Österreichring was a track which lent itself to legend

August used to mean a flight to Vienna, then a three-hour drive to Styria, at the foot of whose mountains sits perhaps the greatest race track on earth. The Österreichring produced the unexpected, the memorable.

At that first Grand Prix in 1970, one of the Ferrari's countless resurgences was beginning, Ickx and Regazzoni racing away to a 1-2 on a torrid afternoon. The crowds had come in expectation of another victory in a summer of triumph for Rindt and the Lotus 72, but the Fates were wilful. Jochen retired that day. His people were not to know they had witnessed his last Grand Prix.

The following year Jo Siffert enraptured everyone with his BRM victory devasted by the recent death of Pedro Rodriguez in a stupid little Interserie race, BRM needed shepherding just then, and Siffert nobly stepped forward.

The Austrian Grand Prix had an unpredictable quality that was beguilling. In 1975, for example, Vittorio Brambilla took his only victory there. In torrential rain as well as thunder and lightning he put his renowned lack of imagination to work, and was in the lead when they stopped the race. Over the line he went, waving his arm in exuberant salute and then the revs raced, and the orange March disappeared in a waltz from our sight. It was crumpled when it returned from its slowing down lap, but I have never seen a more joyous winner.

For the rest there was no reason to smile, nothing to detract from the stark tragedy of the morning. In the warm-up Mark Donohue had gone over the fence at the Hella-Licht Kurve, then uprotected by a chicane. He was conscious, even talking, afterwards, but had suffered a huge blow to the head from a scaffolding pole. By lunchtime the extend fo his injuries was known in the paddock, and a couple of day later he died.

Most memories of Zeltweg and his majestic circuit are fond ones. John Watson winning for Penske in 1976, only victory for Shadow next year, Ronnie Peterson's drive in the rain in '78, his last victory, and perhaps his greatest, Elio de Angelis beat off Keke Rosberg's hard challenge by about a foot in '82, Niki Lauda winning his home race at last, two years later, Prost coping with a dying engine in 1986, winning and keeping himself in contention for the championship, Mansell's unforgettable sleight-of-hand pass of Piquet in '87.

More than anything, though, I remember the feel of the place, the sense of well-being, the impression of a great occasion. On a hot day it seemed like quite a step up the hillside to the Boschkurve, but the rewards were immense. Any ilussion you could do this thing yourself were dispelled in a moment at the Boschkurve. Or the Rindtkurve, for that matter, or any of half a dozen other spots around the circuit.

And then Bernie took the race away, transported it to Budapest. He had his reasons, presumably, but none are apparent to any simple lower of Grand Prix racing.

Some years the races ran back to back we went to Hungary, then to Austria the following week. On the first of those occasions I bumped into Bernie in the tunnel at the Österreichring. He was in genial mood. "Good to be here, isn't int?" It was, and I agreed. He hadn't said, "Good to be here after the Hungaroring, isn't int?"but I thought it implicit in his tone.

Österreichring - Part 2

Nigel Roebuck