The anticipation of my very first Le Mans race was indeed overwhelming, after all this was one of my many goals in motorsports, and here it was only moments away from my anxious boarding the plane at LAX to Paris. Once underway, I settled in for a nap and reflected on the ultimate world endurance racing circuit.

The flight was to be my first big challenge, as it was loaded to the max with people from all walks of the universe, speaking languages I was unfamiliar with. Needless to say, cramped seating, over stressed air conditioning soon put a damper on my nap with condensation dripping in more than droplets. Little did I know this was to be the norm in the next coming few days.

This was the year Tony Adamowicz got a chance to drive the race of his dreams in the #57 Ferrari.

Tony and co-driver Chuck Parson came home a distant 10th place out of 51 starters.  The race was marred by scores of accidents and torrential rains that played havoc with the Ferrari’s electrics.  On the last lap the car stopped completely and with the help of some spectators, Tony pushed it from White House curve across the finish line.

In June of 1970, the anticipation of racing at Le Mans for the first time was slightly overwhelming. After all, to compete in this classic race had been one of my major goals, and here I was moments away from boarding a plane at Los Angeles International for a flight to Paris. After takeoff, I settled in for a nap, but instead I ended up reflecting on the events that had brought me to this point in my life.

At Daytona, our NART team came 4th and 5th overall, and 1st and 2nd in class, Mike and Sam finishing 15 laps ahead of David and me. So my first association with Ferrari had been moderately successful.  While I had been paired with Piper before at Daytona, and also at the Monza 1000 km in a Porsche 917, my co-driver for Le Mans would be Chuck Parsons of Can-Am fame.

When the plane landed in Paris, no one was more anxious to get through customs and pick up a rental car than me, and in short order I was headed toward the Sarthe. After checking in at the hotel where the NART team was staying in downtown Le Mans, I drove a few miles south to the circuit.  The first practice session would not be held until the following afternoon, so I took the opportunity to drive around the parts of the track that went on public roads, and to walk the section between the White House and the Tertre Rouge that was reserved for racing.

On my walk, I couldn’t help but notice the numerous plaques and crosses along the edge of the track, marking the spots where both drivers and spectators had lost their lives. The first such memorial I came upon was in the Dunlop bend where Walt Hansgen, one of my mentors, had been killed in a Ford GT40 during testing in 1966. Despite the fact that my tour of the circuit had been quite sobering, when I returned to the hotel early that evening, I was nevertheless ready for a good, hearty meal.

We were joined at dinner by some of the Goodyear folks, who were staying at the same hotel. It turned out to be quite a memorable meal, the food delicious, the wine excellent, and the conversation peppered with stories of Le Mans races past. Chuck, my co-driver, had arrived by now, and we spent some time going over things. Chuck had been to Le Mans once before, in 1967, when he had driven a Ferrari 365 P2 with Ricardo Rodriguez, so he had some experience driving on the circuit, which he now shared with me.

The following morning, I had my first experience with “continental” accommodations. Not only was the bathroom down the hall, but one had to stand in line to use it. There was no thought of a relaxed morning constitutional. You got on with the business at hand and made way for the next man.  Welcome to France! After breakfast, the team members piled into several cars and headed for scrutineering, which was held in downtown Le Mans, in the shadow of the city’s beautiful cathedral.

Everything was proceeding smoothly until it came time for us to undergo our physicals.  When Chuck was five years old, he fell off a car shattering his hip.  He didn’t complain much, so nobody realized how badly he was hurt.  His hip was allowed to heal shattered, and he wore special elevator shoes for this condition as a boy.  In 1957 he went to the Stanford Hospital in Palo Alto, California to have 2 inches taken off his left Femur to level him out, but still walked with a pronounce limp.

The French doctors were apprehensive about allowing him to race.  The fact that Chuck was a successful Can Am series driver and had driven at Le Mans before somehow didn’t factor into the Gallic equation.  There was little we could do but wait for the arrival of the team owner, Luigi Chinetti, who was fluent in French and well versed in dealing with overzealous officials.

Being Italian, he knew the best way to handle the situation was to make them an offer they couldn’t refuse. While we weren’t privy to the conversation between the ACO bureaucrats and Luigi, the rumor spread quickly that if they didn’t allow Chuck to compete, NART would withdraw both our 312 and the 512 that the team had entered for Ronnie Bucknum and Sam Posey. This got the attention of the officials, and Chuck was given the green light to race.

The scrutineering at Le Mans has always been quite a spectacle, but we had no problems, and the ACO sticker was soon in place and stamped – the officials had already ended up losing one battle with Chinetti, so they weren’t going to risk another confrontation. 

Each car must have at least two drivers.  A maximum of four hours at the wheel must be followed by a rest period of at least one hour.  At race’s end, neither driver may exceed a total driving time of fourteen hours.

During the two days of practice and qualifying, I had ample time to learn the circuit and get comfortable with the 312. There was a virtual armada of big 5-liter Ferraris and Porsches in the field, so our chance for an overall win was remote.  If everything held together, however, a victory in the 3-liter class was a possibility, and here our main competition would come from the 3-liter Porsche 908s, of which there were originally three.

During practice, the #28 Martini Porsche 908, driven by Dieter Spoerry, collided with Jack Brabham’s Matra 650.  Brabham continued on, but poor Dieter’s 908 leaped the guardrail and broke in half while cartwheeling into a ditch.  His shoes were torn from his feet, but he was unhurt.

For the race, battle for the class win would come down to the two Porsche 908s versus one lone Ferrari 312 P.

The start of this year’s race was unique in the history of the event in that the traditional “dash-across-the-track” start by the drivers had been abandoned for safety reasons, and instead everyone was strapped into their cars, which were lined up at an angle along pit row.  One moment there was total silence, then the starter’s flag dropped and there was a cacophony of sounds as the engines fired in unison, and a massive cloud of dust and exhaust as the field shot away.

The opening stages of the race were uneventful for us, and when Chuck pitted for fuel after one hour, I slipped behind the wheel of the 312 and was soon circulating around the 8.5-mile track at a steady pace.  The car was running perfectly, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself when, around dusk, the heavens opened up and the rain began to pelt down with such intensity as I have never experienced before or since in a race car.

Our car, being a coupe, was very aerodynamic, and thus well suited to the high-speed Le Mans circuit, but watertight it was not.

The air scoops up near the windshield, designed to cool both driver and the various radiators, now acted as rain and spray collectors, funneling water directly into the cockpit.  It wasn’t more than a lap or two after the downpour started that I was soaked to the skin.

It was just coming down in buckets and it was a miserable race for most people. My co-driver, Chuck Parsons, said, “You can drive the car as much as you want. Whatever the minimum I have to do, that’s what I want.” He wanted nothing to do with it. Le Mans was new to me, but Chuck had been there before.

While Ferrari had given a lot of thought to the design of the 312 P, one thing they had not given any thought to was drainage of water from the cockpit.  After an hour of driving through the blinding rain, a good inch filled the floor board. On acceleration, cornering, and braking, it surged back and forth in great waves, lapping around the pedals.  When I pitted to hand over to Chuck, I pointed out the problem, and the crew quickly set about drilling holes in the belly pan to allow for drainage.

When I took over later that evening, I found that the holes kept the water at a manageable level, but the heat from the engine and front radiator had now turned the damp cockpit into a sauna. The windshield continuously fogged up, and I found myself driving most of the course with one hand on the wheel and the other trying to keep the screen clear.   For my next stint, I resorted to an old remedy I had used several times before while driving in the rain. I asked one of the crew if he could find a raw potato, and a short time later, after a quick trip through the food stands behind the pits, he reappeared with one.  When I took over from Chuck, I was armed with the potato, now sliced in hal, and, by rubbing it on the inside of the windshield, visibility improved considerably.

The relentless downpour that continued through the night now began to affect the electrical system, and from time to time the engine would miss or the lights would flicker, but there was no time to relocate, or try to waterproof anything during the short pit stops.

We just had to keep going and hope for the best.  Between the rain and the fogged-up windshield and the electrical problems, we were having a tough go of it – but not as tough as many other competitors.  Mechanical problems were plaguing most of the teams, and the foul weather had caused many crashes.  As a result, we were slowly working our way up in the standings.  At the end of the fourth hour, we had moved up ten places to 15th.

By midnight, much to our delight, we found ourselves in 11th.  But soon I would experience a harrowing moment.

It was right before I was due in for a routine pit stop in the wee morning hours, that I had one of those moments in racing that you never forget.  I had just passed the main grandstands and was in the middle of the Dunlop Bend when the car suddenly began to hydroplane.  This had happened countless times before on the rain-soaked track, but on the previous occasions the tires had only lost adhesion for a second before regaining grip.  This time, however, I realized that I was out of control…and heading directly for the outside guard rail- exactly where Walt Hansgen had crashed.

In desperation, I cranked the steering wheel hard to the right in an attempt to induce oversteer and spin the car, at the same time bracing myself in the seat for what I was sure would be the inevitable crash.

Then the front tires bit just enough to start the tail around and, as if in slow motion, I could see the reflections of the lights from the carnival area to the right, and the huge yellow Shell sign to the left, whirling around in the windscreen.

At some point in the middle of what I think were three 360-degree spins, I both heard and felt an impact at the rear of the car.  During my multiple gyrations the engine stalled and, as luck would have it, no cars were following directly behind me.  So when I finally slid to a stop, everything was eerily quiet.

I was totally disoriented, not sure which direction I was headed, then suddenly, directly overhead, a yellow light began to flash and I was engulfed by the high-pitch scream of race cars passing to my front and rear.  It quickly dawned on me that I had come to a stop directly underneath the Dunlop Bridge, and was parked across the track perpendicular to the oncoming traffic.  Not a healthy place to be!  It didn’t take more than a second for me to regain my composure and, when I did, my first thought was, “If you know what’s good for you, Adamowicz, you better get the hell out of here!”

To my great relief, when I mashed the button on the dash the starter motor began to whine, and then, reluctantly, the 12 cylinders came to life. I shifted into 1st, spun the car around and then drove slowly toward the esses. I had no way of knowing how much damage had been done to the car, but all four tires felt intact, so I crept around to the pits where an anxious crew was waiting.

Although the damage to the tail section of the 312 was not extensive and could have been patched up with pop rivets and gaffer tape, the team had brought a spare section with them, and they decided it would be quicker to replace the entire rear panel than to make repairs. After the car was refueled, Chuck climbed in and waited while fresh rain tires were mounted, and the replacement tail fitted.

The field was so depleted by this point that even with the spin and the time lost in the pits for repairs, we hadn’t lost a single position.

When the sun finally rose on Sunday morning, we were up to eighth place.  The incessant rain had finally stopped and the engine seemed just as strong as ever.

We had moved up to sixth spot by noon, and held that position through the first two hours of the afternoon.  Then the electrics began to act up and we dropped back to ninth and finally to tenth.

I was behind the wheel at the finish, and when the checkered flag fell, I decided I would take one final lap around the circuit rather than pull directly into the pits. We had made it through a very tough race, and I wanted some time to reflect on what we had accomplished before it all ended.

But as I came through the Indianapolis Corner for the last time, the engine began to misfire badly, then between Arnage and White House, it gave up the ghost entirely.  We had come this far only to break down on the cool-off-lap!

When I looked over at the battery and saw that the terminals were smoldering I knew this was the end of my ride. There was nothing left to do but to climb out of the car and push it the remaining mile or so to the pits.  Seeing my plight, several spectators on the side of the track jumped the retaining fences and began to help me.

First one, then two, then three, and before I knew it there were people all around the car, joining in.  I slid back behind the wheel and with “people-power” rather than “horsepower,” I slowly rolled toward the grandstands.

Chuck suddenly appeared from out of the crowd, carrying a huge bottle of champagne, and then an informal victory wreath someone on the team had made found its way around my neck. The outpouring of adoration from the crowd, and the satisfaction of achievement I felt at that moment, will be etched in my memory forever. What an incredible experience my first Le Mans had been!

With several spectators helping, Tony pushed the car from Whitehouse to the Ford Chicane and on to the finish. Although they came home in 10th place, they were technically unclassified for not completing the minimum allotted distance. Classified or not, it was a moral victory and bottles of Moet champagne were passed around to anyone remotely involved.  It was a fantastic day for Porsche, who had finished 1st, 2nd, and 3rd. The 917 of Attwood and Herrmann won the event overall, the Porsche 908 of Marko and Lins won the “sports protototype” class, the Index of Performance and the Index of Thermal Efficiency, and the little 914/6 of Ballot-Lena and Chasseuil the GT class.

I didn’t see Chuck for 26 years, but in 1996 we would meet again in Phoenix to sign the Battle of the Titans, a print commemorating the 1970 Le Mans (print available at autosportsltd.com).  As we scribbled our names 500 times, Chuck and I reminisced about the race. How much it had rained. How the windshield had kept fogging up, and how I had used the potato to help cure the problem. How I had spun under the Dunlop Bridge, and then at the end, how I had been forced to push the car back to the pits.  And yes, we also reminisced about what a really great car the Ferrari 312P had been.

The Le Mans connection

We were pitted just down the road from Steve McQueen’s Solar Productions team that was running a Porsche 908 in the race, equipped with three movie cameras. A short time after Chuck pulled back out on the circuit, the actor-turned-driver walked down to our pits and asked me what had happened.

I gave a quick synopsis of my hair-raising spin, after which he said, “I don’t think our camera car caught it. Do you mind doing a retake?” Back safely in the pits I could laugh at his suggestion but parked under the Dunlop Bridge a short time earlier, the humor of the situation would have been lacking.

Below are the remains of the camera car 917K, after driver David piper blew a tire at Arnage while ahead of Parkes’ 512 Ferrari.  The Porsche crashed into barriers at both sides of the track, broke in two, with both halves coming to rest in a ditch.  The crash cost Piper his lower leg.  Fortunately the aft camera seat had been removed.  None of these shots appeared in the movie.

David Piper, you may recall, had been Tony’s co-driver at Daytona four months earlier.  David owned his own 917K, and asked Tony to drive it at Monza a few weeks later.  It was the beginning of a fine friendship.  Piper eventually mended so well nobody could tell he lost a leg, and Tony would drive his 917K on three continents.

Believe it or not, the 917K was so valuable, it was reconstructed with help of 917-034 chassis and body.  Retaining its original chassis number, the rebuilt car went on to win the Daytona, Monza, and Zeltweg races the following season!  Considering how “right” a car must be to win, those mechanics were miracle workers!

The evolution of the 312P to the 512 series

By Tony Adamowicz

The evolution of the 312P into the 512 series took a lot of thought by the Ferrari factory to design a noble successor to the 312P.

The 312P had a very strong chassis with an upright F1 3 liter engine.  Truly a well-balanced machine shelved because of the advent of the 5 liter program introduced by the FIA for The World Manufacturer’s Championship.  This was to be the Ultimate Battle of the Titans between Ferrari and Porsche.

I first saw the 512 long tail version at the 1970 Le Mans.  NART had one for Sam Posey and Ronnie Bucknum.  The factory had theirs as well, but all was not well with the driver’s impressions of the car, mainly severe high speed instability and braking approaching the Mulsanne corner.

I too had my problems in the 312P that I shared with Chuck Parsons.  NART opted to sell the car I co-drove with David Piper at Daytona and with Luigi Chinetti, Jr. at Sebring; to a French buyer.  Pierre Bardinon I believe.  What we had to work with at Le Mans was the bubble roofed car that was designed for Mike Parkes tall torso.  I would have preferred the normal roofline for esthetics and overall reduced frontal area for the fast straights at Le Mans.  Neither Chuck nor myself needed the extra clearance of the bubble but removing it was out of the question.  This was the first time I drove this 312P and the bump steer was diabolical.  It took some convincing to have NART check the alignment, including having Goodyear officials approaching Mr. Chinetti, explaining the problem.  Reluctantly the alignment was done and the car regained its normal beautifully handling characteristics.

Compared to the 512s we were considerably slower on the straight, with a good tow I managed to reach about 210 mph, compared to the 220-225 mph by the 5 liter cars.  We would concentrate on  a class win, while the 5 liters would have to deal with the overall position.  We knew we would have an edge on fuel economy and with the projected rain weather forecast, we could be contenders for a top tenth place.  Talking to both drivers of the 512, I came to the conclusion that they suffered much instability with their car because of improper alignment.  Once that was taken care of, the transition of the NART 512 S Long tail was bearable, but not pleasant to drive in the dry weather or the rain.

Gary Wheeler:

Three years later, Sam Posey did a lot of test driving for AAR’s new F-5000 Eagle.  As a young designer for Gurney, I drove to Willow Springs once with Sam, and was enthralled by his vivid account of driving the long-tailed #11 512 Ferrari at the 1970 Le Mans race.  He said at night in the rain and fog, he could only drive about 100 mph on the Mulsanne straight before the car would wander all over the track.  Of course, he was in everyone’s way at that speed, so was certain to get rear-ended.  He gritted his teeth, increased speed incrementally, and found it didn’t get any worse as he upped the speed about 10 mph each lap.

Eventually he found himself going flat out, but the car continued to feel like it was going to kill him at every moment.  In fact, it was spinning the tires over the tops of the undulations.  At night.  In the rain.  In the fog.  At 225 mph.  He said he literally resigned himself to the fact that he would not live through the night.  Yet he and co-driver Ronnie Bucknum finished 4th overall.  Sometimes angels work overtime….

Long tailed cars have less aero drag, so were fielded to take advantage of the 3-mile Mulsanne strait.  The emphasis was on low drag, so these cars had minimal downforce hence less traction.

They also lacked the aero drag at the rear – that helped stabilize all the other cars.  In effect, they lacked the stabilizing drogue chute effect that comes from any source of rear downforce.

Finally, their aerodynamic center of pressure was far aft of the CG, so they weathervaned in crosswinds.  Basically, in the interest of top speed, they were aerodynamically unsound.

Interestingly, Tony would drive this same #11 car (but with a conventional short tail) to an outright victory in Ecuador in 1971.  That turned out to be the only first place finish ever enjoyed by any Ferrari 512M or S.

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