Everything around Ayrton Senna had darkened on the eve of that May 1, 1994. A sadness hovered over his melancholic expression, which was always considered a kind of trademark of him. From the asphalt of Imola to his room in the Castel San Pietro hotel. Dinner at the Trattoria Romagnola, a photo for the young couple who was celebrating in the Castello hotel restaurant while he tried to somehow chase away those clouds. A colleague who died a few hours before, Roland Ratzenbergerand a miraculously alive friend, Rubens Barrichelloafter a violent exit from the track on Friday.
Two visits in two days to the medical center to try to digest the bitterest side of racing. And slaps not only for him. The last death on a weekend dates back to Riccardo Paletti, 12 years ago. Enough to think that it was better to leave everything. A weak hypothesis, already overcome. Or to listen to Sid Watkinsmedical director of F1, who suggested he stop: “You have won three World Championships, you are the best. You don’t need to risk more. Let’s go far away, let’s go fishing.”
It is beautiful and moving to imagine that, for a moment, just one, Ayrton was tempted to follow that advice, so unusual, so precious. But when he stopped he couldn’t, he didn’t want to. Michael Schumacher He had won the first two races of the year, while he did not add any victories. And not only that. That German, a competitive animal similar to him, drove an irregular car. He was sure of it, he had noticed it in Japan days before, on the track investigating the sound produced by the traction control. A prohibited device.
“Like an electric chair”
Yes, but winning was not easy. He had chased that Williams for a long time, his goal was to match Alain Prost, his nightmare, his double during four World Cups. Prost had retired. Without him there was less fun. It was like losing an accomplice, the best playmate. Besides, his Williams tormented him. “It was like being in an electric chair.” Uncomfortable, capricious, difficult to handle.
They had modified it, corrected it, even reducing the steering column to make room for the hands on the wheel. I would run, without a doubt. He would hide the Austrian flag in the cockpit, to be waved in tribute to Ratzenberger during the lap of honor. Take a deep breath. Maybe. Ayrton, what a fight. More was needed to find peace.
For the first time I was in the middle of a family conflict. The reason: Adriane, his companion, his love. Considered by her father and her mother an opportunist, a threat to be kept away. She to the point of having her phone tapped. This is attested to by the tapes delivered to Castel San Pietro by Leonardo, Ayrton’s brother, on the night of April 30. An affront, a provocation. After that of Ayrton, taking a photo with his wife on the family farm, on the outskirts of San Paolo.
They had come this far. She was staying in the house she had bought in the Algarve with Adriane, far from Angra dos Reis, the corner of his dearest affections. Anger softened by grief, annihilated by guilt. He was fond of his parents, he was grateful to them. He had corresponded, he had been strict, disciplined as required of a talented and successful son. However…
The Bible on the nightstand. God could always offer comfort, answers, absolution. A phone call to Adriane. A visit to Frank Williams, in the room below. The foundation’s thinking now underway. Children, young boys to accompany towards a first and true opportunity. It had been an obsession, and it was becoming a comfort. The contract with Audi to import cars to Brazil. She had closed it by discovering that he could handle himself as a manager, which hinted at some vague hypothesis for the future.
I had to sleep. She observed. She reflected. As happens to all of us when clouds darken our sky. A thread of tenderness, here, to win a night of tranquility. If it was the last one, it doesn’t matter. Ayrton certainly didn’t know that.