St. Christopher, Forgive Me!

Formula 1 can kiss my tailpipe. Every lawn mower sounds meaner than those strangled V6 hybrid engines they call the top class of motor racing these days. It’s ridiculous. You don’t go to a rock concert if the volume’s capped at living-room level. Only once in a blue moon – say, when I’m so bored I start wondering whether I’d rather be the Dalai Lama or Helene Fischer (I tend toward the Dalai Lama) – do I watch a race. Then I root for Oscar Piastri and McLaren. I just love how this twenty-four-year-old Australian babyface handles things, how stoic his expression remains even in victory. After he won this year’s Saudi Arabian Grand Prix with the composure of a seasoned champion, I simply had to applaud. And when I saw the beaming faces of his triumphant team on TV, I felt the urge to somehow share in their joy.

So I wrote my dear friends in England an email: “Congratulations on your recent moments of glory! That boy from Down Under will finally lead you back to fame and honor after such a long dry spell. But what about me? Should my loyal fandom go unrewarded? May I remind you that I haven’t had a McLaren Automotive Limited beneath my backside since 2023? As you know, it was the 750S – S as in superstar. I had the time of my life on the track in Estoril. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t think of it. Hoping I’ve successfully stirred a fine helping of guilt in you, I remain yours sincerely. Keep on racing!”

Two weeks later, in early May, there it stood in the garage at ramp . . . a McLaren 750S! The timing couldn’t have been better, because on May 9 the Jim Clark Revival was taking place at the Hockenheimring – a historic motorsport event with around five hundred entrants and more than thirty thousand fans, honoring the two-time world champion who lost his life there in 1968.

On May 9, I set off for Hockenheim. At some point on the A5, I saw for maybe the hundredth time in my life the sign pointing to St. Christopher's Motorway Church between Rastatt and Baden-Baden. I can’t say what was different this time. Why didn’t I, as always, just keep driving? At 332 km/h, I lifted off the gas. The Woking-built supercar coasted gently along. 310. 290. 250. 200. I signaled, took the exit, and a minute later was parked in front of a twenty-meter-tall pyramid topped with a cross. I silenced the race car at the push of a button. Then thought: You know what? Go on in. Say hello to old St. Christopher. After all, he’s the patron saint of motorists – and of all travelers, by land, sea and air. Countless legends surround this saint, supposedly born around 250 in either Canaan or in Lycia in present-day Turkey, though his historical existence remains doubtful. But no matter. Even Porsche named its customer magazine Christophorus.

I entered the futuristic church – consecrated on July 23, 1978 – through a colorful enamel door. A bright, 400-square-meter space. Simple altar. Benches arranged in a semicircle. In the northeast corner, a statue of St. Christopher showing him carrying the Christ child across a river. “Servus, Christo,” I said, “you’ve always looked out for me, even when the last bit of downforce went to hell and all four tires rebelled.” A stairway led down to the crypt – a place for prayer and reflection. Slightly eerie. Walls and ceiling covered in concrete reliefs. Another altar at the center, lit from above by artificial light. I stood there for a while. Then I was suddenly – quite literally, actually – enlightened. To give my visit a deeper purpose, I’d confess my worst driving sins to St. Christopher, seek absolution, and leave with the spotless conscience of an eighteen-year-old completing his novitiate. How cool would that be?

I went back up into the nave, took a seat in the last pew, and whispered: “Christo, listen. I’m going to tell you a few wild stories. My confession, so to speak. When I’m done, you’ll forgive me, okay?” But seeing as my list of offenses was long, I didn’t quite know where to start. I finally began with the craziest of all.

“Listen, Christo, I was in my early twenties and had my own race car – a Formula Ford 2000. Two days of testing at the Österreichring, today called the Red Bull Ring. I’d read somewhere that back in the sixties, the legendary Innes Ireland once drove his Formula 1 Lotus from the circuit to his hotel – and back the next morning to race in the Grand Prix. Thought that was the coolest thing ever. Had to try it myself.

“Ronnie, my mechanic, was about to load the car onto the transporter. ‘No need, Ronnie, I’ll drive it there myself.’ I was still wearing my racing suit. Slipped back into my helmet, pulled on the fireproof gloves, climbed into the cockpit, dropped the visor, hit first gear, and roared through the paddock on worn-out slicks.

“With a tidy four-wheel drift I swung off the circuit grounds and onto the public road. Ronnie and I were staying at a private accommodation ten kilometers from the track. My Reynard with its Ford-Kent engine made a proper racket. I was buzzing with excitement – and risk. I overtook three, maybe four cars in one go. Must’ve been quite a sight: a low-slung Formula car suddenly flashing past on a country road.

“Halfway there came the dramatic high point. A(…)

→ Read the full story in ramp #69 “More Than Machines”.