Friends and fellow F1 fans, meet Stirling Moss, or Sir Stirling as we know him these days. Stirling is one of the unblemished heroes of our sport, and the greatest champion that never was. A true gentleman, even to the point of defending his greatest rival Mike Hawthorn against an unfair penalty, effectively handing him the title.
But that is not the point I want to make today. For Sir Stirling was renowned for another quality: true grit. No pampered life for Stirling, no private jets and multimillion dollar motorhomes. Stirling drove himself to the races. And in between winning one Grand Prix after another he had no qualms with doing the odd endurance race, winning 10 hour Mille Miglias or 7 hour 1000km Nuerburgrings singlehandedly, the latter three years in a row.
And he was not the only one. Juan Manuel Fangio, another true gentleman, and the aforementioned Mike Hawthorn, to name but a few, were of the same ilk. These were real men. Some say that the outlines of their left nipples were the shape of Nuerburgring, that when they slowed down, brake lights came on in their buttocks, and went they went for a wee they pissed pure motor oil, to paraphrase a popular TV programme. Wimps they were not.