Stirling Moss at Le Mans: he knew he was fastest and so did everyone else

Three years. Where has that gone? When news filtered through that we’d lost Sir Stirling Moss at 90, on the Easter weekend of 2020, there was little surprise. But still there was shock. How could there not? To say ‘Ciao’ one final time to such a man – to many of us, the epitome of the racing driver breed – was a moment of deepest poignancy and sadness.

Three years on, and just ahead of the 80th Goodwood Members’ Meeting, the absence of The Boy remains a chasm. As he grew older and particular after he retired from historic racing, we cherished each time Stirling appeared behind the wheel of one of his old cars, wherever it might be. He was prolific at the Goodwoods and far beyond, and just as well. It allowed us to make the most of him while we still could. How lucky we were.

Personally, Moss is never too far from my thoughts today, largely because episodes from his incredible career crop up so regularly, often in contrast or parallel to matters of the moment. Lately the Le Mans 24 Hours is a recurring theme as we prepare for the 100th anniversary running, and here the Moss connection remains powerful – even if he never won the great race, and also admitted it was a track and an event he never loved.

Stirling made 10 attempts at the 24 Hours, during a decade in which he set an emphatic benchmark in sports car racing to an extent greater than he did in Formula 1, at least until Juan Manuel Fangio had retired. His Le Mans record – two runner-up finishes, seven retirements through car failures and one withdrawal from the lead – left an obvious hole in his astonishing roster of achievements, and yet it never bothered him. Why should it? On each occasion, even in his final appearance in a GT car that had no hope of contending for the overall win, he was either the fastest or as near as damn it around the Circuit de la Sarthe. He knew it, and so did everyone else.

Remember it was in a sports car that he first made his significant mark on the emerging post-war motor sport world, in that astonishing victory in the RAC Tourist Trophy on the Dundrod circuit in Northern Ireland, in a privateer Jaguar XK120, on the eve of his 21st birthday. Most racing drivers then were older men, often war veterans looking for new kicks in life after surviving the bullets and shells of global conflict. Yet here was a callow youth showing them the way, and at a time when most Britons were still mired in the gloom of rationing, he was a beacon of hope towards a brighter, more optimistic future. Moss quickly became one of Britain’s best known and highly regarded sporting figures, as he would be for the rest of his life – and Jaguar was among the first to recognise his value when it signed him to a ‘works’ contract to lead its charge to win Le Mans.

In his four appearances for Jaguar at the 24 Hours, Moss set the pace as he would throughout the decade. But while he recognised the status and value of winning Le Mans, he never loved it. “Probably the greatest show in European racing,” he once told me, “but it was a race I never liked because it was too long. I think if I was racing now I’d enjoy it because today they go flat out from the start. In my day I was told to watch my revs: ‘look, use six-one, six-two here, use five-six there’.”

In May, Moss claimed his crowning glory on the Mille Miglia, then followed Fangio home at the Belgian GP. The pair were then paired together in a 300SLR for Le Mans, completing surely the greatest, most potent line-up in the race’s 100-year history. But their likely victory was whipped away by catastrophe. I’ve always thought Mercedes took the only decision it could have in the wake of the crash that killed Pierre ‘Levegh’, more than 80 spectators and left more than double that amount with injuries. In contrast, Jaguar’s call to race on and win hasn’t aged well – at all. But Mercedes’ perspective is not one that Moss ever shared.

“It struck me as a rather empty theatrical gesture, which came close to admitting some responsibility for what had happened…” Stirling maintained. “I was very frustrated when we were ordered to withdraw.” Insensitive, given the carnage – or just brutally honest? Perhaps both. But we can’t and shouldn’t try to judge his characteristic hard-nosed attitude by the values of today. He lived and raced in a different world.

A switch to Aston Martin following Mercedes’ motor sport withdrawal garnered another second place shared with Peter Collins at Le Mans in 1956, then a DNF with Maserati a year later. But his return to Aston in ’58 triggered more sports car feats, most notably at the Nürburgring and Goodwood. At Le Mans that first year in the DBR1 Moss had lapped everyone up to third place when he stopped with a broken conrod just after 6pm on the Saturday evening. “A beautifully balanced car, bad gearbox, difficult flat spot on the engine, but it did the job,” said Moss of the model. “It was never as nice to drive as the Maserati 300S, but it would beat it, and it was bigger. One of my favourite sports cars.”