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[karlth]

Found this on the Usenet when looking for info on the Alfa GTV (sorry about the formatting) :

On this crisp morning,
brand-new 3.0 Alfa GTV
V6 at my fingertips, there
was the same charge in
the air.

In 1979, Peter Windsor
drove from Monaco to Maranello
with Ferrari racers Jody Scheckter
and Gilles Villeneuve. Almost 20
years later, he retraced his steps in
an Alfa Romeo GTV 3.0



The fast show
Jody was into the Eagles. I'll never forget that. He fussed around his Monaco apartment until he found the tape. We
weren't leaving until he had it. Gilles would have to wait.
Now, whenever I hear Hotel California, I think of that day - that day in spring 1979, when the three of us, Jody Scheckter,
Gilles Villeneuve and myself, set off on a Monaco-Maranello-Monaco round trip. The weaponry was Jody's privately-owned
(chocolate brown) Ferrari 400. The sun was that south-of-France misty gold and none of us - especially me, in this
Ferrari-driver utopia - could believe that life could ever get better.
I was scrunched into the back, of course, but it wasn't uncomfortable. This was a GT car when GT meant Gran Turismo.
Jody drove slowly at first, warming up the gearbox oil, but soon he was holding the revs longer, braking for the apex later.
Gilles sat impassively, talking about his Mustang, his trailer, hi new boat and the helicopter he had in mind. Thinking about it
now, it could be Jacques Villeneuve chatting with his buddy Mika Salo. When it comes to brain patterns of Formula One
drivers, and what amuses them, nothing changes…
Today, almost 20 years later, we were not in a Ferrari 400, nor were we going to test Formula One cars at Fiorano. But, on
this crisp spring morning, brand-new 3.0 Alfa GTV V6 at my fingertips, there was the same charge in the air. Perhaps it was
the rasping noise and mechanical feel of that V6; perhaps it was the sound of Don Henley in the CD player. There was,
though, nothing wrong with the world as we seared over the fabulous four-lane roads that pierce the mountains of Italy's
southern riviera.
We stopped for lunch at one of those roadside cafes you see in Fiat commercial. Outside, in the 30deg heat, the locals sat
around talking football, Fiats and Ferraris. Inside: panini in every combination of cheese, ham, tomato and basil. The silver
Alfa turned heads.
'Bella machina'
'Si. Bellissima. Motori vee-sei'
'Si, si. Rapidissimo'
To be sure, the Alfa is small, chunky and beautifully crafted - but the powerpack leaves you guessing: should you floor the
throttle yet again, drinking in the sound and feel and wishing it would go on forever - or should you stop, raise the bonnet and
drool yet again over those chromed in and outlet pipes?
We did both, after lunch, running it up and down the six-speed
box and then stopping for photographs as we edged towards
Maranello. Photographer Darren Heath, meticulous as ever,
had the angle just right, then light just perfect, when in from
our left came a Ferrari test driver, Prova Mod numberplate
hung casually over the rear end of an F355. Unshaven and
overall-clad, he nodded approvingly before blasting into the
hills on some secret trail known only to drivers of
yet-to-be-delivered Ferraris. The gates of Fiorano are
unchanged, but the approach road is now named after Gilles.
We posed the Alfa for more pictures. Inside, an F50 was
undergoing what seemed to be an endurance test. German
and Swiss tourists pulled up just to see the prancing horse.
The Alfa had never looked more at home.
It was later that day, with the light leaving wide shadows on the mountain roads near Abitone, that we finally pushed the Alfa
into its comfort zone. The pedal layout invites brisk heel-and-toeing; the brakes make you dance. Throw the car into a corner
and you instinctively know the moment when you can again pick up the V6 power. There is none of the trail-throttle oversteer
normally associated with cars of this layout. There is, instead, an almost surreal feeling of always-getting-it-right. Is there a
better mid-sized package than the V6 GTV?
The Alfa flatters your driving. You remember all the details that you have observed or listened to over the years - like the time
in Brazil, when Gilles drove you back to the hotel and never stopped the rent-a-Fiat once, despite gridlocked traffic. For all
the sudden driving down one-way streets, however, for all the kerb-hopping, Gilles taught me the fundamentals:
'Never, ever, drive with you hands in anything other than the 10-to-two position. And by that I mean never take your hands off
the wheel, even when you're going slow. I never learned anything at racing school except that - and I tell it to everyone I
know. Even at very slow speeds you need two hands on the wheel. Never forget it.' Gilles went on to show me how he
flat-shifted - how he changed gear without lifting his foot from the throttle. Not to be recommended to the likes of you and me,
it was proof of this guy's exceptional co-ordination. On another occasion, at a test for the French Grand Prix, I recall the
entire Ferrari team looking up in horror as the sound of tortured rubber and engine filled the air. We ran round to the back of
the pits - and there was Gilles, face creased in laughter, handbrake-turning a Fiat 132. Having thus procured his audience -
most of Schecter's mechanics had come to watch - he pulled off a perfect turn into a 132-wide parking space. To loud
applause, he then calmly walked to the pit apron.
Carlos Reutemann was another one. Show him an empty car park, preferably a converted field in Austria, and Carlos will
carve out a lap and then drive on it for hours, seeking that perfect balance between opposite lock, throttle and
angle-to-the-apex. Carlos had two heroes in his life - Ingemar Stenmark, the downhill skier, and Walter Rohrl, the rally driver.
Stenmark he loved for his ability never to be more than 7-12 degrees out of line - something Carlo regularly achieved in a
grand prix car; Rohrl, Carlos believed, was the master of driving in fog. He was so impressed by Rohrl's driving of the
fog-blanketed Ardeche stage of the 1981 Rally of Portugal, for example, that he taped, for inspiration, the word 'Ardeche' into
the cockpit of his Williams. Carlos frequently argued with himself about the best way to drive quickly in fog. Should he use
peripheral vision and look at the sides of the road - or should he look ahead, into the short and middle-distance? I still need
to obtain Carlos's latest thinking on the matter, but on a recent trip to Buenos Aires, I was amused to see two small pieces
of blue tape added to his Peugeot. One marked the 12 o'clock position on the steering wheel. The other was wrapped around
its windscreen wiper. Line up the two from behind the wheel and you had a straight line to the centre of the car. I'm still not
sure exactly how the system works - but it works, I'm sure of that. Nothing devised by Carlos Reutemann, Senator of the
Republic of Argentina and probably presidential candidate, is a waste of time.
Then ther was the time at Silverstone when I discovered what eyesight was all about. I set off for a lap, strapped into the
passenger seat of a racing-spec Renault. Next to me, helmet on, was one Jody Scheckter. It wasn't wet: it was English
summer wet. Cars ahead were planets of spray. The noise of the rain was louder than the buzz of the engine at maximum
revs. We jumped from puddle to puddle. The car was putting down maybe 20 percent of its available power. I couldn't see a
thing. We were running blind.
It wasn't until Stowe corner, however, that Scheckter flicked on the windscreen wipers. Suddenly, a cloud lifted and the track
appeared ahead of us.
Not for long though.
'Wipers annoy me,' said Jody: 'I can see more without them.' He turned them off again. We ran a further three laps blind - or
so it seemed to me.
TWO WEEKS AFTER THE ALFA RUN, I bumped into Jody Scheckter at the gym. Nearly 20 years on, he has not changed
at all. He still pumps iron. He still does three-figure stomach crunches. His preoccupations today are the racing careers of
this two sons, both of whom have inherited the Scheckter talent. I remind him, though, of the Maranello trip back in '79 and of
the chocolate-brown 400.
'Great car,' he says, hand on chin. 'I sold it soon after that. Wonder where it is now…' What did he remember from that trip?
'Having fun,' he says. 'And that moment in the tunnel. Gilles said nothing. It must have been close, even for me.'



'A good day's work'
Gilles is without a car so Jody will take him to Monte Carlo and lend him his Fiat. They'll stop at the Cavalino to pick up some
fruit.
'Well, that was a good day's work,' says Scheckter as he drives out into the Modena rush-hour traffic. 'We seemed to get a
lot done.' He curses as he gets stuck behind a truck that wants to turn right.
Sweeping south, with light rain pelting hard at 120mph, Scheckter and Villeneuve are the perfect team-mates. Gilles starts
playing with all the switches, including the gearbox selector, while Jody overreacts to the traffic. If there is any rivalry, it is in
their not taking advice from one another.
'Fuel gauge looks bad, Jody. Maybe we should stop for gas. Look, there's a station ahead.'
'No, you can never trust the gauge. Long way to go yet. Besides, I'll keep me money longer.'
A few minutes later the 400 coughed, coughed again, and died. Scheckter slammed the selector into neutral, swayed the car
from side to side, and coasted silently down the autoroute. Gilles failed to suppress a laugh.
Scheckter being Scheckter, the Ferrari came to rest beside another parked car - a French-registered Fiat. Gilles sauntered
round to ask the man about his puncture - and returned with a fuel can, much to Scheckter's delight. We drove away again,
with Scheckter remarking smugly that we should have pinched the man's wallet, just for good measure.
He was driving quickly for a wet road, but Gilles sat back in comfort and almost fell asleep. Keeping him awake were bursts
of braking and incessant requests for new cassettes. We were now on the dual carriageway that runs parallel to the coast
from Ventemiglia to Nice. Tunnels through the mountains every minute or so. Concentration required, even for Scheckter.
Two-thirds through one of them we saw a flashing light. There was a truck on our right and a parked car - in front of the police
car - on our left. We were doing about 120mph at the time, and Scheckter hit the brakes hard. They locked and he hit them
hard again, but by this time there was no more room. Scheckter twitched the wheel, made an apex on the left-front corner of
the truck and slid through the gap, literally slid. We were doing no less than 90mph, and such was the change of direction
that we came out with big oversteer. Big, even for Scheckter.
In the Ferrari, Villeneuve had done nothing nor said nothing, which is as big a vote of confidence as Scheckter is ever likely to
get. But you could see it had been a moment, even by their standards.
'D'you see that bloody policeman! Parked there with no warning at all. That's unbelievable.'
And then, as they realised how close it had been, there was nervous laughter.
'Why did you leave such a gap on your apex Jody? Must have been at least two inches away from it…'
The trip was slower after that, but we reached Monte Carlo soon enough.
First published in AUTOCAR, w/e 30 June 1979.
Reproduced by kind permission of Haymarket Motoring Publications Limited.

[Jeroen Brink]

This is simply great stuff.

(Actually the name of Peter Windsor pops up unexpectedly in relation to more great names. Intriguing).

[Gary C]

FYI : Peter Windsor used to be Nigel Mansells' race engineer at Williams in 86/87 (I think), but has since left F1 to become a motor racing journalist. He also does TV stuff; things like the Goodwood Revival Meeting for Speedvision.

[Jeroen Brink]

Thanks. And before that, was he not one who was able to enter the secluded world of Reutemann? In what capacity was he with Jody & Gilles?

[Marco94]

Windsor was a race engineer? I was always under the impression he was teh Williams PR man.