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i get around Dick Badler
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HighGear
Walking in the
Shadow of Giants
Who strikes awe in
your heart? Who, still
treading this earth,
would make you stop
in your tracks, in rapt reverence?
Not many. We’ve become so jaded.
It seems like every qualifier for “bigger
than life” gets pulled down, inevitably,
inexorably. Actors. Artists. Athletes.
Authors. It doesn’t matter. There always
seems to be some “tell all” report or
commentary or leak. Out it comes and,
pop, the bubble’s burst.
Not when it comes to Stirling Moss.
He’s the greatest driver still living.
Yes? You agree?
I think that would make a great barroom
discussion at, say, Daytona, or
Le Mans, or Indy, or Silverstone. But
at least it wouldn’t be pock-marked by
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November 2011
half-baked innuendo.
When it
comes to Stirling,
it seems like it’s
all out there.
Here’s Exhibit A:
The Brit magazine
Octane, whose
subhead reads
“Fueling the passion,”
interviews
Moss in its Nov.
2011 issue, on
newsstands now.
On the table of
contents, the
listing says, “At home with the world’s
most famous racing driver.” The writer,
racing columnist Tony Dron, starts by
saying, “(He’s) so well known that I’m
determined to use my allotted hour to
fill some odd little gaps in the story...”
He does, with questions like, “His first
accident, when the back tire let go on
his Morgan three-wheeler. What really
happened?” And, “Driving the BRM V16
in 1952 at Dundrod... what was it really
like to grapple with the thing in Ulster,
59 years ago?” And, “At the 1954 Silverstone
Production Touring Cars race,
Stirling was delayed at the start when
the Jaguar MkVII’s engine apparently
would not start. Was that deliberate?”
Can you imagine? I can’t imagine
what I had for dinner last night, and I
don’t know anyone who would care.
This is all leading up to the fact that
I met him. No, not quite. But I was not
more than five feet from him, and his
lovely wife Lady Susie, at the Santa Fe
Concorso this past September. Apparently,
Mercedes-Benz flew them in for
the event, along with a 2012 MB SLS
AMG Roadster.
Here’s what happened.
My wife and I were salivating at a perfect
300 SL roadster, a 356 Speedster,
Ralph Lauren’s McLaren F1, a Chaparral
2E and a Lotus 79/1 “John Player
Special” when up sped a silver golf cart,
with the number 722 taped, in red, on
the sides and nose. I know, nice touch.
Stirling was behind the wheel. He
hopped out and strode over to a guy
standing beside a sky-blue Lotus Elite.
An original 1961 Lotus Elite, which he
actually drove to Santa Fe from Tucson.
The Lotus owner and Stirling spoke
for about five minutes. Then he started
hopping around the car, poking here,
gesturing there. And, just as fast as he
had showed up, Stirling was back in
the golf cart, Susie leaping on, just in
time, to speed off to another vehicle of
interest.
The owner of the Elite came up to me.
He stated, “Stirling said he had an Elite,
back in the day.“
Really.
“Yes, he said it was a terrible car. Terrible.”
How do you feel about that?
He shook his head. “I don’t care. My
car is an original Lotus. It’s going up in
value. I drove it here from Tucson. And I
spoke about it with Stirling Moss.”
This guy, if he ever writes an autobiography
or gets interviewed for a car
magazine—to his dying day—he will
mention his interaction with the greatest
racing driver still living. He’s probably
telling all his friends, right now.
But Stirling probably forgot what he
said, as soon as he slid that golf cart
right up to the owner of another interesting
vehicle at the Concorso.
I was going to introduce myself and
ask Stirling how the Porsche RSK he
bought recently at auction was running.
But I never had a chance. Before I
knew it, he was completely gone. Gone
to that place where idols, where living
legends, where the giants who walk this
earth, go.
The VIP tent.
Makes for a great story.