the myth, the accident, Enzo Ferrari- Corriere.it

He came and said: I sold the house to buy a car.
I know very well that one day I will end up having a terrible accident.

The first sentence of Joann Villeneuve. Her second her husband’s, Gilles. A few words to compose a comprehensive picture: the beginning and end of a romantic, intense and tragic existence. Life and death of a man moved by one childish villainy, so manifest as to generate a particular form of affection. A child, a reckless son that you can’t straighten out. Useless reproaches, constant worries and, finally, a surrender of helplessness in the face of an incorrigible nature. That’s why we’re here to remind you Gilles Villeneuve, died in Zolder, Belgium, forty-one years ago, May 8, 1982, in a pyrotechnic accident like many others. Uprooted from the cockpit of his Ferrari while vainly attempting yet another speed exploit. He couldn’t, he shouldn’t have. Yes, but there was no way: Gilles ran trapped in his own deliberately heroic destiny.

The chapters of this story are part of a collective memory studded with touching, always repeatable images. Gilles appeared physically frail. An unknown and exuberant boy, perfect to be adopted by the Great Father of motoring, Enzo Ferrari
. Betrayed by a son of a completely different kind, raised to the point of standing up to him, Niki Lauda; annoyed to the point of putting a whim of his on track, disguised as a candid fairy tale. That little Canadian snowmobile champion, touched by the magic wand of the Cavallino, transformed into a prince in a red suit. There is romance here too. There is absolutely everything to keep this one close to us adventure that belongs to an extinct world, nothing to do with this F1, with these pilots who have been automated since childhood by computers and simulators, guided by a highly refined network of interests. Villeneuve, a unique piece. That Gilles starts instantly: a collision with Ronnie Peterson, the myth of him; a flight over the crowd, two dead, him walking back to the pits as if nothing had happened. Second race with Ferrari.

He wanted to be the fastest. On the kilometre, on the lap, on the highway. To do that, forced, exaggerated, destroyed. Stuff that today would produce license withdrawal. Wheels dragged, ailerons torn off, nets and walls. The more he dared, the more he liked it. Six victories, as daring as any defeat, the loyalty typical of the child to accompany Jody Scheckter towards the 1979 title. A man, unlike him, to be respected. And then motorboats and helicopters piloted without judgement, the records from toll booth to toll booth, smoking tires. The vicissitudes of a naughty incapable of saving, treated as amazing acts of generosity. Therefore loved like Hector, destined to fall. Enzo Ferrari went wild looking at the shards. He held the point, his bet, swallowing anger and criticism. he was a champion of combativeness… I loved him. He said it after Villeneuve’s death.

an epitaph that hides more than a bitterness and eliminates the suspicion that Gilles’ time in Maranello, in that 1982, had expired. Didier Pironi promoted to favorite, mysteriously authorized to disobey keeping Villeneuve behind him at Imola, where Gilles began to die in a furious ardor, expressed in that fateful round at Zolder, 13 days later. Voted as it was to an early end, as per prediction and premonition and therefore immortal. Pain and love for an accomplished fairy tale to be reread endlessly. Cleansed of every shadow, for the bittersweet taste of regret.