But Zandvoort 1985 was also laced with tragedy, for Lauda’s last hurrah was undercut by the cruellest of codas: the day marked the final time that Stefan Bellof would start an F1 grand prix. One week later, the brilliant young German was dead, killed at the age of just 27 at Eau Rouge during the Spa 1000km, his Porsche 956B making contact with Jacky Ickx’s Porsche 962C and spearing off into the barriers with terrible finality.

Bellof had not yet won in F1, nor even stood on an F1 podium, but his talent was incandescent. He might have won in a dog-slow Tyrrell in torrential rain at Monaco 1984, had not clerk of the course Ickx – yes, the same Jacky Ickx – unilaterally stopped the race to advantage Prost, who had been in the lead at the time. And Bellof’s lap record at the Nürburgring Nordschleife in 1983 – a 6min 11.13sec scorcher in a Porsche 956 – remains one of the most astonishing feats in motor sport history. He was raw, impish, and as quick as anyone has ever been. But his final F1 grand prix was not a last hurrah, nor anything like one, for he drove it to a lap-40 engine failure in another dog-slow Tyrrell, having qualified 22nd, 4.162sec adrift of Nelson Piquet’s Brabham-BMW pole time. Seven days later he was dead.

And what of Zandvoort itself? To those of you who may be familiar only with the modern version, the old place must seem a relic. But it was a true driver’s circuit: fast, narrow, undulating, windswept, and unforgiving. The Tarzanbocht at the end of the start-finish straight invited intrepid lunges, but only from the brave. The back half of the circuit wound its way through the dunes like a rollercoaster for grown-ups: one mistake and you were in the sand. The margins within which the courageous and skilled operated were thin, the rewards for their skill and courage correspondingly immense.

Today’s Zandvoort, reworked to suit modern safety diktats, local government planning protocols, and digital marketing objectives, lacks its predecessor’s grandeur and gravitas. Yes, it delivers colour, noise, razzmatazz, and orange flares by the ton. Yes, it packs in Max Verstappen’s barmy army like sardines. But in 1985 what we had was Zandvoort pure.

So let’s return to that race, and specifically to a microcosm of its gripping denouement. As Lauda and Prost began lap 69 out of 70, charging nose to tail down the main straight, slipstreaming at 200mph (322km/h) like a couple of Indy aces, Prost nosed his McLaren almost alongside into Tarzan. But Lauda – by then as canny as any racer has ever been any time, any place, anywhere – held the inside line, albeit staying wide enough not to compromise his turn-in too deleteriously while also pushing his would-be assailant onto the less grippy outside line. Alain braked later, but Niki held the apex with his trademark sangfroid. For a moment they were almost side by side, but by the time the two cars had reached the next corner, Gerlachbocht, Lauda was ahead. And although Prost ducked and dived only a metre or two behind Lauda throughout lap 70, the final tour, it would stay that way.

After the race, Prost was magnanimous. “Niki was perfect today,” he said. “He made no mistakes. He knew where to be quick and where to defend. I had the quicker car at the end, but not the wiser head.”

We had greats from three bookended eras on the podium that day: Lauda, the seasoned campaigner and near retiree; Prost, the apprentice professor, still learning from Lauda, but already the world champion elect; and Senna, the brilliant, fiery, luminous prodigy. It was a passing of torches, compressed into a spray of Champagne in the sea-salt-tinged Zandvoort air.

Motor racing is not a sentimental business, but some of its appeal is nonetheless built on memories. So, as we gather, now, in late August 2025, awaiting the 37th Dutch Grand Prix on a racetrack that borrows the name but not the soul of the original, it is worth our pausing to reflect – not out of melancholy, but out of reverence. These stories, these races, these men – they made the sport what it is.

This weekend, when the V6 hybrid power units whine where V8, V10, and V12 engines used to howl, once more among the dunes, spare a thought for that day 40 years ago. For Lauda, famous for his battered body and his unbowed spirit, finessing one last victory; for Prost, Lauda’s lieutenant who was now ready to become a general; for Senna, restlessly awaiting his moment; and for Bellof, about to be lost far too soon.