Targa Florio: Lap of the Godfathers

We stop and look back at the start/finish. It’s that shot of Arturo Merzario powering away in his 312P at the start of the ’73 race, crowds spilling on to the road, right there. A gap in the fence allows us to wander through the crumbling concrete stands. A monument to the Targa’s father, Vincenzo Florio, sits shaded under trees and, as is typical of such places, the atmosphere is still, quiet and spooky. Signage is visible, but fading fast, and I’m surprised how neglected these familiar buildings appear. They’re derelict, but at least they’re still standing.

We press on towards Cerda. Here, the roads begin to sweep, but there is still too much traffic to really enjoy the Ferrari. Vic told me the road is now 50 per cent wider than it once was – so single-track, then.

We enter the bustling small town of Cerda and recognise the long high street that climbs slow and straight. At the top it sweeps left then immediately into a long right. Today, traffic restricts us to a crawl. According to Elford, “At the top end of Cerda in the Porsche I was the only one in fifth gear. That was over 170mph.” The street is virtually unchanged and such speeds, attained while locals stood applauding from their doorsteps and balconies, are almost impossible to imagine. This is what I came to Sicily to discover.

My notes from the conversation with Vic read: “After 2km there is a junction – turn left. This is where the wheel of my 907 fell off in ’68. There’s a wall about 10 feet high where spectators were standing. They jumped down and lifted the car back on the road for me.” So this was where it started, the great comeback. Elford, sharing the Porsche with Umberto Maglioli, lost over 18 minutes at this spot, then set off on one of the greatest sports car drives in history, smashing the lap record on the way (see page 60). It’s why his name is still whispered with reverence in these parts.

As we climb away from Cerda, all signs of traffic melt away. The Ferrari is in ‘sport’ mode now and we begin to press on. But there is never a moment’s peace. The stunning, rugged scenery is wasted on us because there is too much to do: second-gear right-hander, accelerate up to third with a tug of the right paddle, flick the left for a satisfying blip down to second (this car makes me sound so much better than I am!) and turn in. And so it goes on. How could anyone remember this?

As the road plunges down into a valley and begins to climb towards Caltavuturo, Vic’s words echo: “I had a photographic memory. Having come from rallying, when I learned the Targa I realised I was writing imaginary pace notes in my head. It was the same as the Nürburgring – I knew every inch.”

On the Targa, drivers could practice weeks in advance on the open roads, but still Redman’s words strike a chord: “I never knew any of it. How do you remember 950-odd corners?”

There was also the road surface to contend with. It’s not very good now, and although period reports explain attempts to resurface sections, it couldn’t have been much better then. Earthquakes, landslips, floods – they’ve all left their mark. Round a blind bend in the low-slung Ferrari and you’re likely to find a cracked step in the surface – perhaps there’ll be a temporary road sign, perhaps there won’t.

Back to Vic’s notes: “Just before Caltavuturo turn left and go downhill. Pass under the autostrada and climb up to Scillato (don’t go into the town, it should be on your left).” Now we slow down for the next town and look for more famous landmarks: Collesano.

This is the birthplace of one Nino Vaccarella, the revered local hero who triumphed for Ferrari in 1965 and for Alfa in ’71 and ’75. Here, we find the hairpin so often photographed from a bank looking down on the street. This is Vaccarella’s corner, where he crashed out in front of his faithful in ’66, where they’d daubed ‘VV – Viva Vaccarella’ on the sides of houses.

From the turn, the road plunges into a walled right-hander, again popular with the photographers. But where’s the graffiti now? Much of it has been scrubbed clean or lost to newly built walls, but if you look hard enough not all of it is gone.

We take a break. We’re only 48 of the 72km in, and we feel like we’ve been driving for hours. In 1970 Leo Kinnunen smashed the lap record in 33min 36sec, at an average of a shade under 80mph. I’m getting some perspective now.

The official Targa Florio museum is easy to find in Collesano (there are also two private collections open to the public in Cerda and Campofelice), and is signposted 200 yards off the main street. They don’t speak much English here, but it doesn’t matter. The collection of photographs, the drivers’ overalls and helmets on display – they speak for themselves.

We’ve arranged to meet a friend of Vic’s here at the museum. Giuseppe Valenza is a local with the Targa in his blood – and he speaks good English, which is useful. He has big news: we are to meet the man himself. Nino will see us this afternoon, but not here – in his apartment, of all places, in the city of Palermo.

Signs around the island herald a much-anticipated visit from the Pope, but we’re not interested in the Pontiff. On Sicily, the nearest thing to God begins with a V…

Our new best friend leads us out of Collesano to complete the ‘Piccolo’ lap and the last leg down to Campofelice. As Vic said, it’s “pretty fast and downhill”, but also busy with traffic. For now, my mind is on other things besides the Ferrari and the winding roads.

Palermo is a shock to the system after the Madonie. The bright yellow Ferrari sticks out somewhat as we nudge carefully through the congested streets. Young Sicilian boys and girls, bare-headed, in T-shirts and shorts, stare as they cut us up on scooters, and we quickly cotton on to why so many of the cars bear the scars of city life. Traffic lights mean little, roundabouts – well, you just plunge in and hope. That £15k paint job is at more risk here than in the mountains.

We cling to the brake lights of Giuseppe’s Alfa and ride the Ferrari’s horn until we finally pull up by one of the many towering apartment blocks. I’m sweating despite the air-con.

The old-fashioned elevator is only big enough for two and we push open its door to emerge into a dim hallway on the fourth floor. This is the no-frills home of the racing teacher, the hero of all Sicily.

The Man opens the door to us. Receding grey hair slicked back into a flick at the neck, cream slacks, beige loafers (no socks), shirt open almost to the navel and a giant gold medallion nestling against his abdomen – complete with Prancing Horse insignia. Then there are those heavy-lid eyes, staring into us with more than a glint of old warrior pride. He smiles and then Nino Vaccarella welcomes us into his home.

The neat but small apartment is a shrine to motor racing, and notably it is Ferrari that dominates, on his bookshelves and in the pictures on his walls. Giuseppe is here to help with translation, but ‘Ninni’ is irrepressible and spouts forth a glorious torrent of broken English.