legend had him driving hundreds of miles in a
vain
effort to introduce himself to Miss Italy the night before a big race.
His 16 books cemented his legend. So for a couple of generations, British
traffic
cops sneeringly asked speeding motorists, "Who do you think you are, Stirling
Moss?"
(Moss, who had been knighted, was once asked that question, and answered, "Sir
Stirling, please.")
Moss said a name like Bill Smith just would not have done.
But what about Hamish, the old Scottish name his mother, Aileen, had proposed?
His
father, Alfred, deemed that ghastly.
The compromise was Stirling, the name of a town near his mother's family home.
Stirling Craufurd Moss was born in London on Sept. 17, 1929. Both his father
and
mother had raced cars, with his father having competed twice in the
Indianapolis 500,
finishing 16th in 1924, while studying dentistry in Indiana.
Stirling grew up excelling at horsemanship, but said he gave it up because
"horses
were hard to steer."
His passion was cars. As a boy, Stirling was allowed to sit on his father's lap
and
steer the family car. When he was 10 he begged for and received the present of
a very
old and dilapidated Austin. He made his own private racing circuit on the
family
farm.
At 18, he got his first driver's license and bought into a Cooper 500 racing
car,
winning 11 of the first 15 races he entered. Within two years, he was racing
across
Europe in numerous classes of cars.
In 1953, he became a full-time driver on the Grand Prix circuit, the sport's
big
league. His first Grand Prix vehicle was his own Maserati, not a machine from
the
respected Maserati stable.
In 1955, he joined the Mercedes-Benz team, led by his idol, Juan Manuel Fangio.
That
year, Moss became the first British driver to win the British Grand Prix,
edging out
Fangio by two-tenths of a second.
For years, Moss asked Fangio if he had lost on purpose. Fangio kept saying no.
In 1956, Moss again drove a Maserati, followed by two years with the British
Vanwall
team. He won nine of 23 events. From 1959 to 1961, he drove two British makes,
Cooper
and Lotus, and won half of the 54 events he entered in his last year of racing.
Moss's first two marriages ended in divorce. Besides his wife, Susie, he is
survived
by his son, Elliot; his daughter, Allison Bradley; and several grandchildren.
His
sister, Pat Moss Carlsson, one of the most successful female rally drivers of
all
time, died in 2008.
After his racing career, Moss made a tidy living selling his name and making
personal
appearances.
"Basically, I'm an international prostitute," he said.
He made successful real estate investments and returned to the track for
vintage car
meets. He puttered around London on a motor scooter.
Moss, the ultimate pro, once observed that there are no professionals at dying
--
although he had practiced. He was sure he was "a goner" after his steering
column
snapped at over 160 m.p.h. in a race in Monza, Italy, in 1958.
As he staggered away from the wreckage, he thought, "Well, if this is hell,
it's not
very hot, or if it's heaven, why is it so dusty?"
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