Pironi

by David Sedgwick

  Reflecting on the race a day, later Gilles’ fury was still obvious. He recalled the moment he had taken back the lead on the penultimate lap: ‘I was really persuaded that we were going to stop there, but no. He came back at the last moment when I was not looking at my rear-view mirror.’ When the Canadian declared his intention never to speak to his partner again, the press went into meltdown. The French driver had cheated his unsuspecting team-mate out of certain victory. It’s war!

  Didier’s take was, as might be expected, far more circumspect. Expressing his surprise at his team-mate’s fury, he went on to mention certain problems that had afflicted the 126C2’s turbo boost pressures, adding, ‘I understand his bitterness. Back home, I watched several times the running of this race and everything seems normal. To say that I made a few dangerous attacks, that I did not meet certain guidelines ... I did not; Gilles has no reason to hate me, except that I finished ahead of him.’

  Villeneuve, meanwhile, described how his partner had ‘stolen’ his victory. Worse, he went on to outline what he termed the team’s – specifically Piccinini’s – ‘endorsement’ of Didier’s actions. From his home in Monte Carlo where he had immediately retreated, he also brought up the subject of team orders, a perennially thorny issue in the sport of Formula 1. Gilles reminded the media how once upon a time he had ‘obeyed’ team orders himself. Had the press forgotten about the 1979 Italian Grand Prix in which he had dutifully sat behind his team-mate of the time Jody Scheckter? Here was an example of how a junior team-mate should behave, respectfully, obediently. On one level, it was a seductive argument: Gilles had indeed followed team orders that day to follow Jody home for a Ferrari 1-2. That much was true. However, there was the small question of context. At Monza 1979, victory for the South African would bring him the world championship and team orders – explicit orders – ensured that title. As of Imola 1982, Ferrari had acquired a grand total of just one point. The two situations were poles apart.

  ‘I want to clarify immediately,’ Didier went on to tell his Auto Hebdo readers, ‘that no team orders dictated our efforts. At Ferrari, this kind of “recommendation” does not exist, except in special cases.’ Monza 1979 was just the kind of ‘special’ case to which he was referring. Nonetheless, the media had a story. They also had a hero (Villeneuve) and a villain (Pironi). Further, some of the most prominent chroniclers of the race just happened to be (self-avowed) confidants of the French Canadian driver and could thus hardly be described as impartial. No matter. In the days, months and years since those remarkable events in the Italian principality, the views and opinions of a small band of partisan journalists have carried unquestionable authority. A passage from the respected motor racing journalist Christopher Hilton, writing decades after the event, typifies the ‘official’ version of events. The excerpt comes from a chapter tellingly entitled ‘A Man Betrayed …’

  ‘In his innocence Villeneuve imagined that, with only seven cars circulating… Pironi had decided to put on a show for the crowd. They’d duel. The crowd would love it but Pironi would pull over and let Villeneuve into the lead, obeying the tradition. It never crossed Villeneuve’s thinking that Pironi would do anything else…’38

  The use of emotive language such as ‘innocence’ and loaded phrases such as ‘obeying tradition’ and ‘it never crossed Villeneuve’s thinking’ are fairly typical examples of the type of language used in the good v bad guy narrative perpetuated in the mainstream press.

  In an effort to quell the furore which followed, Enzo Ferrari sought an interview with his drivers. Legend has it that after pressuring his wayward ‘sons’ into a perfunctory handshake, ‘Il Vechio’ spoke individually with the boys, assuring each one in turn he had acted with perfect decorum! To Mr Ferrari, what mattered most was that his cars had won, that Ferrari the constructor had triumphed.

  Nevertheless, Maranello issued a statement 48 hours after the race in which it appeared the team sided with Villeneuve, but in which great pains were taken not to chastise Didier. Diplomacy, Ferrari style.

  Opinion amongst their fellow drivers was also ambiguous. While agreeing team orders should be observed, there was also sympathy for the plight of a driver – any driver – forced to comply with a directive that ran counter to every competitive instinct. Ex-Ferrari F1 pilot and media pundit Andrea de Adamich summarises the paradox thus:

  ‘When you are a racing driver fighting for a world championship and victories in general, against your team-mate and number one competitor and you see him in technical difficulties, it will be very difficult – nearly impossible – to respect an “order” to oblige you to slow down to remain behind him. Your brain is thinking: “If his car is in trouble maybe it’s because he has driven it badly and now my car is performing better because I have driven it sympathetically – then why should I remain behind? No way!”’

  De Adamich is alluding to the suggestion that during the closing stages of the race, Gilles’ car may have been compromised in some way – a theory the Canadian was quick to dismiss. As interesting as this driver’s perspective is, it is offered in the context where team orders exist. At Imola, there were no such orders. His comments regarding the psychological aspect are perhaps more revealing. San Marino was not the first and would not be the last time the question of team orders had raised its contentious head in recent times. One year previously, Carlos Reutemann had ignored Williams’ orders to let his team-mate Alan Jones take the lead in the Brazilian Grand Prix. Rene Arnoux would do much the same when refusing to allow Alain Prost to take victory at the French GP later that summer. In both examples cited however, orders had been explicit – a major departure from Imola.

  In the midst of this acrimony, the last thing Didier could have done with were complications in his private life. This, however, was 1982. Nothing could be taken for granted in this tumultuous year, in public nor private spheres. Just a few days prior to the race, Didier and Catherine had arrived at Imola’s Hotel Olympia as F1’s golden couple, smiling, holding hands. During the race, Mrs Pironi had shouted herself hoarse cheering her man on to victory. Also cutting a stunning figure in the Imola paddock that weekend was another gorgeous blonde, Eleonora Vallone, daughter of the celebrated Italian actor, Rafe. Voluptuous and brimming with youth and sensuality, this model-cum-journalist had naturally already caught Didier’s eye. The pair had been photographed together at the previous year’s race. Though hardly a secret in Ferrari circles, Didier and this bewitching young woman had been involved in some sort of on-off relationship since the start of his Ferrari career, possibly even earlier. In the aftermath of the race, rumours circulated that Didier and Eleonora had been spotted at the Royal Hotel Finni, Modena, to where they had fled, emerging a few days later when the fallout from the race had subsided.

  Other reports suggested post-race, he had returned home to Geneva to seek sanctuary from a media intent on milking the story for all it was worth. Whether he did stay on at Imola en route home is impossible to say. Eleonora herself does not recall the specific episode, though she clearly remembers her affection for the Ferrari star: ‘Didier was a very special man, maybe he could have even been the love of my life. He was the most caring, the gentlest lover I have ever known in my life.’ Still a very beautiful woman in her late fifties, Vallone has carved out a niche in the aqua-aerobics industry. Much time has passed, but she fondly recalls her time with Didier. ‘We used to have candlelit dinners together while Villeneuve played the piano!’ she laughs. ‘As you can imagine it was very intimate!’ High-speed police chases and romantic threesomes – prior to Imola, Gilles and Didier had been the best of friends, sharing not only danger, but even, it transpires, romantic moments too.

  That friendship was now well and truly finished. Things would never be the same again between the two men. Although they could never have known it, the clock was ticking. The 1982 San Marino Grand Prix had been a race like no other. Who but Didier Pironi could have been sat right at its very epicentre? Joined at the hip, drama and Did
i. Led by a large contingent of journalists overwhelmingly sympathetic to Gilles, history would forever record the day’s events to the eternal detriment of the French ace.

  Twenty-one

  Summertime blues

  There was much time for reflection in the fortnight between the San Marino Grand Prix and the next race on the calendar in Belgium. Conventional wisdom suggests that Villeneuve spent the time wrestling with a profound sense of despair following his ‘betrayal’. Certainly, the lay of the land had irrevocably shifted at Ferrari. However, the inner circle believed – hoped – it was a temporary rather than permanent feud.

  ‘I spent a lot of time with Gilles after San Marino,’ recalls Allan de la Plante. ‘Sure, he was pissed, but more with the management than Pironi. He thought Ferrari should have handled the situation way better than they did. His attitude was OK, so the bastard got me, next time I’ll get him.’

  To this day, the behaviour of the Ferrari pit on that fateful Imola afternoon remains a mystery. In the wake of Forghieri’s enforced absence from the Ferrari pit due to family matters, some commentators detected incompetence. Without their pit lane maestro to guide them, the team had floundered. Forghieri would have known exactly what to do. Some pundits, on the other hand, discerned method in the apparent madness. In this version, Ferrari’s deployment of those ‘slow’ signs, confusing and ambiguous in equal measure, had been deliberate, an act of political expediency. Rumours that Villeneuve would jump ship to either McLaren or Williams in 1983 had been circulating for some time. Joining the enemy! Intolerable! Had the Ferrari sands subtly shifted in Didier’s favour? Anecdotal evidence suggests the factory were more than pleased with Didier’s win. ‘After so much bad luck, he deserved to win,’ said one employee doorstepped at the factory gates.39

  Speculation and intrigue. For the international sporting press, the ‘feud’ was heaven sent. While Gilles continued to profess his disbelief in the weeks leading up to the Belgian Grand Prix, Didier struck a more conciliatory tone. He understood his team-mate’s anger, but hoped in time that the two men could resume their good relations. Notwithstanding, the press had their own ideas: ‘It’s war’ declared Autosport, the UK’s leading motorsport weekly. In his popular Formula 1 column in the same publication, Nigel Roebuck wrote a piece provocatively entitled ‘Bad blood at Maranello’. Pure theatre. In the run up to Zolder however, rather than the brooding Hamlet-figure portrayed in the media, Allan de la Plante found a friend focused on other priorities:

  ‘Basically it was the same old Gilles – laughing, fooling around, happy-go-lucky. Was he obsessing over Pironi? You gotta be joking! All he could talk about was this goddam new helicopter. He never shut up about it!’ This is a picture of Gilles rarely, if ever glimpsed during those post-Imola weeks. As such, it is a portrait that hardly fits a media narrative revolving around betrayal and despair. ‘All this Ferrari civil war stuff made good copy,’ nods de la Plante. ‘The media boys were just trying to stir things up – I know because I saw them doing it.’

  At Zolder, the two Ferrari pilots did not speak. Gilles was sticking to his vow, despite Didier’s desire to put the episode behind them. It made for an unpleasant atmosphere in the team garage. The tension, the rancour, the bitterness, however, all faded into insignificance on the afternoon of Saturday, 8 May. Determined to end the day as Ferrari’s fastest diver, minutes to go before the close of play, Villeneuve left the Ferrari pit for a final do or die effort to achieve this goal. He would not complete the lap.

  Footage of the accident exists, captured by amateur cine, a few jerky, horrific seconds. To the left of frame, a red car bears down upon a white car as the cars approach a left-hander. The speed differential is stark. The Ferrari is flying. For a moment, both cars disappear out of frame. We pick up on the white car again – the March of German veteran Jochen Mass. At the edge of the frame, the red car is glimpsed at an unholy angle. Contact has been made. The camera tracks the white car. Seconds later, the red car plummets into view, an aeroplane crumpling like paper as it passes through the sound barrier, its pilot having been catapulted into the catch fencing at frightening velocity. Over to the right, the pilot’s body lying like a discarded marionette, broken. Gilles Villeneuve would die from his injuries later that evening in Leuven hospital.

  Death has always been a part of Formula 1 life. However, this, this felt different. In his short career, the French Canadian had won a legion of admirers. Villeneuve’s exploits had taken on a life of their own. The man from Quebec was idolised in Italy, his native Canada and beyond. Ferrari was stunned. F1 was stunned. The air still ringing with accusations of duplicity and treachery in the fallout from Imola, Didier’s emotions that day can be guessed. It hardly needed stating, but the two men had not had the chance to make their peace. Now, they never would.

  As his team-mate lay in his hospital bed somewhere between life and death that awful afternoon, Didier stood silently at the foot of his friend’s bed, alone with his thoughts. Piccinini summed the mood up succinctly: ‘Today Ferrari mourns a champion; tomorrow and always we treasure the memory of a true friend, a generous man.’

  Silently and with moistened eyes, Ferrari personnel loaded up the trailers. Time to go home. Didier had rightly opted not to race. ‘What saddens me even more,’ said a shaken Frenchman, ‘is that we ended divided, when we had always been united.’ He also had some scathing criticism to lay at the door of the sport’s overlords: ‘Only three years ago where we cornered at 180kmh, now we reach 260kmh. One of the greatest risks we run is driving with miniskirts. If you break one, the car takes off and there is nothing the pilot can do. One can only hope for the best.’ The effect in such circumstances, he likened to ‘sitting on a bullet’. If anyone should know, then Didier should. Only days before Villeneuve’s fatal accident, his 126C2 had flown off the Fiorano test circuit at high speed. More accidents. Ferrari – all the teams – were playing a dangerous game of Russian roulette.

  Imelda records that from Zolder, Didier went straight to Geneva where he locked himself away from the world. Already, the first stirrings of an unpleasant insinuation was beginning to raise its ugly head: Pironi killed Villeneuve. Intent on beating his duplicitous French team-mate, in the grip of a black mood, Gilles had taken one risk too many that bleak Belgian day, so went the official narrative. The responsibility for the Canadian’s death thus lay squarely on Pironi’s shoulders. Grieving, Didier would head for the pontoon moored at the end of the garden and where he could forget himself on the glassy waters of Lake Geneva.

  In the wake of sadness and loss, everybody it seemed had a theory regarding Zolder. Niki Lauda pointed the finger squarely at the hapless Mass. In the face of criticism, the Austrian qualified his position thus: ‘What I meant was, I would have acted differently.’ Prior to the Monaco Grand Prix, FISA’s investigative committee concluded that, ‘The cause of the accident is attributed to a lack of control by Villeneuve.’ In reality, neither man was to blame. Both drivers had made a snap decision, the consequences of which could never have been foreseen. This body of evidence did little to prevent the media returning to their favoured account: Pironi’s actions that day at Imola had directly led to his team-mate’s death. As a narrative, it had obvious appeal. It also had the added bonus of tarnishing the name of Didier Pironi even further. Of the current F1 drivers, only Jacques Laffite attended Villeneuve’s funeral held in the small Canadian town of his childhood. With emotions still running high, family members intimated that Didier’s presence might cause more harm than good.

  Still, the show had to go on. Ferrari headed to Monte Carlo with heavy hearts, but determined not to let the wheels fall off their season. A race of attrition, first the Renaults and then the Brabham expired while holding the lead. With one lap to run, Didier found himself with an unexpected lead. The drama was not over yet. Entering the dimness of Lowes tunnel, the 126C2 slowed. The car had run out of fuel! Didier coasted along. Fortunately, the race was all but over. Classified in second place, for
the first time that year Didier announced himself as a possible world championship contender.

  Attention meanwhile turned to the vacant Ferrari seat. Even as Gilles’ widow Joann met with Enzo Ferrari, the team was assessing the claims of a dozen candidates. Even the names of Reutemann and Jones had been floated. It did not take long, however, for the names of Marc Surer and Patrick Tambay to emerge as favourites, the latter having been suggested by Didier. Planning even further ahead, Mr Ferrari had asked his French lieutenant for a preference in partners for 1983 and beyond. Didier had nominated his old friend Rene Arnoux. It was an interesting choice. Back in 1977, it had been the man from Grenoble who had taken the honours in European Formula 2. Didier had played second fiddle. By nominating the man who had previously been a nemesis, was Didier wishing to settle a few old scores? Possibly. Perhaps more importantly, as well as rivals, he and Arnoux were good friends. After the events of recent weeks, a harmonious camp was not to be taken lightly.

  Ultimately, Tambay secured the seat. For the US-based driver it was a Formula 1 lifeline. A fast, neat driver, Didier must, however, have felt confident that he could contain the ex-McLaren and Theodore man.

  A trip to Detroit in early June focused the mind back to matters of track safety. In his role as president of the GPDA, Didier headed a group of drivers calling for the banning of miniskirts, that part of the chassis responsible for creating the suction that glued the cars to the tarmac. As for the hastily built circuit in downtown Detroit, Didier was less than enthusiastic. ‘It’s a trap,’ declared the Frenchman in relation to the many holes and bumps littering the course. ‘We should pack up and leave now.’ Ferrari were off the pace in the concrete jungle. In the event, third place was a more than satisfactory conclusion. Though fast and reliable, the 126C2 was not performing well at every circuit. In this respect it was not quite the equal of the Renault, which seemed at home on just about any circuit, fast or slow.