An Ode to the Swimmers: Meditations on F1's Most Dangerous Era feat. Michael Cannell

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“Who is the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived or he who has stayed securely on shore and merely existed?” -Hunter Stockton Thompson

The following essay consists of four reflections on my recent conversation with Michael Cannell about his excellent 2011 book: The Limit: Life and Death on the 1961 Grand Prix Circuit

I.) Risk it for the Biscuit

“Only those who do not move do not die. But are they not already dead?” 

-Jean Behra, 1957

Our friend, Mr. Behra had an excellent point. To live is to move, to advance, to build, and to do. I was talking the other day with an old friend of mine who shared a parable I’ve been turning over in my mind since.

There once was a sheep who, presented with a hundred different barrels of hay, didn’t know where to begin, and so he starved to death. If you’re reading this, you probably don’t live in a communist dictatorship absent of free choice. So it infuriates me, baffles me, truly floors me when people starve themselves to death like that sheep, choosing complacency over action. We must all accept our lot in life? That’s a load of shit. You know it, and I know it. Without risk, there is no upside.

There is nothing more disgusting, wretched, and painful than the fecal taste of knowing you could have but didn’t.

II.) A Worthy Cause

Michael Cannell on Phil Hill and the Death Dinner:“On one of [Hill’s] first days with the Ferrari team, the whole team had dinner, as they often did. With a couple of exceptions, everybody at that table died, except him and I think one or two other people. In those years between 1957 and 1961, the drivers died at a rate that is unthinkable to us now. They died one after another, and there was a horrible accident at Le Mains, and a Mercedes went up into the stands and killed 80 spectators. They didn’t stop the race. The 24 hour race at Le Mans just continued even though 80 spectators had died.”

This, in my humble opinion, is how F1 should be. The death is necessary. It was Bukowski, I believe, who once mused that you ought to “find what you love and let it kill you.” In Shakespeare’s Henry V, the eponymous king gives his famous St. Crispin’s day speech to a group of soliders before the battle of Agincourt. A David and Goliath-like contest, as I remember—a group of out-gunned limeys (Brits) beat the militarily superior frogs (French) on French soil. I love these goliath stories, like that recent Hey Pepsi, Where’s my Jet special on Netflix.

As to how this all relates to the death dinner—my point is that martyrdom is glorious. One does not actually have to die as those F1 drivers did or as many of King Henry’s men did at Agincourt. But to leave it all on the line in pursuit of a worthy goal is a hell of a way to live. It is in the battle, the leaving, the process that we find meaning. Too many guys want to play it safe and sit onshore while the ocean awaits. But what’s life without a bit of swimming?

Our crisis of meaning in the U.S. and in the West more generally relates in part to superabundance. We have it easy, too easy. Compared to our ancestors even a generation or two ago, ravaged by plague and famine and war, our problems are not that serious. Inflation sucks. The manufactured tribalism and factionalism sucks. And a hundred other things suck. But on the whole, we have it pretty good. Our crisis is perpetuated and sustained by a familiarity with, acceptance of, and advocacy for mediocrity. Complacency is the sugar-filled fizzy beverage clogging our arteries day by day. Death by 1000 cuts. But not a glorious death like those of the F1 drivers. A weak, abominable, enfeebled death. The death of the non-swimmers. I choose to spend my life in the water. And, though I don’t like telling other people what to do, I’ll tell you this: get wet.

St. Crispin’s Day Speech from Billy Fiddlesticks’ Henry V

This day is called the feast of Crispian:

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,

And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian:’

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.

And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’

Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,

But he’ll remember with advantages

What feats he did that day: then shall our names.

Familiar in his mouth as household words

Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,

Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.

This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remember’d;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition:

And gentlemen in England now a-bed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

III.) There’s More than One Way to Skin a Cat

Phil Hill was a mechanic and a musician. The car to him was an embodiment of order, rhythm, predictability, and control. Wolfgang Von Trips was a somewhat reckless driver. He got in, and he fucking went for it. His understanding of the car was much less sophisticated. He freestyled while Hill read sheet music. And yet both men were impeccable drivers.

There is no one way to do anything.

IV.) The Mad Ones

I want to live my life surrounded by swimmers like Wolfgang Von Trips, Phi Hill, and Dominic Toretto. Because, like Kerouac…

“the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!'" -Kerouac, On the Road, 1957

See you next week. Or whenever I write next.

Love to all

-S