WORTHY OF THE NAME

It was one of those bone-cold, muddy-sky, northern European days as a steady drizzle dampened Formula 1 qualifying, rooster tails blossoming behind all the cars. The 1984 European Grand Prix was being held at the just-opened “New Nürburgring,” and while the mechanics’ air guns sounded their dentist-drill shrieks, readying the cars for the next day’s race, Michelin gathered its drivers into a room for a meet and greet with the press.

We slowly made our way clockwise around the room, chit-chatting and shaking hands. Eventually, I paused and looked down at a slim, young driver in an unzipped Toleman racing suit. He was so beat that he was slumped on the floor against a wall, staring across the room in either a daze or maybe a trance. I extended my hand, and the little-known Ayrton Senna looked up, politely smiled, and lightly shook it.

Thirty-five years later, I’m closing my hands around the black leather steering wheel of the million-dollar supercar named after