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Wolfgang von Trips article on his racing holiday with friends

December 13, 1956 was a very special day for Wolfgang Graf Berghe von Trips: Count Trips checked in with Peter Collins in Genoa on the "Conte Grande" of the shipping company "Italia", on which the renowned British racing driver and the unknown "newcomer" from Old Germany spent a total of 11 days before they were able to disembark in Buenos Aires. The two preferred the almost two-week sea voyage to a flight of over 13,000 km, and so the Rhinelander Wolfgang Graf Berghe von Trips and the Englishman Peter Collins experienced the turn of the year on the high seas.

After his successful entry into the big world of racing, Count Trips inevitably became a "frequent traveller". Almost three years after his first big trip, he wrote the following article for a magazine.

His 16mm films, shot on a Bolex during his many trips around the world, are now in the Trips Communications Center and are shown there from time to time.

Translated from German to English via Google Translate

Travelling is an art that you inevitably and thoroughly learn as a racing driver, because you spend days and weeks in airplanes, on ships or in cars. We usually travel together, and it is so nice when you fly alone, let's say, from Frankfurt, then bump into some Italians in Zurich and a few hours later in Lisbon you are greeted with a loud hello from Brooks, Salvadori, Moss and all the other Englishmen who are using the same plane fly on to Caracas for the race. It may sound strange, but for me there is something incredibly romantic about these long-distance flights. The feeling of floating somewhere between continents at a height of several thousand meters tears you away from the usual world and breaks the circle of everyday thoughts. Nowhere else can you get to know your racing colleagues and friends so well, because at the race track and also in the evening in the hotel, everyone is busy with themselves, and the tension of the upcoming race never allows this relaxation to arise.

I would like to tell you about one such trip. It was some time ago, and one of the main characters in the report, my friend Peter Collins, is no longer with us. He died the racing driver's death that some people consider particularly senseless. I don't want to argue with anyone about the question, but I am sure for example, I am not at all sure whether it is much more sensible to risk your life on a vertical mountain face for the ambition of being the first to get there when you get there! But I wanted to tell you about that trip to South America, which we did not take by plane, but by ship. My travel companion Collins was a wonderful storyteller. We sat on deck for hours in the evening as the equator came closer and it was began to get warmer. A small group of ship's officers, mechanics and passengers always gathered around him when he talked about all the races he had already driven in. About legendary cars, about other racing drivers, about the pitfalls of the individual tracks, and also about intrigues and battles behind the scenes.

We were anchored in Montevideo for two days because part of the cargo - our ship was a medium-sized English passenger steamer, which also had some cargo in its belly - had to be unloaded here. We looked around the city and the surrounding area. When the anchor was due to be lifted at four o'clock in the afternoon on the second day, two passengers were missing. They were Collins and a young Brazilian woman who had boarded in Rio. The huge ship's horn blew. We searched the whole ship to see if the two of them were perhaps on board somewhere. I went to the captain and asked him to wait a moment. Nothing happened. It was horrible. Would he stay behind? How would he get on without luggage and money? I also felt completely alone because I had no idea what to do in Buenos Aires, not even which hotel to go to. After half an hour the ship finally set sail. Everyone was lined up at the railing. An old English lady had interesting stories to tell from her long life about people who had suddenly disappeared without a trace and what dangers one encountered in these southern countries. Despite the general excitement, I had my camera with me just in case, and when we were about twenty meters from the quay, I was able to film my good friend Peter as he appeared at a full trot, pulling his girl behind him, between cranes and cars in the crowd that is always there when a ship arrives or departs. There he stood, and good advice was hard to come by. A weight was lifted from my heart and probably onto Peter's feet, because he must have had a real fright when he saw the amount of water that separated him from the ship. Next we were able to observe a typical South American behavior, wild gesticulations. Suddenly Collins disappeared with a few adventurous characters, only to reappear soon afterwards in an old tugboat. A wild chase began. All the people who were off duty, the cooks with their tall white caps and the passengers of all classes were all gathered on deck to watch this maneuver. Our ship had already started to move. The pursuers tried desperately to catch up with us. Sailors had lowered a gangway, but they waited in vain. I went back to the captain with two others. When the command "Slow speed ahead" reached the engine room, the boat caught up and the two climbed on board with a sweet-sour laugh. Peter had got the time wrong, in any case he got a good telling off from our captain and was no longer able to stand on deck with the passengers.

The "Bolex" was with him on all his trips. Count Trips edited and commented on his films, which he also showed at numerous lectures to the Catholic Rural Youth. The Trips Foundation provided this material for the Chris Rea film "La Passione". The television films "Auf Heißen Reifen" and "Tod in Monza", produced in 1961 and 1962, also used the Trips films as "sources".

We had another fun evening on board, and when I woke up the next morning, we were in Buenos Aires. To describe all the impressions that this magical, and very European, city gave us would be like writing a love letter to Argentina. But we didn't have much time to walk around and look around, because the serious business of life began for us. Training for the Argentine Grand Prix at the Autodrom.

We lack something like this in Germany, and indeed in the whole of Europe. A race track, embedded in meadows, with spectators positioned on stands around the outside, from which you can see almost every point of the entire track. Since five or six different tracks can be put together from the large number of roads laid out, a beginner can let off steam here, but also an experienced driver can show off his full skills. I was the beginner, and it was actually the first time that I was allowed to drive a Grand Prix car on a real track. Apart from a few laps in Monza, which ended unpleasantly in a tree.

In true sports car style, I tried my luck and was surprised when, after braking nicely on the straight, I accelerated again at the start of the bend and my car shot straight ahead into the green despite the wheels being turned. Collins, who had been watching me, took me aside after my first attempt and explained to me that you had to go into the bend a little faster, braking, in order to make the rear of the car slide slightly to the side. If you then accelerated, just enough so that the rear was kept in motion by the slightly spinning wheels, you could go smoothly around the bend. If you accelerate while driving slowly in a bend, the rear wheels, which rotate in the same direction thanks to the limited-slip differential, drive the car straight ahead, even if the front wheels are turned. Our Ferrari did this even more than any other car in '57 and it cost me many a drop of sweat. The result of Peter's advice was that I spun around at least twice on every lap because I was going too fast or accelerating too much. The slipping of the rear axle is corrected by counter-steering. In extreme cases, you can come around a right hairpin bend with the front wheels turned completely to the left if the rear of the car has "slid" too far. The difficult thing about this maneuver is keeping the car in a steady drift, which is what we call sliding. It must have looked terrible for me because I couldn't manage to dose the gas and steering correctly, and so I made several turns out of each bend, which sometimes ended up in the meadow.

But that's the beauty of this course: you can really push yourself to the limit, because a trip into the countryside is harmless. There are no curbs, no trees, no ditch. In addition to this struggle with the steering wheel, there was now the devilish heat of 35 to 38 degrees, which was made even worse in the car by the engine. What I had learned after a few laps was offset by my waning strength and ability to concentrate. It could have been a great race. And then there was the excitement, which saps your energy before a race like this.

There was no car left for me for the race. My role as reserve driver in the pits only lasted a few customers, until Hawthorn and Collins dropped out and, as old hands, had a claim on the next car that became available. But I was still supposed to drive. Collins took over Perdisa's car, which was no longer running quite smoothly and was in fifth or sixth place. He drove until twenty laps before the end (the whole race was over 100 laps) and suddenly gave up and signalled to take over. I was ready to go straight away. Helmet on, gloves, glasses, but I didn't believe in my luck yet, as Hawthorn and Perdisa were also in the pits. When Collins stopped at the pits and jumped out of the car. Mechanics checked the oil and water in a flash, Peter grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to the car. I was in in one leap, was pushed and was already in the race. After a few laps I felt very comfortable, drove fairly evenly and was even able to hold my position. Peter stood at a hairpin bend and waved to me. As he told me later, he had only stopped to give me a chance to drive a few more laps, and to be able to observe me. He could allow himself to act on his own initiative because the car was no longer in contention for victory or championship points.

What was hardly possible in the pits - here Graf Trips with Peter Collins - due to the hectic pace, was all the more intense on the long flights: There was extensive "petrol talk" and personal contacts were strengthened.

Now we had a few days' break before the next race, the Buenos Aires 1,000-kilometer sports car race. Fangio invited the Swede Bonnier and me to visit his parents, who lived in a small country town 300 km from Buenos Aires. Besides the three of us, his sister and brother-in-law were with us in the black Mercedes 300-S coupe, in which all the holiday luggage of the two had been skilfully stowed away; they were going to stay with Fangio's parents for a few weeks. I have often seen Fangio win, and I'm sure you have seen photos of him standing on the podium in proud victory or being carried away by the enthusiastic crowd. How different he was on this trip and at home. He was happy to be able to show us the beauty of his homeland. When we could see his hometown from a hill just before sunset, he stopped and we looked out over the Argentine pampas in silence until the last rays of the sun had set. Later he showed us the shed in which he had built his first wagon, the well in front of the kitchen door, which had the best water in the whole area, and the room - for many years the only one that the Italian immigrant family could call their own.

Wolfgang Graf Berghe von Trips paved the way for the Swede Joakim Bonnier, whom he had met in Karlshuga, into the German racing scene.

While his mother was preparing dinner in the semi-darkness on the stove, we sat at the table. He told me about his first races and the hard work of his parents, who never found the time to go to a proper school in their lives. His father once took me aside and asked me - luckily I can speak a little Spanish - whether his son was in He told me how they had scolded him when he started the Rennerel and how touchingly Juan was now taking care of his elderly parents.

In Argentina, Count Trips met his great idol Juan Manuel Fangio, who welcomed him hospitably and showed him more than just the scenic "beauties" of his homeland.

The next day we visited Mar del Plata, Argentina's largest and most beautiful seaside resort, where Juan was greeted and celebrated enthusiastically as he strolled through the streets. People shouted "Bravo!", clapped, and in one bar a guest jumped to the band. He took the guitar and sang a song he had written about Fangio. We basked in his fame and were actually even more impressed by the way this man was, with what modesty but also with what genuine joy he accepted everything. When we drove back to Buenos Aires the next day, past garages, sales agencies and construction sites, all bearing the name Fangio, we were deeply impressed by the man who had always been our role model as a racing driver, and who we now also knew that we could emulate him as a person, no matter where we came from or who we were.

The thousand-kilometre sports car race the following weekend was won by Ferrari, but there has probably never been such chaos in a team as there was in this race. I was actually supposed to start a car, but I felt so bad because of the heat that I asked my co-driver (second man in a double team in difficult races) to start. One of our four cars broke down after just two laps. The driver Hawthorn took over Perdisa's car, and when the general changeover came after the prescribed number of laps, someone else took over my car. I thought I didn't have to drive at all, when suddenly another car stopped, was being refuelled and suddenly stood there alone. One of them shouted a name, but the man I was looking for was had already been on the road in my car, so they called to Hawthorn. But as he wasn't in the pits at the time and had just got out of another car, I jumped behind the wheel. I didn't know which car I was actually driving, because I hadn't seen the driver get out, and I hadn't noticed the number when I got in. There was no sign of the pits, although I tried every lap to make myself known by waving or flashing my lights. They had enough to do keeping the two cars in front up to date, and they let me drive. Because, as I later found out, I was two laps behind, in about seventh or eighth place. I drove for an hour, two hours, two and a half hours, the heat was murderous. The heavy car, the 4.1-litre 12-cylinder that was to pass its baptism of fire, was not easy to drive over the fast course on the banks of the La Plata. Blisters burned our hands and the soles of our feet burned on the hot pedals. Every lap we passed a huge outdoor swimming pool. It was like Tantalus' torture to see the people in the water. Shortly before I got the signal to take over, the engine suddenly blocked at full speed on the straight. I quickly pressed the clutch and let the car roll to a stop. The momentum reached the pits, but there was nothing we could do.

The Argentinian season had one more race in store for us. A Formula 1 race in the Autodrom, the Buenos Aires Grand Prix, which was decided in two heats. It was the first race in which I had a Formula car to myself. It will go down in racing history as the hottest race ever held. The thermometer in the city showed 43 degrees, 60 cm above the The air was 57 degrees on the race track. When we came out of our air-conditioned hotel, the heat hit us like a wall. This race was practically my debut in a Formula 1 car and I had expected so much from it. All my thoughts were so focused on it that I simply didn't want to believe it when my strength gave out after forty or fifty minutes. You mustn't give up! Nonsense! You just keep driving! One more lap. Oh God, I can't do it anymore! I'm getting heat stroke. If only I had never come to Argentina. I kept talking to myself. I tried to convince myself that I could still do it, but my limbs no longer obeyed my will and I only drove the last few laps in one gear. With the throttle set to one setting, I rolled slowly over the track and next to the track. I was so desperate that I would probably have cried if I had had the strength to do so. I watched the pits longingly on every lap to see if other drivers had given up. I didn't want to be first at any cost. Then I just felt that the inner struggle was easing and the sheer instinct for self-preservation drove me to the shore, to the pits, like a drowning man. It is a feeling that is hard to describe, to be unable to go on in the open air because of the sheer heat - it was well over 60 degrees in the car. It is not like a long-distance run where you slowly lose your strength from the exertion. It is just heat. When I got to the pits, I collapsed in the car and the mechanics pulled me out of my seat. Then all I remember is that they laid me on wet towels in a corner of the pits and covered my body with ice. It was a feeling of indescribable bliss. It must have taken me ten to fifteen minutes to come to my senses again. Then it took another quarter of an hour before I could get up. Collins, who had already driven his car to the pits before me and was replaced by Gregory, had recovered enough to drive my car to the end of the few laps of the first race. There was a one-hour break, and at dusk the second run started, which I then made it through, albeit with a trick. A German-Argentinian who had come to the race with me positioned himself in a hairpin bend and poured a small bucket of water over me every few laps when I came around the bend very slowly and slightly upright in my seat. Incidentally, after the race he invited me and Bonnier to his wonderful farm, his Estancia, as it is called in Argentina, where we met up with Riding, swimming and hunting helped them recover from the rigors of racing.

Getting around in a different way: As a well-traveled racing driver, Wolfgang von Trips was also familiar with the various transport vehicles at airports.

Adventure in Cuba

The cars and most of the drivers set off on the long journey back to Europe or the USA. Bonnier and I sat down one afternoon, checked our travel budget and realised that we really should have enough money to get to the 12-hour race in Sebring in North America, which was due to take place in about six weeks. So we decided to spend this time in South America or North America, partly with friends who had invited us and partly travelling around, seeing the country. When we said goodbye to Fangio in Buenos Aires and told him that we wanted to visit Rio, he quickly sent a telegram without saying much. And when our plane landed in Brazil, friends of Fangio, Brazilian racing drivers, were already there to pick us up and entertain us for three days. Our journey then continued to Caracas. A beautiful city, but, as we know, also the most expensive city in the world, and so my travel budget melted away. I had my ticket to Frankfurt, but we actually wanted to stay there, and it was still four weeks to Sebring. We heard about a race in Cuba, and since that was roughly on our way, we went there in the hope of finding some kind of transport and thus a few dollars. We were greeted by laughter, because almost all the traveling people had gathered there, and there were no cars. In New York, where the sports cars hired in Italy had to be shipped, there was a dockworker strike. The cars were already being brought back to Europe. Now a wild hunt began for the few cars that were already there, and America was Cinge-flying every old Ferrari and Maserati that was within reach.

A beaming Count Trips on his first great voyage of discovery in the New World.

I think I have to explain a little here, because the races and the whole sport over there in the Americas are very different from ours. In the States, apart from the races held in Indianapolis and according to the Indianapolis formula, motor sport has for some time taken on the external form of European horse racing. In other words, it has become a matter for wealthy people who buy European sports cars, sometimes drive them themselves or have talented drivers drive them. America has good cars, and even older models are looked after, improved and still run. The races have a sporting character and an elegant environment, are organized by enthusiastic fans, and the gap between sports enthusiasts and organizers, oh, is not as great as it is here. The races are arranged according to demand, i.e. according to the cars and drivers. There was no money in sports car races until now. Now, however, they are organized, except in Sebring. Sports car races with international competitors and cash prizes.

The American Richie Ginther, initially a test driver and then a stablemate of Count Trips at Ferrari.

Cuba has a similar attraction for Americans as the old Paris of days gone by had for us Europeans. People are very free there, have casinos, enormous nightclubs of all kinds, fantastic hotels and lead a very enjoyable life. The race was organized to increase tourism and to attract the dollar-rich American racing team owners, racing drivers and especially the battle-tourists from Rubirosa to Gary Cooper to the island. Good entry fees were paid. Gasoline companies fought to get the best drivers under contract for their brands. I knew an American who had an ancient five-litre Ferrari flown in from home and wanted me as a replacement driver. The giant beast promptly broke down during the first few practice laps, and I ended up starting the race as who knows how many drivers in a two-litre Ferrari that was leaking oil from the gearbox, which poured over the driver and smeared gloves and glasses. By putting a large cardboard cover over the gear lever, I prevented the damage from being so disruptive and, although I was the last to get the car across the finish line, I still managed to do so.

It was an adventure, this Cuba. Nobody really knew us apart from the other drivers. We were not in the newspapers, and therefore were not supposed to get any entry fee. men, in case we could find a car at all before the race. Since there were no other Germans, I found a way to increase the internationality of the race by taking part. We made some progress, we drove to the airfield again. We were in the newspapers and therefore worth a few dollars. There were no official factory drivers there. Everyone was their own race director, and I had requested permission from Ferrari by cable, which was granted, albeit only for a Ferrari car. Proudly, with new dollars in my pocket, I went to New York, where Peter Collins had invited me, who had meanwhile married Argentina, before Cuba. We stayed with his parents-in-law for a fortnight and romped for hours through the huge UN building, which was open to us because Collins' father-in-law, Mr. Cordier, was the second man in the UN after Hammarskjöld. Argentina, Rio, Caracas, Cuba and then New York, the various races, countless people you get to know, were such strong impressions and came one after the other. In the end I just couldn't absorb anything anymore. The last time in New York, when we were dragged from party to party and were guests of some social figures, is not as clear and pleasant in my memory as the beginning in Buenos Aires. I also had constant wardrobe worries because the only gray suit I had with me, now worn endlessly, no longer quite met the requirements. I saw Bonnier again in Sebring. He had stayed with other American racing drivers in Florida, together with Moss, and talked enthusiastically about boat trips and water skiing. Loaded with Argentinian saddlery, Cuban drums and American cowboy hats, I finally arrived home after four months of modern gypsy life. With a mere dollar in my pocket, and my poor mother had a long time to make me a human being again, as she put it.

Even runway pilots, here Mike Hawthorn and Graf Trips, depend on the reliability and punctuality of their "flying" colleagues. As is sometimes the case in the pit, it's a case of waiting, waiting, waiting...

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