ALBERTO ASCARI:
FERRARI'S FIRST
DOUBLE CHAMPION

By Karl Ludvigsen.
Published by Haynes.

The Ludvigsen/Haynes series seems to be ticking over nicely. With Stirling Moss, Jackie Stewart, Juan Manuel Fangio and Dan Gurney already in the catalogue, Alberto Ascari has now been added to the ranks. It's pretty hard to argue with Karl Ludvigsen's selection of drivers, although the appearance of each new book invariably brings to mind another dozen names that would also be worthy additions to the series. (The next installment is apparently already in the works, with Emerson Fittipaldi set to take his turn in the spotlight).

There seems to be an inverse relationship between the distance of the period during which a particular driver enjoyed his heyday and their appeal to publishers as the subject of a book. In other words, the earlier the driver's era, the slower their books sell. (And, it follows, the lesser the chance that a book will actually make the leap between manuscript and publication in the first place). Consequently, the appearance of a book on any driver who is named something other than Moss, Fangio, Senna or Clark and raced any earlier than the late eighties is a minor miracle and should be welcomed with open arms.

Ascari doesn't enjoy the profile accorded to some other drivers of the era (that's what he gets for being a contemporary of Fangio, I guess), but if accounts from his time are anything to go by, the man could certainly drive. Indeed, Fangio considered him to be his greatest rival, while Mario Andretti, who as a youngster saw him race at Monza and was hooked on motorsport from that moment on, described him as having a "greater influence on my life than anyone else."

In common with fellow World Champions Damon Hill and Jacques Villeneuve, Ascari entered the racing world in the shadow of a famous father. Antonio Ascari made his name behind the wheel of Alfas during the 1920s. His death in the 1925 French Grand Prix at the age of 36 instilled Alberto with a deep tendency toward superstition that played a major role throughout his life – which ended, as he had dreaded, in an accident when he was within three days of being exactly the same age as his father had been when he was killed years earlier.

Ferrari during the Ascari era was a team that had yet to transcend the boundaries from being a 'mere' Grand Prix manufacturer to the all-but-mythological entity that it is today, although there can be little doubt that the Milan-born driver played no small part in helping the team cement a following during the Championship's earliest years.

He was staggeringly popular, particularly in Italy, and his sudden departure from Ferrari for Lancia after his second Championship in 1953 was perhaps the equivalent of seeing Michael Schumacher team up with Frank Williams today.

It scarcely needs to be said that his life was an interesting one, and Ludvigsen, as always, does a good job of communicating the story to a reader.

The format of these books should be fairly familiar by now. A few bits and pieces about Ascari's childhood and family life are provided – indeed, it's unavoidable in this particular case, considering the stature of his father within the sport. But by and large this is an account of the younger Ascari's racing career, rather than a full-blown life story. That's not to say that you do not develop some feel for Ascari's character – you certainly do, and possibly to a greater extent than in some of the other books in this series.

One reason for this is that some of Ascari's particular character traits had a direct bearing upon his performance behind the wheel, and his famous observances of superstitions is one example. And while Alexander Wurz used to attract lots of attention for his preferences for mismatched racing boots, Ascari goes several giant steps further.

This was a man who would go to extraordinary lengths to avoid letting a black cat cross his path – and who would go to even greater lengths to avoid driving if, despite his efforts, a swarthy feline had managed to make an unwelcome appearance. He was superstitious about certain numbers, and also about his blue helmet. In the book, Gigi Villoresi offered an example:

"We had two boxes where we kept our helmets, goggles, gloves etc. They were both painted azure blue. Nobody – not even Mietta – was allowed to touch Alberto's box except himself. One day he was out lapping in the Ferrari and I had need of a little piece of white cotton wool to put in my ears, because in those days we did not have noise-padded helmets and I had forgotten to bring my own.

"So I opened his box. On top was a pair of gloves which I moved ever so carefully. Then I took a little piece of cotton wool. Then I put everything back exactly as I had found it. He stopped at the pits, opened his box, and said, 'Hey! Who's been mucking about with my things?' Obviously I had put those gloves back two millimeters out of place, no more." (p. 143)

Those with an historical bend will no doubt have either already bought this or added it to their wish list, but I do hope that a few of the modern-era fans take the time to check it out. Chances are that if you'd been born a few decades earlier, this is the guy you would have been cheering for, so it's worth finding out what you missed out on! Either way, this was a greatly enjoyable and informative read that easily maintains the standard set by the earlier titles in the series, and deserves a place on the shelf of any serious racing library.