Le Mans 55: The Deadliest Race

latest book, Who Is Government. But I want your help to explore the theme of altruism with Michael Lewis, So please send all of your kindness related questions for Michael Lewis to Tales at Pushkin dot FM. Juan Manuel Fangio is the greatest racing car driver of all time, and his sleek silver Mercedes Benz is a rocket ship compared to the other machines. Starting the nineteen fifty five twenty

four hour race, only Fangio is going nowhere fast. His car's gearstick has somehow got trapped up his trouser leg, and as the other racers roar away, Fangio is left struggling to untangle himself. The Lamong twenty four hour always begins in unorthodox fashion. Drivers line up on foot on one side of the track. Then the starting signal the dropping of the French tricolor flag. They dash to their

cars waiting on the other side. It makes a great spectacle for the fans looking down from the grandstand, but it's hardly the simplest, safest way to start a sixty car race.

car on the punishing Laments circuit. Only then can his real task begin, battling it out with the other elite drivers in their Ferraris Jaguars to build up a.

side of the track, opposite the grandstand. As they thunder towards the home straight, Hawthorne moves to the right, committing to his pit stop, while Fangio seems intent on completing a few laps laps without the Englishman breathing down his neck, a chance to commune with his beautiful and spirited car and extend his lead without distraction. But what followed in the next few seconds would change motor racing forever, cause many countries to ban the sport and see Mercedes walk

away from competing all together. The hot favorite to win l Maestro would never see the finishing line, for this was about to become history's deadliest car race. I'm Tim Harford and you're listening to another cautionary tale. No one died in the inaugural Lamon twenty four hour in nineteen twenty three, which was something of a miracle. One driver crossing the finishing line jubilantly stepped out of his car

to greet a friend who was promptly run down. Another racer, whose leaky gas tank could run dry ferried fuel cans back to his vehicle on a borrowed bicycle, foolishly pedaling into the oncoming traffic. The circuit comprised ten miles of public roads on a mixture of highways, cobbled lanes, and country tracks which became rutted and muddy when the Norman rains invariably fell. A Grand Prix, the endurance was open to any car provided it was on sale to the

general public. Any automobile you might see on the streets of New York, London or Paris qualified, and since it was a test of durability rather than raw speed, competitors pitted dinky two seaters against great, snarling machines with engines five times larger. After all, vast horsepower wasn't any use if your engine blew up on the punishing moussand straight, nor if your brakes, suspension or steering failed at the

Polyeu hairpin, sending you skidding off into a ditch. Twenty four hours of racing was the ultimate test for the cars and drivers. It was also something of a test for the paying spectators, So the organizers laid on an open air cinema, a jazz band, fireworks, and lots and lots of alcohol are The Laman formula was thus established. Each summer, Sleepy Lamont would welcome a noisy influx of sports cars.

sales in dealerships across the world. In nineteen fifty five, Prince Sousai, long ruler of Canung, was trackside as the guest of Jaguar. If one of Jaguar's lightning fast D type car's triumphed, the Prince had promised to buy ten for his garage. Standing in the way of that lucrative order was Mercedes and its state of the art three hundred SLR. This silver dart of a car boasted revolutionary fuel injection, fancied desmodromic valve gear, and super light bodywork

made of magnesium alloy. This wander material was more often used in the construction of aircraft and because of its flammability in sindury bombs.

of those hostilities, the Allies versus the Germans. One spectator arriving in his Mercedes at the circuit was greeted by a fellow fan, a Frenchman, who took one look at the German automobile and promptly spat on the paintwork. The Mercedes team, perhaps sensitive to this rawness of emotions, made some diplomatic hires. Although their lead car would be driven by l Maestro Juan Manuel Fanjo, alternating shifts with a rising star Britain's Sterling Moss. Frenchmen would crew the two

other three hundred SLRs in competition. One was Pierre Levai, a forty nine year old with a less than stellar record, having scored precisely zero championship points. His inclusion might have won some goodwill with the crowd, but serious observers doubted he truly had the skill to drive a three hundred SLR, and this appraisal seemed fair given how the race was developing. Within a couple of hours of the start, Levey was

already a full lap behind the front runners. Fangio was showing exactly what the Mercedes was capable of in the hands of a master, and Jaguar's Mike Hawthorne was having to wring every millisecond of advantage from his better breaking to stay in contention, but the effort.

ever completed the twenty four hour race single handed. In nineteen fifty, a somewhat eccentric English millionaire Edward Ramsden Hall, drove for a full day without leaving his seat for so much as a bathroom break. When asked his advice, the fifty year old replied, where green overalls, old boy. But for serious contenders, sharing the driving duties was the

only sensible option. The choice of co driver was of vital importance, and the pairing of Juan Manuel Fangio with Sterling Moss was greeted as a master stroke from Mercedes. Maestro was gifted with a precision and consistency that allowed him to hit the optimal path on the track, the so called racing line lap after lap at twenty five, Sterling Moss was mercurial and brilliant and quick to anger.

Markedly different in temperament, Fangio and Moss nonetheless had huge respect for one another and spoke warmly of each other's skills. Jaguar's Mike Hawthorne wasn't so sure of his co driver. The man had never raced at Laman before and confided at the speeds his D type reached on the Mulsaran strait unnerved him. Hawthorne feared that once he swapped with his co driver, any lead he'd built up would quickly

be lost. His only hope of winning was to push his opponents relentlessly, forcing them into a mistake that would either break the car or see its spin off the track. Fangio and Moss were certainly formidable opponents that day, but secretly neither was relishing the upcoming fight. It's a heartless race, said Moss, who demanded extra pay to compete. I wanted a lot to go to Lamont because I didn't enjoy it.

For racers like Moss, there was much to hate about Lamont, the mix of fast and slow cars, elite drivers and eager amateurs, and the monotony of driving through the night. But what annoyed Moss most was that a twenty four hour event wasn't a fair test of his Grand Prix champion skills. Men like Moss, Fangio, and Hawthorne were explosive talents. The fiery passion they brought to three hour races, the fire that made them winners, was a deadly liability at Lamont,

as Moss, why observed fire and Lamont don't mix? Its Lap thirty five, two and a half hours into the race, and the spectators around the groundstand are straining to see who will leave the corner at Maison Blanc first.

hundred and thirty five miles per hour. The Jaguar coming up in his mirror must have been doing one hundred and fifty At least, Old Mike's doing a great job, thought Maclin. Pleased that a fellow Britain was leading the race. Then admiration turned to puzzlement. Mike Hawthorne was steering right,

cutting in front of Maclin's car. Why Hawthorne was preparing to pull in at the upcoming pits to refuel and allow his co driver to take the wheel who was fast running out of road Safer than Saner would have been to slow down and settle in behind Maclin's car for the short run to the pits. It would have cost him a few extra seconds, but what's that in a race of twenty four hours. Hawthorne instead took the fiery option and fire and Lamart to mix, barreling towards

the pits. The Jaguar driver applied his powerful brakes to prevent him overshooting his waiting teammate. Suddenly, rather than seeing Hawthorne disappearing off into the distance, Macklin.

by going left, and that Fangio should attack right. Others saw in this hand gesture the forty nine year old's resignation to the inevitable, a final wave goodbye. LaVey's Mercedes closed on Maclin's swerving car, but rather than crashing squarely into it, the light and elegant silver machine lifted off as if driving up a ramp. Fangio watched in horror as LaVey's automobiles soared into the air and then even over the wine of his own engine. The Argentine occurred elosion,

a wall of fire and smoke erupted. Maclin was still skidding across the track, so Fangio pulled to the right, only to be greeted by Mike Hawthorne's now stationary Jaguar. How I passed him is a mystery, recalled El Maestro. In fact, it had come so close to smashing into Hawthorn that his silver Mercedes now carried a streak of British racing green paint. As he scraped by my stomach weaving A shouted with relief. As I picked up speed on the unobstructed circuit, said Fango. As far as he knew,

Maclin was alive and so was Hawthorne. Poor Pierre was likely dead.

bright red sweater and cap. His trousers were white. The roar of the mighty engines drew nearer, and then unexpected sounds, first a bang and then a deep, resounding explosion, A scream coming in unison from scores, perhaps hundreds of mouths rose from the enclosure, and then silence, save for Tinny accordion music coming from the public address system. Francois snow white pants or blood red. A woman standing beside him had been obliterated. Shouts, screams, and groans filled the air,

coming from the burned, the wounded, and the traumatized. But there were stretches of the enclosure where there were no cries, no agonized writhing, just stillness and silence. Pierre Leave's Mercedes had been launched into the air by the collision. It then vaulted the earth barrier protecting the crowd and struck a concrete stairway, disintegrating and spewing shards of metal and burning fuel into the mass of spectators. The hood of the car scythe through the crowd like a guillotine, severing

heads as it went. A flying hubcap lifted one woman off her feet and flung her onto the track. This murderous fusillade of debris, much of it combustible magnesium alloy, then burned furiously, defying all efforts to put it out. Miraculously untouched crossoag Ardell looked around and was flooded with memories from the war. Corpses lay everywhere while it was carnage in the enclosure. Order was quickly being restored on the track as race marshals waved yellow warning flags to

slow the approaching cars. Two Mercedes mechanics hurried bravely over to remove Lance Macklin's damaged vehicle to allow racing to continue. His car had spun crazily after the impact with Pierre LaVey's Mercedes and had mowed down a gendarmes, a photographer and two race officials standing in the pit lane. They were gravely injured. Maclin was untouched, but furious. He marched over to Mike Hawthorn. That was your fault, he bellowed at the Jaguar driver, but the conversation was cut short.

Though Hawthorne seemed distraught, his team boss instructed him to get back into his D type and drive one more lap before stopping again to sw with his co driver. So Hawthorne roared off once more to chase down Fangio. Donald Healy, the designer of Lance Macklin's car, went to comfort the driver.

that was so ridiculous. So amid the cacophony of the continuing race, Maclin turned back to his Champagne cautionary tales.

hundred or so feet away. So the socializing and glad handing continued more champagne glasses were drained and the race went on. The Thousands of fans flocking the fairground restaurants and beer tents were equally oblivious, and the ferris wheel kept turning. But in homes across Europe and beyond, the scale of the tragedy was all too apparent. It was the first time Lamar had been televised, and hundreds of thousands of flickering television screens were filled with the smoke,

the flames and the dead. Amongst that horrified legion of viewers were the bosses of Mercedes Benz back in Germany. Laman was supposed to be a shop window for their company, a glamorous pr opportunity to sell more cars. That commercial hope was now dead. The blazing wreck and the mass slaughter on TV screens now be splashed across newspaper front pages Tomorrow, So as Fangio and Moss extended their lead

over Jaguar telephones, cross Stuttgart began to ring. Of all the syndromes Stockholm syndrome, say or imposter syndrome, the most vividly titled is undoubtedly boiling frog syndrome. The theory is that if you drop a frog into a pan of boiling water, the animal will immediately leap to safety. If you place it in cold water which you slowly heat, the frog won't notice the gradual change until it's too late. You will be glad to hear that frogs are actually

smarter than this. They'll hop out of the water when it starts to feel uncomfortable. Humans aren't always so clever, and boiling frog syndrome is a useful metaphor to explain much otherwise odd human behavior. It helps explain, for instance, what happened at La Monte on June the eleventh, nineteen fifty five. That year's race was the twenty third Grand Prix de Endurance held at the circuit, and yes, there had been improvements to the track, but were the race officials,

in many respects just slowly boiling frogs. In nineteen twenty three, the fastest car on the uneven track averaged sixty miles an hour. At that speed, Lament's traditional foot race start, its lack of a separate pit area, as well as its broad mixture of vehicles and driving abilities, were risky but not insane.

cars going barely half that speed. The organizers of Lamon had been sitting in slowly heating water for years, yet hadn't noticed that boiling point was very nearly upon them. Francoise Ardell had found it impossible to convey the magnitude of the disaster to that Ferrari driver, but word of the carnage on the other side of the track slowly

seeped into the pit area. The head of Mercedes Press operation went in search of Pierre Lavy's body, crossing to the blood soaked enclosure to begin hunting among the scores of bodies. He'd watched LaVey don tennis shoes to help him keep up with younger drivers for the starting sprint, So the press officer now checked the feet of each corpse.

increasingly shaky. The drivers could have walked away regardless of what the organizers said, but they didn't. Sterling Moss hated Lamont, but he didn't see the point of stopping. It wouldn't bring back the dead, he argued. If this response strikes you as callous, put yourself for a moment in the driving seat. Motor racing in the nineteen fifties was a bloody, gladiatorial business. Many of those competing at Lamont had seen friends and rivals torn apart in crashes, or incinerated in

their seats, or had had accidents themselves. Indeed, several men racing that day would soon lose their lives. If one driver or spectator died, that was absolutely no surprise. What if two people died or three? Was that a surprise? Lance Macklin suspected that many spectators rather relished seeing a fatal crash. I hated the crowd, he admitted. When he heard fans now expressing horror at the carnage and the paddock, his sympathy was limited. That's what you came for, isn't it?

Acclimated to death? Sudden and violent drivers and their racing teams were like boiling frogs too. Was the accident by the grandstand really so awful that it warranted calling off the race? The executives at Mercedes Benz finally made that call. One or two deaths might be a typical day at the races, But eighty three spectators died After a Mercedes car had killed so many fans, how exactly would Fangio and Moss celebrate a victory. Mercedes instructed all of its

drivers to retire from the race. So the mechanics gathered up as much of Pierre Levey's wreck as possible, loaded the other three hundred SLRs.

from racing for forty long years. With the Mercedes packed and gone, Hawthorne's co driver pulled into a rain damped pit lane twenty three hours and forty five.

Action came quickly. France suspended all races, and several nations banned the sport all together, with Switzerland only lifting its restriction in twenty eighteen. Some of the most notorious racing circuits were made safer or closed down entirely, and Lman was forced to make some long overdue changes to the track, the pits, and the barriers protecting the crowd. An inquiry into the crash, however, was frustrated by the driver's unwillingness

to point fingers at one another. Both Fangio and Maclin gave neutral witness statements, hoping perhaps to calm public anger and save the sport they loved, but Mike Hawthorne remained a focus for fury. Recall how the bosses at Mercedes had fretted over what a pr disaster when by Fangio would have been well. The thought clearly hadn't occurred to Mike Hawthorne and Jagging when Hawthorne's d type crossed the finish line not yards from the bloodstained enclosure. The driver

was beaming. He gleefully popped a champagne cork and embraced his co driver. A photograph of this scene made the newspapers. Vassant monsieur Hawthorne read the bitter headline, cheers to you,

mister Hawthorne. The primary sources for this episode were twenty four Hours, one hundred Years of Lamont by Richard Williams Alfangio's My Twenty Years of Racing and Mark Kahn's classic text Death Race Lamon nineteen fifty five, which included an exclusive and candid interview with Lance Macklin and the eyewitness testimony of Francoise Adell. For a full list of our sources, see the show notes at Timharford dot com. Cautionary Tales as written by me Tim Harford with Andrew Wright, Alice Fines,

and Ryan Dilly. It's produced by Georgia Mills and Marilyn Rust.

Kira Posey and Owen Miller. Cautionary Tales is a production of Pushkin Industries. It's recorded at Wardour Studios in London by Tom Berry. If you like the show, please remember to share, rate and review. It really makes a difference to us and if you want to hear the show, add free sign up to Pushkin Plus on the show page, on Apple Podcasts or at pushkin dot fm, slash plus