The quietly brilliant Michele Alboreto is fading into F1 history. He deserves more respect

Yet in Alboreto’s case he relented. Here was a driver who was demonstrably quick, had won grands prix in unfancied machinery, and possessed the calmness, the discipline, and the technical acuity that Ferrari valued. Michele was not a showman; no, he was a craftsman. He was not volatile; no, he was measured. He was, in short, a driver who might be able to withstand the pressures that came with racing in rosso corsa.

So it was that in 1984 Alboreto became the first Italian to drive for Ferrari in F1 since Arturo Merzario in 1973. It was a significant moment, laden with expectation, but Michele handled it with characteristic composure. The 1984 Ferrari was not a match for the dominant McLarens of Niki Lauda and Alain Prost that season, but it was competitive enough on its day, and Alboreto made the most of it. His first Ferrari victory arrived in only his third grand prix for the Scuderia, at Zolder, and he added three further podium finishes across the season. Quietly and efficiently, albeit not by a huge margin, he shaded his team-mate René Arnoux, a driver of formidable reputation and undeniable speed.

If 1984 had established Alboreto at Ferrari, 1985 elevated him into genuine title contention. That season he was better still — faster, more consistent, more assertive, and more fully attuned to the demands of both car and team. He won twice, in Montreal and at Nürburgring, and he collected a string of podium finishes — at Jacarepaguá, Estoril, Monaco, Detroit, and Österreichring. But the 1985 Ferrari was unreliable, and, as the season wore on, its frailty became decisive. He led the F1 drivers’ world championship chase until round 11, Zandvoort, whereafter a cruel sequence of DNFs followed — at Monza, Spa, Brands Hatch, Kyalami, and Adelaide — each one the result of mechanical failure rather than driver error.

He nonetheless finished second in the 1985 F1 drivers’ standings — and, had the gods of reliability been kinder, and had fortune been more favourable, he might well have been F1 world champion. That he was not should not obscure the quality of his campaign, nor the extent to which he outshone his team-mate Stefan Johansson, by a degree greater than that by which he had bested Arnoux the year before.

The years that followed were more difficult. From 1986 to 1988 Ferrari found itself outclassed not only by McLaren but also often by Williams and even Lotus, and Alboreto’s opportunities to fight at the front diminished. He continued to drive with grace and intelligence, and thereby to score podium finishes, but his machinery was no longer equal to his ambitions. Moreover, a younger team-mate had arrived, the audacious and assertive Gerhard Berger, and, drawing on his natural bravura and bravado, he began to edge Alboreto for outright pace. It was a period of transition, for both driver and team.

When Ferrari eventually let Alboreto go, it marked the end of his time at the sharp end of F1, as it so often does when the Scuderia tires of one of its erstwhile favourites. From 1989 to 1994 Michele moved through a succession of much smaller teams — Tyrrell once again, then Larrousse, Footwork, Scuderia Italia, and finally Minardi. For those who had watched him in his prime, it was poignant indeed to see a driver of such refinement wrestling with cars that could do him so little justice.

Yet, if you looked closely — if you paid attention to the subtleties — you could still discern the old pedigree. The smoothness was still there. The intelligence was still there. On occasion — especially in 1992, in the neat and lithe Footwork FA13 — he showed that he could still produce points finishes that seemed to defy the limitations of his team, a reminder of what he had once been and of what, in different circumstances, he might still have been. But his year with Scuderia Italia, 1993, was a disaster, during which he failed to qualify for five grands prix and scored no points at all. He drove his 194th and last grand prix at Adelaide in 1994, for Minardi; he qualified 16th and he retired with suspension failure 12 laps from the end.

Alboreto’s talents were not confined to F1, however. In the early 1980s he had enjoyed success in the World Sports Car Championship, with Lancia, mastering the demanding and high-powered prototypes of that era with the same blend of speed and sensitivity that was already characterising his single-seater career. So it was no surprise that, after stepping away from F1, he returned to sports car racing with vigour and vim.

The crowning achievement of that phase of his life’s work came in 1997, when he won the Le Mans 24 Hours in a Joest Porsche. He remained competitive à la Sarthe in the years that followed, now with Audi, finishing fourth in 1999 and third in 2000, and by 2001, aged 44, he was now becoming a real force in sports car racing. He began his 2001 American Le Mans Series season by winning the prestigious Sebring 12 Hours, one of many race victories that would contribute to Audi’s winning that year’s championship by a street. But Alboreto was destined to do no more of Audi’s winning, nor indeed any other team’s, for a month later came tragedy. Testing an Audi R8 Le Mans car at Lausitzring, he suffered a catastrophic left rear tyre failure at 190mph (306km/h). The car slewed out of control, and crashed. He was killed instantly.

It was a vicious and shocking end for a man who had given so much to motor sport and, even in his forties, still had so much more to give to it. Racing, by its nature, carries risk, but that does not make such losses any easier to bear, and in Alboreto’s case the global motor sport community’s collective sense of bereavement was compounded by the knowledge that he had always conducted himself with such quiet dignity, such impeccable professionalism, and such understated commitment to delivering excellence.

For me the sadness was also personal. At the time of his death he had been working as an expert consultant for the Italian edition of F1 Racing, the magazine of which I was then global editor-in-chief. In that role I now had the privilege of interacting with him not merely as an observer but as a colleague. He was exactly as one would hope: thoughtful, articulate, generous with his insights, and entirely free of ego. He spoke about racing with clarity and passion, but never with bombast; he analysed drivers and teams with fairness and precision; he carried his experience lightly, without ever needing to proclaim it.

When the news came through, it hit us hard. Barbara Premoli, the editor of our Italian edition, was devastated. We had lost not only a contributor of rare quality, but also a man whose presence had enriched our magazine in ways that went beyond words on a page. There was a gentleness about him, and a humanity, that made his death feel all the more acute. Even now, a quarter of a century on, I find myself thinking not only of the driver he was, although that alone merits remembrance, but also of the person he was: knowledgeable and wise, yes, but also gentle and courteous.

Michele Alboreto was a grand prix winner in unfancied cars, a world championship contender in a Ferrari, a Le Mans winner, and, above all, a driver of rare sophistication. As the silver anniversary of his passing approaches, let us remember him not with muted nostalgia, but with the appreciation and respect that his talent so richly earned and still so abundantly deserves.