The constructors’ championship celebrates 100 years — after a bumpy start 

The FIA Formula 1 World Drivers’ Championship turned 75 in May. Later that month the series for constructors celebrated its centennial. For Vanwall did not win the first of these in 1958 as commonly thought. Alfa Romeo did – in 1925.

Bugatti won the next (1926). Delage dominated the one after that. And that was (not quite) that. Having suffered a painful birth, this idea ahead of its time endured a protracted demise. Its remaining three editions were embarrassments unworthy of a world champion. So none was declared. Yet this was at a time of rapid growth for motor racing: the poster sport for The Speed Age. A Bugatti advertisement laid claim to 501 victories in 1926 alone. No doubt these included the most minor of events – as well as the World Manufacturers’ Championship – but it is no exaggeration that fans in France and Italy stood a good chance of seeing their heroes in the flesh given the proliferation of rudimentary road courses/street circuits hosting healthy fields unencumbered by proscriptive regulation.

The governing body – not for the last time – was out of touch, and blind to both the dwindling interest from manufacturers and the rise of the cult of the (mainly privateer) racing driver. Unhelpful factors were beyond its control: a worsening global economy; and the fatal accident that befell the period’s most famous driver. But nor did it help itself. An unpopular formula change increased costs – reduced weight and increased rpm have never come cheaply – and consequentially shrinking grids would result in the most farcical grand prix: a lonely trio of the same make droning around a bland, desolate and windswept oval.

Its hands-across-the-sea entreaties were admirable – and reciprocated to a friendly degree – but engine capacity was the singular truly transatlantic uniformity. For American fans travelled to steeply banked board tracks – that most niche specialism – to watch the world’s fastest races: braking and changing gear were for other folks. Their heroes were professional, too, well recompensed for their risk. The Indianapolis 500 would make very little play of its part in a world championship. A standalone event, it had no need of European validation.

Codified global motor sport had been mooted in 1923 by influential French journal, L’Auto. The response was mixed; and the suggested formats were bewildering in their variety and complexity. The idea eventually coalesced when Italian representation on the recently created Commission Sportive Internationale (CSI) – a more inclusive arbiter than the l’Automobile Club de France (ACF) that it superseded – cut to the quick in January 1925.

Undoubtedly keen to capitalise on Alfa Romeo’s likely continuing superiority, it proposed a series of five races, of at least 800km, for GP cars complying with the existing (since 1922 in Europe) 2-litre formula: minimums of 650kg (dry) and ‘two-seater’ cockpits of 80cm width. Points were to be awarded according to a manufacturer’s best result at: Indianapolis; the GP d’Europe – an arbitrary honorary title, on this occasion handed to Spa-Francorchamps; the GP de l’ACF; and the British and Italian GPs. The best four – three in reality – of these would count towards the final standings.

There was a twist, however. Eligibility for the 70,000F first prize – and 30,000F bronze trophy – was dependent on the mandatory contesting of a manufacturer’s home GP, as well as the Monza finale. A tie was to be broken by a 200km winner-takes-all, to be held in Italy within two days of its inconclusive GP.

The Paris-based l’Association Internationale des Automobile Clubs Reconnus (AIACR), forerunner of the FIA, gave its enthusiastic if naive blessing. It had failed to read the room. Those 20 starters representing seven manufacturers from across four nations – France, Great Britain, Italy and America – at the 1924 GP d’Europe, hosted by Lyon and won thrillingly for Alfa Romeo by Giuseppe Campari, was a zenith. For now Fiat, creator of the 2-litre GP car’s template, was deafeningly silent, conspicuously absent. Rolland-Pilain, winner of the 1923 San Sebastián GP in Spain, had pulled its competitive plug. And Sunbeam of Wolverhampton, winner of that year’s GP de l’ACF at Tours, was laggardly suddenly.

The European contingent at Indianapolis in May 1925 would number just one: a privateer Fiat. Much more surprising was that only Alfa Romeo and Delage bothered to show up at Spa in June, for seven starters in total.

The former race drew an entry of quality over quantity – its joint second-smallest, at 22 – which was dominated by 16 pencil-thin (and therefore theoretically non-compliant) single-seaters by Miller, a specialist selling mainly to wealthy and/or sponsored individuals. The victory, however, went to Duesenberg, the sole major US manufacturer willing to compete still; an expensive compunction that had cost sporting brothers Fred and Augie control of their eponymous company.

Alfa Romeo won the latter race. That it stopped for a languorous lunch while doing so was apocryphal. Such hyperbole, however, was understandable given this well-practised team’s advantage over a poorly prepared rival: three of the four Delages retired within the first six laps (of 54).

“The Delage was still no match for the well-proven Alfa Romeo P2 in the hands of Ascari”

It had been an unedifying beginning for a championship already at its halfway point. For the British had had to politely decline its invitation due to impending litigation over noise levels at Brooklands. Even greater store, therefore, was placed on July’s GP de l’ACF – Europe’s standalone – on the newly constructed artificial road course of Montlhéry. Sunbeam had joined the fray, as had Bugatti, and so a stronger field of 14 took the rolling start.

The powerful twin-supercharged V12 Delage, though improved, was still no match for the excellent handling, road-holding, acceleration and braking of a well-proven Alfa Romeo P2 in the hands of Antonio Ascari. The runaway winner at Spa – almost 22min ahead of team-mate Campari – leapt into another lead and pulled away remorselessly. His forcefulness, sustained even when rain swept through at quarter-distance, animated a dull affair. A late switch to running the course clockwise had been criticised by some as being dangerous – but not by the bold Ascari, on the eve of the race. Others, Sunbeam’s Henry Segrave prominent among them, thought that the Milan-based car dealer was simply trying too hard to win Europe’s first big-bucks prize: 150,000F. Certainly, he paid dearly for a fractional error.

Catching paling fencing on the inside of a fast corner, the dark-red machine tore up 130yd of it before pitching into a fateful roll. Confirmation of Ascari’s death would cause Alfa Corse to withdraw after 40 (of 80) laps. Florid coverage of his laying in state in Paris, processional homecoming and thronged funeral far outweighed the continuingly feeble promotion of the championship.

Yet a counterintuitive points system – one for first place; two for second; three for third; four for a classified finish (i.e. all laps completed); five for a DNF; and six for an absence – had given rise to a three-way decider: Alfa Romeo and Delage were level on 12 points ‘lost’, with Duesenberg closely ‘behind’ on 13.

Albeit a battle skewed by the Montlhéry result – Campari had been leading by more than 2min when called to a respectful halt – at least September’s showdown had a hook. Which Delage then used to pop this balloon! It preferred the easier pickings of the non-championship San Sebastián GP to being Alfa Romeo’s whipping boy. Run to AIACR rules two weeks after Monza, it was rumoured that Italy had vetoed this Spanish race’s inclusion. The CSI wasn’t all harmonious inclusivity.

More politicking elsewhere thankfully confirmed Duesenberg’s presence. That is to say: USA’s best versus Europe’s. The Contest Board of the powerful American Automobile Association (AAA) had used it as a bargaining chip in its quest for recognition as the national governing body. The AIACR’s favouring of the smaller but well-connected Automobile Club of America was a contributory factor to a long-running US feud.

Duesenberg took its opportunity seriously, arriving in Italy with a vast array of equipment. By the time of AAA’s release clause, however, its Indy 500 winner and national champion, Italo-American Pete DePaolo, had offered his services to Alfa Romeo. (This was accepted once Tazio Nuvolari had crashed injuriously from a sensational but brief Monza assessment of his potential: fantastically fast; and worryingly wild.)

Driven by Tommy Milton and ‘Pete’ Kreis, and modified to meet Europe’s interpretation of the 2-litre rules – though their steering wheels remained (theoretically illegally) central within widened cockpits – the Duesenberg’s centrifugal supercharging was expected to sing on Monza’s dished oval, whereas the more flexible delivery of Alfa Romeo’s Roots blower would surely be more advantageous on the layout’s road course section. Perhaps this affair was going to be closely fought after all.

Kreis grabbed the lead but unproven braking and transmission hampered the Americans thereafter. He spun out. His team-mate led on occasion, despite having just top gear for the majority of the race, before a 20min repair of an oil pipe cost Duesenberg its chance. The persevering Milton eventually finished fourth – behind the fastest of the eight 1.5-litre voiturettes bolstering the field to 15.

Thus a weakened Alfa Romeo – Campari, badly bruised by a practice crash, and DePaolo, learning a new car – was crowned world champion manufacturer thanks to Count Gastone Brilli-Peri’s victory. It encircled its badge with a celebratory wreath – where it remained until 1972 – and decided to rest on its laurels rather than build a car for the new GP formula for 1926: 1.5-litre and 600kg.

Louis Delage was sympathetic. In an interview with WF Bradley, continental correspondent for The Autocar, he explained: “The time has arrived to call public attention to the unsatisfactory nature of the new racing rules… [these] are not conducive to progress, for they are engendering a type of car which does not have a beneficial reaction on the normal automobile.”

These ‘toolmaker’s jobs’ were not only too expensive, but also – and contrary to the AIACR’s hopeful intention – would be faster, he intoned, particularly on artificial tracks that “do not tend to all-round development”.

Not that mercurial Louis could resist building several of them.

“Delage drivers had to dunk feet burnt by the exhaust pipe into buckets of water”

The ACF, predicting a laughably optimistic bumper entry for its GP at Miramas in June 1926, set a limit of 40, which it envisaged being reduced to 30 for the final by a series of heats. Yet Delage had intimated that it would not attend. (It didn’t.) Alfa Romeo’s presence was extremely doubtful. Fiat remained tellingly silent. Sunbeam was chasing the better PR afforded by breaking the Land Speed Record. Daimler, which would merge with Benz out of financial necessity the day after the race, was holding a watching brief. French Talbot was running late and out of money. Itala’s ambitious V12 was unready. Sima-Violet’s 60bhp flat-four unsupercharged two-stroke was considered a joke…

Only Bugatti was ready to race: three started and one was classified as a finisher. “That’ll be 100,000F, thanks!” The crowd was small, and the ACF made a huge loss. But it deserved to.

Six cars started the GP d’Europe at San Sebastián – three Bugattis and Delages apiece – and two were classified as finishers after a brace of disqualifications because of the latter’s use of unauthorised drivers. (They would be reinstated in October. But the moment had gone.) Bugatti, which had at last bolted a supercharger to its impressive reliability, was again victorious.

Delage won the inaugural British Grand Prix at Brooklands in August – the legal ‘noise’ had silenced – albeit in the absence of ‘works’ Bugattis, and despite their drivers having to dunk feet burnt by the exhaust pipe into buckets of water. But once again it would duck the denouement. Because Bugatti merely had to make its mandatory appearance at the Italian GP in Monza to be assured of the title – it won a GP of two finishers nevertheless – Delage decided its time would be better spent refitting its toolmaker’s jobs.

Though this formula was already officially dead in the water – it would be allowed to flounder for one more season – Delage went to the crippling expense of shifting its engine leftward, and of turning its cylinder head through 180 degrees, so that the exhaust exited away from the driver. This doubling-down resulted in a genuinely great GP car. What opposition it didn’t frighten away – even Bugatti fought shyly – was meagre at best, and Robert Benoist won all four European rounds of the championship in 1927.

What might have been was hinted at when Fiat unveiled its new 1.5-litre at September’s Milan GP (run for three capacity classes) at Monza. (Organisers, understandably fearing that the main event might fall flat, would wisely run a free-for-all support race.) The ‘twin-six’ Tipo 806 proved sufficiently fast for an admittedly tired Benoist, the world championship now assured with one round remaining thanks to his solo effort in tricky conditions, to baulk at the idea of a five-lap sprint against a foe likely scaling significantly less than the AIACR’s new 700kg minimum.

It was all too little – just six cars started that GP d’Europe – and too late.

A delusional AIACR refused to give up on its global dream. (Yes, America’s board tracks had been ripped up, but the AAA ‘Junk Formula’ of 1930 was even further removed from any GP aesthetic.) Its latest rules were freer. They were ignored even so. Just one race complied in 1928. Its fuel limit formula from 1929-30 was equally ‘well’ received.

Finally, it got the message: AIACR’s 1931 championship would be Formule Libre, European in scope, and for drivers. Though it couldn’t resist imposing a 10-hour duration on its three rounds. An ill-judged decision – another one – that it would be forced to rescind for 1932.

Not that its ‘clients’ knew what they wanted. Their moaning caused a manufacturer element to be included in this second iteration. Alfa Romeo won that one, too.