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cazzyf1 · 6 months ago

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Mon Ami Mate - The Tragic life of Britain's First Formula One World Champion

Cazzy F1's university dissertation ✨

Word Count: 8.4k

Predicted Reading time: 33 Minutes

Summary: A fictionally written account about the life of Britain's first formula one world champion, Mike Hawthorn, all based on facts and real-life events in Mike's life. Exploring his involvement in the le man's 55 incident, his friendship with Peter Collins and his winning year, 1958.

Follow-up essay exploring all the facts this piece is based on and where my sources are from - a recommended read to know more about Mike Hawthorn

TW: Description of driver and spectator's deaths in racing

"It's all my fault. It's my fault."

Mike Hawthorn’s voice cried out as he ran along the pit lane. He rubbed his hands down his face and glanced sharply around.

Wasn't this the jaguar pit? No. Where was he?

Chest heaving, he shook his head, trying to forget what he had glimpsed.

"What are you doing out of the car?"

Mike turned to see the steely face of Lofty England, Jaguar’s team manager for the Le Mans.

"You need to get back in. You've overshot our pits."

"I can't, Lofty, I can't," Mike wailed.

Lofty frowned, grabbed Mike’s arm and walked him back to his parked car. "I’ll get Ivor to take over the car when you pull in. But if you stop now, we are out of the race. Don’t let Jaguar down.”

Mike’s arms shook as he grasped the car's side and slowly lowered himself into the seat. Once positioned, a wave of familiarity and muscle memory washed over him. He focused on those feelings, of how natural it felt for him to be sitting in his car and let that push him around the next lap.

Avoid the other drivers and pick up the pace.

Then he saw the fire in the distance. He heard the people screaming.

Just keep driving to the pit. Just keep going, he told himself, focused on the road ahead instead of the upturned car in the stands and dead bodies leading up to the car. But he couldn’t help how his eyes flickered to it.

There are so many.

Along the side of the road, people put a sheet over the dead body of Pierre Levegh. A fellow driver racing for the Mercedes team. He was unmoving, twisted at an odd angle. Though Mike saw it briefly, it was ingrained in his mind. He tasted bitter in his mouth as he remembered last night when they had a drink.

“Oh god, what have I done,” Mike whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks as he pulled into the pit.

As he leapt out of the car, his teammate Ivor Bueb ran past and got into the car. They were still in the race, for now.

Mike looked around again, his chest tightened as he heard all the chaos. He spotted Lofty holding the timing sheet and marched over to him.

“I can’t carry on racing. I will throw it all in…I’m done.”

Lofty peered at Mike, taking in his haunted expression. Lofty’s face was stern, the tough years of fighting in the RAF hardening the man and his determination. Yet, as he looked at Mike's distraught face, which was still so young, his face softened. Lofty glanced around and saw Duncan Hamilton approaching, who had swapped with his teammate a few laps before.

“Chat with Hamilton, I need to watch for Ivor, but I’ll get you in two hours, okay Mike? Take care of yourself.”

Mike turned to his familiar friend Duncan, who had now reached him and placed his arm around Mike’s shoulder.

“Come, I don’t have long till I am back out again but sit down with me.”

They walked into the pits, trying to stay out of the eyes of the reporters and photographers.

“Duncan, what am I going to do? I did that, didn’t I? I-I don’t know what happened.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Mike. You had space to pull in and signalled you were coming in. I saw you. Macklin panicked and swerved out; I don’t think he knew Levegh was there.”

“But if I hadn’t of -”

Duncan grabbed Mike by the shoulders.

“There’s no use thinking about it. You will get yourself into a state. You weren’t at fault; many people can tell you who saw it firsthand.”

“I just…I can’t stop thinking about those three people I saw getting hit by the car. It’s awful, Duncan, and Levegh, God, he’s dead.”

“You need to drink something to help. Look, chap, I am needed soon; they are continuing the race. Try to calm down, okay. We can discuss this afterwards but find something to help calm the nerves for now.”

Duncan patted Mike on the shoulder and left to return to his pit. Mike sat there for a few minutes, but the event kept playing on his mind. Quickly, he left the pits and wandered around the back, coming across a familiar parked caravan.

As Mike knocked on the door, Rob Walker appeared. He gave Mike a slight nod, letting him into the caravan.

“You’ve heard?” Mike murmured as Rob observed his tense form.

“Come here, Mike, let me get you a brandy. You look like you need it,” he said slowly as he moved to grasp the flask he had stored away.

Mike stumbled into the caravan and collapsed onto the seat, feeling the day's weight pull him down. He covered his face with his hands and let out a sob as the images of the bodies flashed in his mind.

“It’s all my fault. I wanted to get into the pits before Fangio went by,” he whimpered.

“Now, don’t talk such nonsense,” Rob grunted as he slid the glass he had filled with brandy to Mike.

Mike didn’t hesitate to down his drink, needing anything to calm the emotions that flowed through him.

“Tell me exactly what happened,” Rob said.

Mike rubbed his hand along his face, trying to pull together all the memories in his mind to explain what happened.

“Well, Fangio and I were racing each other, and it was a cracking good race, but I needed to pit. To switch with Ivor. I indicated a lap before that I was going to, I swear. During that lap, though, I lapped Macklin and Levegh. I signalled again I was pulling into the pits, yet Macklin didn’t slow down. I must have pulled in too quickly. He swerved out to avoid me, only Levegh didn’t have time. He hit Macklin, and it made his car hit the crowds. Oh god, Rob, he’s dead; I saw him dead on the road, and there were so many other bodies from the spectators. They were supposed to be safe,” Mike ranted as his mind was filled with the horrible images.

“Here, get another one of these in you,” Rob said, pouring another brandy out for Mike.

“The way I see it, chap, is that Macklin is more to blame; he should have slowed down for you pulling in. Yet it was a racing accident. These things happen. What matters is that you are still here, aye,” Rob told Mike, trying to reassure him, but Mike shook his head.

“I can’t do this anymore. It’s too dangerous. I give it in,” Mike said determinedly.

Rob’s lips pressed into a grimace.

“Now, would you truly do that to your father, Mike? He gave everything for you to be a racing driver. He may not be around to see you win, but you would make him proud. You can’t give up now.”

“He died in his car a year ago. What if I go the same way?”

“You won’t. Do your father proud now, won’t you? Finish this race, win it for him,” Rob implored him.

Mike thought for a minute, and the memories of his father and everything they did together came to his mind. The ache of his loss stung Mike.

Eventually, the door cracked open, and Lofty England’s face appeared, ready to grab Mike.

“Prepared to go out again?”

“I’m not going to drive again, Lofty,” Mike said, avoiding eye contact. Nevertheless, Lofty’s eyebrows furrowed, and his jaw clenched.

“Oh yes, you are! You’re going to go out there and finish the race. It’s the only thing you can possibly do.”

So, it was decided for Mike.

Mike Hawthorn won the 1955 24-hour Le Mans with Ivor Beub. As he drove the victory lap, he felt like his father was cheering him. The crowds swarmed the car, cheering and taking photos. Ivor Beub joined him, sitting in the car to celebrate. Mike smiled and waved; the smile plastered on his face for the crowd. He drank the champagne offered to him, all for winning the Le Man’s, and he was glad to finally win such a race, but the knowledge of earlier devastation lingered in his mind. His smile strained, and the physical and mental exhaustion weighed on him.

As Mike collected his trophy, he saw the conflict on people's faces. As they congratulated him, he heard the hesitance in their voice. He was involved in the crash and had now won the race. Was that fair?

Mike sat on the chair, feeling uncomfortable in his best suit. The studio lights were on and shined, making him sweat from the heat. At least three cameras were on him. The only thing that made him feel slightly at ease was Lofty England at the side, reassuring him from a distance. Mike looked over to the BBC TV interviewer, Rudolf Whlenhaunt and nodded.

“Obviously, this is an unfortunate situation, and I am sorry to all the families who are grieving for the loss of their loved ones because of this accident,” Mike said to the camera as he clasped his hands in his lap tightly.

“Do you feel there is more you could have done to prevent this terrible accident?” Rudolf asked him.

Mike hesitated, trying to sort through his thoughts. He glanced over at Lofty England, who gave him a subtle nod.

“It was a dreadful accident, but I took every measure possible to drive safely.”

Rudolf nodded and flicked through his notes, deciding which question to ask next.

“Could you talk us through your versions of the events?”

“I had received a signal from my crew that soon I needed to come into the pits to refuel and hand over the car to Bueb. As I lapped Macklin, I judged the gap and felt I had adequate space to pull ahead and into the pits. I put my hand up, put the brakes on and pulled in. I was nearly there when I saw something fly through the air out of the corner of my eye. That was Levegh.”

“You’ve been quite controversial in the newspapers as of late, Mike; many of our British civilians aren’t happy at you avoiding your national service. What do you have to say about that?”

Mike swallowed down the rude remark he wanted to make. He was tired of having to justify not doing his national service. After all, Mike wanted to do it, though his father wanted him to focus on his racing and his other problem well.. he curled his fingers, and for a moment, he could feel the phantom pain from his kidney, but as soon as it came, it went.

“Well, it’s all relatively simple; I never received my papers when I was in Britain and when that chap in the House of Commons made a stink about it, I was called in. Of course, I went, yet I was suffering from severe burns from an accident and so was deemed unfit. Then, well, there was the other situation-”

“When your father died?” Rudolf interrupted.

“Yes,” Mike replied bitterly. “I wasn’t in any state then to serve, and still, I am not.”

“It’s true that a policeman came to your door on the day of your father’s funeral, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that was about another matter, though. I’m afraid I was rather rude to the man, and I apologise for that, but it was a tough day for me,” Mike admitted.

“Now, do you think you will continue to race after this? I am aware some countries want to cancel the hosted races, and even Mercedes have decided to stop racing.”

Mike glanced over to Lofty England, whose arms were crossed, staring at Mike. They held the gaze momentarily before Mike looked back at the camera.

“I plan to continue racing as long as I can. Of course, that will depend on how many countries are willing to continue hosting races; however, even then, I plan to continue with what racing I can, like Le Mans.”

Mike flicked through the newspaper, grimacing at the photos of the disaster. They now reckoned eighty people had died in the crash, and the photos didn’t shy away from showing the horrifying images of the people who were hit by the car.

Having had enough of it, Mike threw the paper onto the coffee table and leaned back in his seat. Next to him, Duncan Hamilton looked up from his newspaper and raised an eyebrow at Mike.

“The Germans and French want to blame me! I’ve been cleared of all faults. It was an accident. An awful incident but an accident indeed,” Mike ranted and ran his hands through his bright blonde hair.

“The newspapers will grow tired of the story eventually. When another accident happens or something in Hollywood. You know that, Mike,” Duncan replied, folding his newspaper and placing it down.

“I can’t stand to see those photos. Especially of poor Levengh,” Mike admitted, shuddering as he remembered the sight of Levengh lying dead on the road.

Mike hesitated, glancing at his close friend with whom he’d shared many fond memories.

“If I was to die in an accident, would you identify my body?” he asked quietly, glancing at Duncan. “My mother already despises such things after father’s death. I wouldn’t want her to go through that again,” Mike ranted, feeling his stomach knot as he glanced at the ceiling where his mother was upstairs tidying.

“Only if you do the same for me,” Duncan replied.

There was a silent moment of understanding between the two drivers before Mike stretched and stood up.

“I fancy a drink down the pub; might round up the usual lot. You coming, Duncan?”

It was 1958, and Mike yawned, feeling the jet lag from flying to Maranello a few hours before. He leaned back in his chair, nearly topping it over, earning a snigger from Peter Collins sitting beside him.

“You should have come over on the boat with me and Louise. You know the offer is always there,” Peter whispered to Mike, leaning in so the others couldn’t hear.

Mike watched Peter, the only other English man in the room, with a fond smile. Though they’d been in the same circle for a while, it had only been in the last few years that they had become close friends.

Not that it was just them.

Next to Peter, sulking in his seat with crossed arms, was Luigi Musso, the only Italian Ferrari driver currently on the team. Hot-headed and brash, he wasn’t a favourite of Mike’s. However, Mike didn’t envy him for the pressure he must have on all the Italians wishing him to win.

Everyone was quiet, listening to the Ferrari team leader, Romolo Tavoni, talking through Enzo Ferrari's letter for motivation for the new racing year.

Mike, who had been in and out of working with Ferrari for the last few years, was tired of Enzo’s games he would play like this and wasn’t paying attention. He turned back to Peter to answer him.

“I needed to quickly visit Mother at the garage before coming over. There would have been no time if I’d come on the boat. But I’ll take you up when we go over to Argentina. I could do with a few relaxing nights on the sea.”

“Do wish your mother well on mine and Louise’s behalf, won’t you? We have meant to come down to visit her and the garage.”

“She’ll be happy with that, yet frankly, I think she finds running the garage tough without father, even with Bill’s help. Though I’ve been considering moving to a cottage nearby with Jean when I propose to her.”

Peter smiled and sat up.

“Well, that’s terrific news. Louise and I have been thinking the same. We love the boat, and it’s a great way to travel, but Louise does want to settle at some point and have a house to call home.”

“I think perhaps not all of us are paying attention? This is an important message from the Commendatore,” an Italian voice broke through their conversation.

Luigi sat back straight, arms crossed, glaring at Peter and Mike. His posture was uptight, and a sneer was almost evident on his lips.

“Not all of us can charm him into accepting us as family,” Luigi added, his eyes fixated on Peter, who frowned.

“There’s no cost in kindness, Luigi. I was a good friend with Dino till he passed; I didn’t want to gain anything from that,” Peter bit back.

Romolo Tavoni regained control of the conversation again, and Luigi settled back in his seat, unwilling to go against Peter. Peter watched Luigi for a moment, then leaned closer to Mike.

“Not that Enzo is fond of me either now. He doesn’t like Louise. Disagrees with me settling down. I’m starting to grow bored of Enzo and his temperament.”

“We’ll stick with it this year, then see if we can find some other team next year; maybe one of the British teams will finally be good enough to compete with Ferrari,” Mike muttered as he turned his attention to Tavoni again.

Mike used the back of his hand to wipe away the sweat dripping off his forehead. The Argentinian heat was blistering. He had just finished his practice lap and now had one place in mind during his break. With all the breath he could muster, he jogged into the hotel and up the stairs till he arrived at Peter’s room. Knowing it wouldn’t be locked, Mike opened the door and walked in.

“You look like you’ve been through it, Michael!” Louise’s voice rang out.

Louise Collins was an American actress comparable to Marilyn Monroe. Peter and Louise had only known each other a few days before tying the knot, much to the dismay of Peter’s family. However, Mike admired their love and devotion towards each other. He enjoyed spending as much time with the pair as he could during the Grand Prix weekends.

“Where is Peter?” Mike asked Louise, greeting her by gently kissing the side of her head.

“I’ve just run him a bath; he’ll be getting in in a few minutes,” Louise said, watching Mike with surprise as he walked past her and into the bathroom.

Mike settled into the bath as he felt hot and sticky, sighing in delight as the cool water washed away his agitation. He had no concern about his clothes being soaked from the water.

Mike closed his eyes and relaxed into the water, and after a minute, he heard the door open.

“This was not the sight I expected for my bath,” a joyful voice called out. Mike peeked his eye open and smiled widely as he saw Peter before him, grinning at Mike.

“Sorry, old chap, but I desperately needed it,” Mike cheekily replied; however, Peter’s eyes twinkled.

“Mind, I might join you; I desperately need it!”

“He’s not kidding, Michael!” Louise called from the hotel living room.

“Right then!” Mike said, suddenly leaping up from the bath and spilling water everywhere.

Mike chased Peter around the hotel while Louise sat back, shaking her head and laughing at the two boys messing around.

Farnham was Mike’s home, and his favourite pub in the area was ‘The Barley Mow’. Whenever he was back in town, his friends would go with him for a few pints. They were at the bar, waiting for Mike to return and join them. Yet Mike felt frozen as he stared at the now blood-tinted urinal. When most of the blood had disappeared down the drain, Mike was able to avert his eyes, but the stabbing pain in his kidney lingered.

Nearly every bathroom trip would bring pain, but that didn’t make it any easier. Mike’s hands shook as he reached for the door handle, and he felt incredibly cold, but Mike plastered a smile on his face and walked back out to the bar to greet his friends.

He sat with them at the bar, joking and drinking, but Mike felt someone’s gaze lingering on his back. He glanced around and spotted an older man glaring at Mike with a scar on his cheek.

Mike nodded to the man, but he didn’t return it. He only glared at Mike.

Frowning, Mike turned away from the man and continued drinking the pint handed to him.

When they were finally ready to go, Mike got up from his seat and found the man standing between him and the doorway with his arms crossed.

“You’re that pillock what killed those people in France, ain't’ you.”

Mike grimaced as he felt the heat rise in his cheeks.

“That was an accident,” Mike bites back, but the man shook his head.

“Yeah, and you have been running away from your national service. I fought for this country and nearly gave my life for it just for bastards like you to run away. You ain’t nothing but a coward.”

Mike’s fingers curled into his palms, his nails digging into the skin of his hands. His arm etched to swing at the man’s face, to shout at him that it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t control this, but his friends had already stepped up to Mike, grasping his arm and trying to drag him out of the pub.

“Don’t listen to him, Mike; he’s a drunkard just wanting to start a fight. It’s not worth it.”

Mike let himself be guided out of the pub and into his car, trying to forget the man, but he could hear in the distance swearing and cussing Mike out.

Peter and Mike sat around the back of the pits; Mike puffed away at his pipe. He kept looking around at the public, glancing into the crowds of people turning up, scrutinising them.

“You need to stop worrying, Mike; it won’t do you any good at the race,” Peter said as he watched Mike visibly tense, thinking he spotted something.

“I can’t; she might bring him around here again. She did last year,” Mike muttered.

“That’s before you knew he was your son. And now you pay the support for him because you saw he was your son- “

“Dressed him up exactly like me, yes,” Mike muttered darkly, “It’s a good thing he wasn’t seen by many people, or they all would know I have a son. It’s not something I want broadcasting to the world.”

Mike sighed, pulled the pipe out of his mouth, and turned to look at Peter.

“That brings me to a question, chap. You are still up for pooling our winnings together, aren’t you? I know you are just as good at this circuit as I am. We can get first and second, and I could really use the money from this race to pay the child support,” Mike admitted.

“Of course, mon ami mate. You don’t need to ask. It’s our deal, and it will stay our deal,” Peter replied, putting his hand on Mike’s knee and shaking it.

“Now give me your pipe.”

Mike and Peter sat there chatting when their other teammate for the race, Luigi, approached them.

“Hello, Luigi,” Peter said as he saw Luigi's approach.

Luigi was pale. He was fidgeting with his hands, unable to properly look at Mike and Peter.

“I have a favour to ask of you two,” he admitted, his cheeks flushed as Mike raised an eyebrow at him.

“What is it, old bean?” Peter asked.

“I am determined to win today's race, but if I don’t…would you two please consider giving me the money you get from the race,” Luigi asked quietly. “I promise to pay you back! When I can, only for now, I need all the money I can get. It would do me a great favour; I won’t forget it.”

Mike and Peter glanced at each other in surprise and foreboding as Luigi continued to rant.

“That’s an awfully big favour to ask…” Peter said, trailing off.

Mike could tell Peter felt conflicted, but whatever problems Luigi had, he had his own that he needed to pay.

“I’m sorry, but we can’t. We need the money as much as you do,” Mike told Luigi, with Peter slowly nodding.

“Please, as friends, I really need it,” Luigi cried, clutching his hands and shaking them at Mike and Peter. Mike looked around, embarrassed, hoping no one would see Luigi in this emotional state.

“Can’t you ask Tavoni for an advance of your salary? Ferrari likes you; he might permit it,” Peter suggested.

Luigi's nostrils flared as he sneered at the two Englishmen.

“I won’t forget this,” he barked, storming off towards the Ferrari pits.

“Do you think that was the right thing to do?” Peter asked quietly, leaning back in his chair.

“It’s all we could do,” Mike replied, frowning.

The race was going well for Mike. He’d always had good luck at the French Grand Prix. He was in first place, with his teammate Luigi Musso close behind him. But Luigi’s driving was off. He was being reckless, swerving too sharply, trying everything to catch up on Mike.

Mike took the bend that was coming up fast, and he was able to pick up some pace on it. He glanced in his mirror to see how close Musso was to him but gasped as he saw Luigi’s car sidewards on the road, disappearing from Mike’s view in a cloud of smoke.

On the next lap, Mike tried to look at where Luigi had crashed, but he could only see a helicopter flying over the area. All Mike could do was press on and hope that Luigi got lucky and survived that crash.

Mike won the Grand Prix, and he got the money he needed. People crowded around him, trying to congratulate him, but Mike pushed past them, muttering a quick thanks as he approached the pits to find out about Luigi. As Mike entered the garage, all he could see were mournful faces. Peter was waiting there, and he could see Peter’s smile waver as he looked at him. He hugged Mike and patted him on the back, congratulating him.

“Luigi?” Mike said hesitantly.

“He’s gone to the hospital; it’s serious. Louise has got a car ready to take us there.”

Hastily, Mike, Peter and Louise rushed to the hospital in the car, desperate to hear any news about their teammate. Mike told them on the journey just how eccentrically Luigi had been racing. Neither he nor Peter mentioned anything from the conversation earlier.

When they reached the hospital, Ferrari team leader Romolo Tavoni was outside. His eyes were red and puffy, and in a flat voice, he told them that Luigi Musso had died.

“Shit,” Mike muttered, looking down at the ground, his lips twisted.

“He was racing like a madman, taking way too many risks. It was unlike him. Lost control of the car, went over the edge.” Mike added.

“Why was he driving like a lunatic on the road?” Peter asked Tavoli.

Tavoli opened his mouth and closed it again, searching for the right words.

“Luigi, he had…money problems. He owed a lot of money to people who were not too friendly. They had told him if he didn’t give them the money soon, they would…Well, you can understand why he was desperate.”

Peter swore under his breath, looking to the ground. Mike felt the blooming blossom of guilt spread through his chest as he remembered their conversation this morning.

“If he had told us why he needed the money, we could have…” Peter muttered quietly to Mike after Tavoli had left them.

Mike only shook his head, knowing what had happened weighing heavily on his shoulders.

“There’s nothing we can do now.”

Mike, Peter, and Louise were relaxing in a hotel room. It was practice day, and Mike and Peter were only needed occasionally, so every hour or so, they would stroll out of the room, go to the course, race a few laps and then come back to the hotel room and lie around.

Louise, who felt like she had to go to all of Pete’s races to ensure he would be okay, had been making them food and reading her book while Mike lay on their bed and watched the TV he was fascinated by. Peter played with a metal lock puzzle that Mike had gifted to him. There, they all sat in a comfortable silence.

Eventually, Louise excused herself to go on a little walk outside for some fresh air, leaving Mike and Peter to themselves. The TV program Mike was watching finished, so he switched it off, and Peter figured out the puzzle and placed it on the side.

“I think you might have it this year, Mike. I really do. Stirling is good, yet he just isn’t as consistent as you are,” Peter told Mike, leaning back in his chair and watching Mike.

“There’s still a few more races left; Stirling has plenty of chances to catch up in points. He nearly has, you know.”

Peter smiled and said, “Yeah, but he’s not you. Though there’s always next year.”

Mike felt a shudder race up his body as he thought of racing next year, and the phantom pain of his kidney started to ache again. Mike swallowed, feeling his skin pale. Peter, observant, picked up on Mike’s suddenly strained expression.

“Are you thinking of retiring? Surely not Mike. To leave me without my mon ami mate?” Peter said, leaning forward to try and read Mike’s facial expressions.

Mike refused to look at Peter. He pulled himself off the bed and started to pace around the room.

“No, it’s not that, Peter, it’s just… well, I might not have a choice, old chap.”

Peter’s face showed confusion as he watched Mike pace around anxiously.

“What do you mean?”

Mike could feel the words caught in his throat, admitting something he had only told a rare few about. Something he was trying to push to the back of his mind as much as he could.

“I have this…medical problem. My kidney,” Mike started to say.

“You’re chronic issue? But you said that only plays up occasionally.”

“You see, chap, I haven’t been entirely truthful. It’s a disease. I had one of my kidneys removed a few years ago, and now the other one has started to…well…you know. Some days, I feel so weak that it hurts to move, let alone race. And then there’s the blackouts. I pass out, briefly…without control.”

Mike finally stopped pacing. His throat choked up, and his eyes were cloudy with tears. He looked at Peter, whose lips parted, and his skin had become pale as he sat there wordless.

“I worry it could happen when I race. I don’t want to give up the sport, but the doctors say I only have a few years left. Why gamble away what precious life I have remaining? At least, that’s what they think. Well, you know what I think, sod that and live what little life I have left to the full. Still…if I don’t win the Championship this year, I doubt I’ll be able to win it again.”

Silence broke out in the hotel room. Mike was too anxious to say anymore, and Peter was too distraught by finding out his friend's perilous situation. After a few minutes, Peter slowly stood up and moved from his seat over to Mike, who clutched his shaking hands. Peter wrapped his arm around Mike’s shoulder and pulled him close to hug him.

“Mike, I’ll do everything possible to get you this world championship. You deserve it.”

Mike felt his cheeks heat up, and he shook his head.

“If you played your cards right, you could have a chance. You don’t need to go out of your way to help me.”

“I’ve got plenty of years to win a world championship. If you will be leaving soon, I am getting you yours, and there is no arguing about it, old bean.”

“Well then, I am sure to win!” Mike said, trying to laugh and smile for Peter. “Now that sounds like something to toast; how about a beer from the bar?”

“Couldn’t have put it better myself!”

Mike’s mouth curved into a smile as he watched Peter sleep.

‘He is the one that won’t die,’ Mike thought as he observed Peter's peaceful appearance.

Mike had woken up and naturally gone straight to Peter’s and Louise’s room. Louise had told him Peter was still asleep and joked that Mike should be the one to wake him up. This happened when Peter’s eyes slowly opened, and then he shot up in bed and swore at Mike, realising he had been watching him sleep. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he grinned at Peter’s reaction.

“Come on. It’s a nice bright morning and time for you to get up!”

Groaning, Peter got up, put on his dressing gown, and then collapsed back into his bed again as he worked on another one of his puzzles. Shaking his head at Peter, Mike grinned and then sat down on the bed to relax.

Mike and Peter called for breakfast, which Louise kindly brought them, and then lunch later as they lazed around. A few other drivers came in and out, offering help to Peter on his puzzle, but he turned them all down. He was determined to finish this himself.

Mike had long since given up trying to figure out any of the puzzles Peter randomly had.

Just before they were due to go down to the German Grand Prix, Peter suddenly shouted,

“I’ve done it!”

“Jolly good! If I take it to bits, do you think I could do it?” Louise asked, but Peter’s eyes bulged.

“Don’t touch it! I’ve done it, and it can stay like that so I can show everybody!” Peter stated as he stood up and proudly placed the puzzle on the hotel closet top, only for Mike to grab it straight off.

“Why don’t I have a go at it?” Mike joked, holding it high enough with his arms that Peter struggled to grasp it back. He laughed briefly at Peter before finally returning it to him.

“Come on, you better get into your racing gear and join me as I head down. The sooner we get this German race over with, the better,” Mike said, zipping up his British green bomber jacket.

It wasn’t long until they were in their cars, racing around the dangerous German tracks. Though every race brought its own sense of danger, the German track, the Nürburgring, was one of the worst. The rough corners could send someone flying or crashing through the trees next to the track, and it was hard for marshals to reach points of the track.

Mike could see Peter ahead of him, and ahead of Peter was Tony Brooks, Stirling Moss’s teammate at Vanwall. If Tony could keep Mike and Peter behind him, Stirling would have a chance to become world champion.

Mike was waiting for Peter to try to catch up to Tony and overtake, but Peter had not managed it. Instead, he kept driving on the edge of the track, waiting for Mike to overtake, yet Mike wasn’t close to overtaking. And so, they carry on in this line until they reach a corner of the Nürburgring.

Mike watched Peter peacefully enjoying this race. They reached a turn in the track, and Mike’s eyes widened slightly as he saw Peter’s wheels go off the track and onto the grass.

Silly of him

But then he felt his heart clench as Peter’s car turned and flipped over from hitting the grass side of the track. In horror, Mike watched as the car tumbled, and Peter was thrown from the car and landed out of Mike’s eyesight.

Everything played in slow motion.

Mike slammed on the brakes as fast as he could and pulled to the side of the track. He was hyperventilating, unable to breathe as the image of Peter’s body falling from the car repeated over and over in his mind. Mike tried to look back, hoping against hope he would see Peter standing there waving at him, but all he could see was a cloud of smoke and dust.

What should I do? Do I go on? I can’t leave Peter here. This is serious. But what use am I now? Maybe I should go to the pits and see if they know anything by then. No, that will worry Louise.

Mike started driving again, deciding to do another lap and then go into the pits for information. He was of no use to Peter like this. He was still breathing hard, and his hands clutched the wheel of his Ferrari tightly. He didn’t care if he lost. He needed to know how Peter was. Nothing else went through his mind as he drove around automatically.

Only a few miles from the pit, Mike’s car started to give up. He managed to park the car near where some marshals were and a telephone to the pits was. Mike ran over to the Marshalls desperately.

“Can you call the pits? I need to know how my teammate is. He was in a crash.”

A sick feeling rose in his throat as he paced, unable to keep still as they awaited news.

At long last, a response came back from the pits. Peter was alright, a bit bruised, but alright.

Relief washed through Mike at their words. Now, though, was the trouble of getting back to the pits.

After a while, a German offered Mike a lift in his car, and as they were driving back, they went past the accident scene. Mike implored the driver to stop, and he got out where Peter had crashed.

His car, helmet, glove, and shoe were still there, upside down. Mike picked up the helmet and inspected it. There was a pierced hole in it, but no blood.

He then decided to enquire to the Germans about what had happened, and dread filled his body as they started to describe the awful accident and how badly Peter was hurt. Then another one interrupted them, saying it was rubbish and that Peter was okay, that he had gone to the hospital with a broken arm.

However, his worry for Peter was all renewed in Mike again, and he wanted to see Peter as soon as possible.

When he arrived at the pits, he was told that Louise and Travoni had already left for the hospital. There was nothing he could do but wait around, anxious to hear any news. Mike had flown to the race, so he had no car to drive there; luckily, a friend, Harry Schell, appeared and offered Mike a lift.

Swiftly, Mike packed his belongings and Peter and Louise’s belongings into the Mercedes car.

A friend, Seidle and his wife were sitting by their car in the courtyard when Mike and Harry pulled up to the hospital.

“How’s Peter?” Mike asked, desperate.

“Peter is dead.”

Mike’s heart dropped. Ice pierced it and froze his skin as the blood drained from his face. The world crumbled around him, and he couldn’t quite believe it. Peter couldn’t be dead. They had said he was fine. It was a broken arm.

Without thinking, Mike rushed into the hospital, which was already full of reporters. They turned to stare but then parted, letting Mike through.

There, he saw Travoni and Louise. Travoni was doing his best to comfort Louise as she sobbed, her heartbreaking cries echoing off the walls. Mike’s eyes met Louise's, and in that moment, the enormity of what happened crashed down on him. Peter was gone.

Mike spoke to Louise and reassured her before going to see Peter himself.

Needing to see Peter.

When he reached the room, his body screamed to turn around, yet the Doctor opened the door, and Mike followed him. There, the body lay with a white cloth pulled over it. Slowly, Mike approached and watched the Doctor pull the sheet down, showing Peter’s face.

He looked peaceful, asleep like he had earlier that day when Mike had woken him up. Mike wanted to shake Peter and tell him to wake up again, to stop scaring everyone like that, but he knew he couldn’t. That sickly feeling tightened Mike’s throat, and he ran out of the room so that he wouldn’t throw up.

In the hallway, he collapsed against the wall. He felt weak, unable to hold himself up any longer. Mike slipped to the floor, and the tears freely sprung out of his eyes. His sobs echoed. He held his shaking hand to his mouth, but even that couldn’t hide the sound of his heartbreaking cries. Mike was vaguely aware Tavoni was watching him; however, he didn’t care to hide his emotions anymore. He had lost one of the people that mattered most to him. He mourned the loss of his best friend, of his mon ami mate.

The plane finally arrived at Heathrow, and though he was back in England, Mike didn’t want to move from his seat. Louise sat beside him, a scarf pulled over her hair, sunglasses covering her eyes, and she held a handkerchief to her mouth, trying to hide the sounds of her sniffs from crying. She didn’t want to move either.

But they knew they had to leave. They had to face the reality of Peter’s death. It was only a few days now till the funeral.

They were the last to leave the plane, hoping the press would have given up and left. But the journalists had been waiting for a moment to pounce, to get an exclusive interview with Mike on how his best friend died.

Knowing this harassment wouldn’t stop until he said something, and knowing Louise didn’t deserve to be harassed, Mike stopped to give a small interview while Louise could quickly hurry to the car arranged to pick them up.

“I am taking a few days off, and I am taking Louise back to Peter’s parents,” Mike told them, trying to stifle the tears.

Of course, they asked him about the crash, and though Mike didn’t want to remember any of it, in fear of breaking down, he felt he owed it to at least explain his side of it. He tried to fight back the tears but knew he was reaching his breaking point.

“There was a little dip, and Peter went into that; then a sharp right-hand bend. He took it a little too wide and didn’t turn into it soon enough. His car hit the bank and turned over. I don’t know what speed he was going at. I think Peter wanted me to overtake him so I could take the lead, but I was trying to hold back so we could catch up with Stirling's teammate, Tony Brooks.” Mike told them, feeling his throat start to choke up. He clutched his hands together, wringing them to try and calm himself down, but it wasn’t working.

“As a driver, he was definitely one of the best, and as a friend – well, he was my friend. He always put others before himself, and you could always rely on him, especially for a laugh. It’s a bit darker without him.” Mike added on. He tried to concentrate, but his chin wobbled, and he could feel the tears slipping down his cheeks as he stared into the distance.

He could hardly speak. Mike pulled out a handkerchief and held it to his mouth to keep the sobs in as microphones were thrust in front of him.

“Will you race again?” a journalist asked.

“If Ferrari wants me to, I will. I am due to race in the Portuguese Grand Prix in two weeks, but personally, I am not very interested.”

Mike shook his head and used the handkerchief to rub some of the tears on his cheek away.

“Dam silly of me,” he muttered, nodding at the journalists to signal he was done giving an interview.

“So sorry,” he whispered as he walked down the corridor to where Louise Collins was waiting. She took his hand and led him to the car she had found where they could quickly escape.

Mike stood on the winner's podium, a smile pulling at his tight lips as he accepted the world champion trophy. Everyone cheered and shouted at him, but inside, Mike couldn’t find the joy he was supposed to. He was proud, indeed, the first British world champion. He had proved himself, yet Mike felt exhausted. He was tired of the pain from his kidney, of the mental exhaustion of racing, tired of the constant tension and fear, and lonely because he knew there was an empty spot for someone who should be celebrating with him.

“Well done, Mike,” a light voice beside him said, and Mike turned to his world champion runner-up, Stirling Moss. Stirling looked exhausted too, the bald spot on his head already growing, his face marked with dirt; only where he had worn the goggles was clean.

Stirling was close to beating Mike to become Britain’s first world champion. However, he had shown Mike excellent sportsmanship behaviour by defending Mike at the last Grand Prix when he was being investigated by the FIA for potentially breaking the rules. If Stirling hadn’t gone to explain the situation and how Mike hadn’t broken the rules, he would be standing in Mike’s place now; however, like Peter, Stirling was a gentleman.

Romolo Tavoni came running up to Mike to help him hold the trophy.

“Ferrari called, and he offered his congratulations. Let's repeat this next year!”

“I’m not going to race next year.”

Mike said it without thinking, a frown pulling at his lips. But he was right. He wasn’t going to race next year. He had been debating it for a while, yet at this moment, he knew he had made up his mind. With his kidney issues, losing his best friend, and losing half of his team in this Championship, he didn’t want to continue racing. It was all too much. He had won his world championship, and that was all he needed. Now he could retire, run his dad’s garage, publish those children’s books he had started writing and maybe do some commentary. He could do lots with all the time he had left now that he was leaving the sport behind.

Tavoni only laughed at Mike’s remark. He didn’t believe that Mike was genuinely quitting. Or maybe he didn’t quite want to believe, knowing Ferrari’s reaction to the news.

Everyone wanted to celebrate with Mike, and he wouldn’t disappoint them. His fiancé, Jean Howard, ran up to Mike to hug and kiss him. She was telling him all the celebrations she had planned. He would try to enjoy all the parties and drink as much as he could now. But there was one thing he needed to do first before all else.

A telegram to Miss Louise Collins.

We have done it Mon Ami Matesses. Will write soon. Love Mon Ami Mate.

Michael.

Mike felt awful. He had woken up in a sweat; the pain of his kidney was worse today. All he wanted to do was lie in bed. But a promise was a promise, and he had told Louise he would drive up to London to see her. She had finally finished the theatre production she had rushed off to do after Peter’s death. Her way of distracting herself from the grief. Now they had agreed to meet to talk about everything that had happened since, to recount old times, and help sort through everything she owned of Peter’s. Mike knew he had to help her.

Before his main journey to London, Mike stopped into one of his main pub’s and found Duncan Hamilton sitting at the bar.

“Well, if it isn’t his royal highness,” Duncan joked, raising a glass to Mike who chuckled. A month ago, Mike had been invited to dine with the royal family, and he hadn’t stopped talking about it.

“Hello Duncan, can’t stop for long I’m afraid, off to London.”

“In this weather?”

“This is nothing! You know that, Duncan.”

Mike stayed for a drink then bid Duncan farewell as he was staying on at the pub to avoid the rain, but Mike needed to leave to see Louise.

He got into his pride and joy, his Jaguar car, and started driving down the Farnham roads to Guildford. The rain was awful, but it was nothing compared to some of the conditions he had to race in before.

A Mercedes car passed him while driving along the Hog’s Back. Glancing in annoyance, Mike noticed Rob Walker's familiar face in the car.

A brief memory flickered in his mind of Le Man’s, but he pushed it aside.

Determination gripped him.

I will show him the Jaguar, which is clearly a better car.

Even in the rain, Mike overtook Rob Walker’s Mercedes with ease. Rob pushed down on the accelerator, yet so did Mike. As it rained, they raced down the road, and Mike smiled to himself, enjoying the moment.

But his side was aching. He felt his heart constricting as he bit his lip, the pain increasing. In his vision, he could see a truck approaching on the other side of the road. As he tried to lighten his foot on the accelerator, his vision grew dark, and with the pain being too much, he passed out.

Rob watched in shock as Mike’s car suddenly swerved on the road before him. The car clipped a truck driving on the other side of the road and shot off into the thicket.

“What a silly fool!” Rob muttered and pulled over.

He ran up to the mangled car, which appeared torn in two. Rob was ready to tell Mike off for driving so recklessly, but as he opened the front door, he realised Mike was no longer in the front seat.

Pulling the back door open, Rob found Mike lying across the back seats as if he had been sleeping on them. A trickle of blood ran down his head, and Rob watched in shock as Mike gasped lightly and slowly, his eyes glazed over.

Only a few months after winning, the British World Champion was dead.

#classic f1 #f1 #formula one #formula 1 #vintage f1 #mike hawthorn #peter collins #luigi musso #rob walker #duncan hamilton #le mans

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