Crossing the Amazon 
in a Red Lotus Esprit Turbo

A few weeks ago, I was invited to dinner by Franziskus Amazonas Julius Kriegs-Au. The man with this remarkable name stems from a noble family and is the owner of the former “Imperial and Royal Court Jeweler” Jul. Hügler. You can find “Amazonas” not only in the Wikipedia entry for our prominent contemporary, but also in his baptismal record. His father grew up in Brazil and wanted to see this fantastic time in his life continued in his offspring. The thirty-nine-­year-old lives with his wife and three children in a villa in Beverly Hietzing, a jovial nickname for Vienna’s upscale Hietzing district. While we were enjoying an aperitif in the study – he a Kir Royale, as befits his station, and I a grenadine and champagne cocktail with a hibiscus flower – I asked him to show me his fleet. “No problem, it would be my pleasure,” said the car enthusiast, who you will always find accessorized with a colorful neckerchief.

The following vehicles were lined up in his garage, like soldiers standing at attention: Aston Martin DB7 Vantage (2000), Bentley Turbo R (1991), Bentley Arnage (2000), Rolls-Royce Corniche convertible (1974), Mercedes-Benz Lorinser 560 SEC (1984), Porsche 928 S (1985, Martini Racing livery!), ­Citroën CX Prestige (1981), Citroën DS 21 (1970), Lotus Esprit Turbo (1985). I ran my free left hand over the DB7’s irresistible fish mouth (I was holding the cocktail glass in my right hand), walked on and stopped in front of the Lorinser Mercedes with dutiful admiration, although I think it’s quite a plebeian car and felt its presence here was completely inappropriate. But the last one, the red Lotus Esprit, the dream car of my childhood and early youth, made my heart leap for joy! I had a poster of the white Esprit S1 from The Spy Who Loved Me hanging above my bed. You know, the one that could transform into a submarine.

Amazonas sensed my longing, which was further heightened by the black “Turbo” lettering. He opened the door of the two-seater, which was parked at cellar window level, obligingly: “If you please.” I put the glass down on the floor and let myself fall into the Connolly leather–covered bucket seat. My legs horizontal, like in a race car. The flat windshield and curved instrument panel pressed up against me from the front, the high center tunnel squeezed in on me from the right, the roof weighed down on head from above, and the engine was right in my neck. That’s how it should be in a Lotus; every additional millimeter of space would only mean an additional milligram of weight. Colin Chapman’s doctrine, which I have been able to recite freely since I was three years old and which is one of the smartest things a human brain has ever come up with, is: “Adding power makes you faster on the straights. Subtracting weight makes you faster everywhere.” Friends of lateral gs, let’s submit a petition in Stockholm to have Colin Chapman awarded the Posthumous Nobel Prize in Physics. It’s now or never!

My gaze became lost in the green-and-yellow of the Lotus emblem on the small leather steering wheel and plunged into the depths of the years. I saw Jim Clark’s last victory (Kyalami 1968), I saw Graham Hill’s helmet with the white oar blades of the London Rowing Club, I saw Jochen Rindt’s wreck in the Parabolica at Monza, I saw Emerson Fittipaldi’s legendary sideburns and the little Italian-American Mario Andretti in his invincible Lotus 79. The ingenious Chapman had made them champions, even though Rindt was not destined to live to see it. He had always said: “At Lotus, I can either become champion or die.” And then he was dead and world champion, in that order, not everyone can do that. When I came back to the here and now, I said to Amazonas: “I have to drive this Lotus very soon, of course with you at my side.” – “Anytime, anywhere, my friend.” And with that, we called it a night.

Monday, January 13, 1975: Colin Chapman lands at London Heathrow Airport, returning from Buenos Aires after the opening race of the ­Formula 1 World Championship. The result for Lotus was disappointing: Peterson suffered an engine failure, Ickx came in eighth. Fittipaldi, of all people, won. The Brazilian had left Chapman overnight in 1973 and signed with McLaren. But on this day, none of that mattered. Chapman knew that Tony Rudd, the race engineer who had moved from BRM to Lotus and was now driving development of road cars at Hethel, was waiting for him in the arrivals hall. And Rudd had something to show his famous boss: ( ... )

→ Read the entire story in ramp #67.