Again, Bernie lost a good friend to this bloodthirsty sport, when Rindt was killed at the wheel of his Lotus 72 at Monza on 5th September 1970, having already gathered enough points to become F1’s only uncrowned world champion – a ghoulish honour that will remain forever unique (we hope). But this time, Ecclestone chose not to drift back into the shadows. Instead, he bought Brabham, for a snip from designer/engineer Ron Tauranac, who had no hope against such a man. Bernie had now thrust his well-heeled boot firmly into the F1 door – and the rest of him would soon follow.
From our supposedly enlightened perspective, the early 1970s seem endearingly colourful, uncomplicated, raw and refreshingly untamed – at least from an F1 perspective. But the reality was a wider world that had been made drab and brought low, in stark contrast to the sunny optimism of the preceding decade, by the lingering grind of the Vietnam War, increasing social and trade union unrest, deepening political cynicism and a fuel crisis that led to the economic stall of the three-day week. Life was grim for many. Much like David Bowie, racers and jetsetters Jackie Stewart, Emerson Fittipaldi and Clay Regazzoni must have looked to most like they had beamed in from another planet.
The cars they drove were ever closer to the ground, sitting on wide, slick tyres and gripped by ever-expanding wings on the noses and hung out the rear. And national colours were suddenly passe. Tyrrells were Elf deep blue, Brabhams turned Martini white, Lotuses were first red, white and gold in deference to the Gold Leaf tobacco brand, then unforgettably, dramatic fag-packet black and gold. And Colin Chapman wasn’t troubled to sign away his team’s name either when there were sponsor dollars to be had – so the Lotus 72 became the John Player Special. Nothing was sacred in the gauche 1970s, including, it seemed, the life of racing drivers.
As Stewart and Fittipaldi shared world titles, their friends and colleagues perished around them: Piers Courage, Jo Siffert, Roger Williamson, Helmuth Koinigg, Peter Revson – and for Jackie, the final heartbreak. Francois Cevert. Worn down by the stress, fear and sheer numbers of those he’d lost, Stewart had already decided to call it a day at the end of 1973, telling only Ken Tyrrell of his intention. Wife Helen didn’t need to know, she’d only live in greater fear, counting down the races. Then at the last one, his friend, protégé, team-mate and anointed successor crashed through the steel barriers in practice at Watkins Glen. Stewart, his career numbers forever frozen on 99 GP starts, 27 wins and three world titles, never raced again.