dramatically into perspective.
Helli Cunzer, Sabatino’s teammate, was out on a hot lap. Something wasn’t quite right. The car was yawing noticeably under braking.
Straker quickly switched one of the screens over to watch the feed from Cunzer’s Ptarmigan. Down into Mirabeau, the German clearly locked-up his front left, sending a plume of blue smoke into the air. Round Loews, he could be seen jabbing at the brakes again, and flat spotting the front right.
Through Portier, TV viewers could see the car’s rear end step out and Cunzer snatching at the wheel, trying to keep the car from hitting the wall. He was clearly having a torrid time of it.
Under the Fairmont Hotel tunnel, the car finally seemed to settle. Cunzer wound the Ptarmigan up through fourth, fifth and sixth gears. Except that, as his speed increased round the long right-hander, he found himself wafting to the outside of the corner.
From the relative darkness of the tunnel, he was soon back out in the glare of the Mediterranean sun.
Was he momentarily blinded? Did he blink? Did he squint?
Did he take his eyes off the game – even for a moment?
No one knew for certain. Hurtling down the slope by the harbour wall towards the Chicane, though, the car suddenly jinked.
Badly.
The back end stepped violently out to the left.
Unweighted by the crest of the road there? Who knew?
Cunzer, himself, had no time to think about the cause.
Right then, all he could think about was one thing.
Survival.
As a reflex, the driver snapped the wheel the same way, to correct the slew. But too much. By now, though, the car was on the marbles – the small spheres of cooled molten rubber thrown off the tyres of the other cars and littering the edges of the circuit. On this dirty part of the track, the car became almost unsteerable.
Worse, the unweighting of the car had disturbed the natural airflow under the front wing. And, with the attitude of the car, its aerodynamics were not working. Air seemed to be getting underneath it. Instead of downforce, the wing started to generate lift – to fly. The car was soon imitating a blown piece of paper skimming across the surface of a table. Cunzer’s car was starting to hover. Ground effect. Doing one hundred and eighty miles an hour in a confined space, surrounded by steel Armco barriers – he was completely out of control.
The world watched on in horror. The car skimmed on down the hill towards the Chicane, still not responding to any controls.
Its left rear hammered the barrier. Bits of the car exploded outwards. That collision saw the car bounce off, veering out to the right and back down the middle of the track. Viewers watched aghast as Cunzer’s head whiplashed like a rag doll in the impact despite the restraint from the tethers of his HANS – Head And Neck Support – device.
Even after that ricochet off the barriers, the car was still travelling at over one hundred and fifty miles an hour. There was an ear-splitting crack and wrench as the car passed over the raised kerbs of the Chicane, ripping off parts of the undertray. That jolt also broke the suspension in the front right, causing its wheel to collapse inwards. Sparks scattered in all directions as the resultant lower ride height brought other components into contact with the road making it easier for them to be wrenched from the bodywork – bargeboards, the front wing, and fancy aerodynamic trimmings like fins and blades.
Everyone held their breath. Eyes flicked from the car and then on down the track and back again, it being all too easy to plot Cunzer’s likely trajectory.
The outcome was all too obvious.
It was too horrible to watch.
But impossible to turn away from.
Cunzer was heading for the end of the solid, bewalled and tree-lined island that was the central reservation of the road normally used as the Avenue Président J. F. Kennedy. A tyre wall had been constructed for the race to soften the sharp point of this island in the road. A car
Helli Cunzer, Sabatino’s teammate, was out on a hot lap. Something wasn’t quite right. The car was yawing noticeably under braking.
Straker quickly switched one of the screens over to watch the feed from Cunzer’s Ptarmigan. Down into Mirabeau, the German clearly locked-up his front left, sending a plume of blue smoke into the air. Round Loews, he could be seen jabbing at the brakes again, and flat spotting the front right.
Through Portier, TV viewers could see the car’s rear end step out and Cunzer snatching at the wheel, trying to keep the car from hitting the wall. He was clearly having a torrid time of it.
Under the Fairmont Hotel tunnel, the car finally seemed to settle. Cunzer wound the Ptarmigan up through fourth, fifth and sixth gears. Except that, as his speed increased round the long right-hander, he found himself wafting to the outside of the corner.
From the relative darkness of the tunnel, he was soon back out in the glare of the Mediterranean sun.
Was he momentarily blinded? Did he blink? Did he squint?
Did he take his eyes off the game – even for a moment?
No one knew for certain. Hurtling down the slope by the harbour wall towards the Chicane, though, the car suddenly jinked.
Badly.
The back end stepped violently out to the left.
Unweighted by the crest of the road there? Who knew?
Cunzer, himself, had no time to think about the cause.
Right then, all he could think about was one thing.
Survival.
As a reflex, the driver snapped the wheel the same way, to correct the slew. But too much. By now, though, the car was on the marbles – the small spheres of cooled molten rubber thrown off the tyres of the other cars and littering the edges of the circuit. On this dirty part of the track, the car became almost unsteerable.
Worse, the unweighting of the car had disturbed the natural airflow under the front wing. And, with the attitude of the car, its aerodynamics were not working. Air seemed to be getting underneath it. Instead of downforce, the wing started to generate lift – to fly. The car was soon imitating a blown piece of paper skimming across the surface of a table. Cunzer’s car was starting to hover. Ground effect. Doing one hundred and eighty miles an hour in a confined space, surrounded by steel Armco barriers – he was completely out of control.
The world watched on in horror. The car skimmed on down the hill towards the Chicane, still not responding to any controls.
Its left rear hammered the barrier. Bits of the car exploded outwards. That collision saw the car bounce off, veering out to the right and back down the middle of the track. Viewers watched aghast as Cunzer’s head whiplashed like a rag doll in the impact despite the restraint from the tethers of his HANS – Head And Neck Support – device.
Even after that ricochet off the barriers, the car was still travelling at over one hundred and fifty miles an hour. There was an ear-splitting crack and wrench as the car passed over the raised kerbs of the Chicane, ripping off parts of the undertray. That jolt also broke the suspension in the front right, causing its wheel to collapse inwards. Sparks scattered in all directions as the resultant lower ride height brought other components into contact with the road making it easier for them to be wrenched from the bodywork – bargeboards, the front wing, and fancy aerodynamic trimmings like fins and blades.
Everyone held their breath. Eyes flicked from the car and then on down the track and back again, it being all too easy to plot Cunzer’s likely trajectory.
The outcome was all too obvious.
It was too horrible to watch.
But impossible to turn away from.
Cunzer was heading for the end of the solid, bewalled and tree-lined island that was the central reservation of the road normally used as the Avenue Président J. F. Kennedy. A tyre wall had been constructed for the race to soften the sharp point of this island in the road. A car
Similar Books
