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From Dr. Helmut Marko
I still remember the day Jochen Rindt died as if it were yesterday. On September 5, 1970, I sat in front of the radio with the other two from our old clique and watched the qualification at Monza. Jochen had already won five races and was clearly leading the World Championship. With a victory in Italy, he would hardly have been beaten in the World Cup. So we cheered with our friend from Graz.
It was not a live report, but rather there were flashes of the final training. Suddenly they were talking about a serious accident of Jochen Rindt in the Parabolica corner. The news of his death came much later. We were stunned, it was kind of surreal, we couldn’t believe that we would never see our friend again. Right now!
Because he was past the wild years. He had survived serious accidents, had been aware of the risks of racing for a long time and had reduced his extremely risky driving style. Jochen even seriously thought about leaving the world champion after the season. I had gone to see him in Switzerland a week before the accident, where we talked about it.
He had signed me up for his Formula 2 team for next year. You should go to Emerson Fittipaldi. You have to know: at the time, Formula 2 was almost as important as Formula 1 and was considered the best springboard for Grand Prix racing. Jochen had dominated her for years. It didn’t matter now, he was dead! That night we escaped from the terrible reality and got drunk without will.
Memories of youth
The movie of my youth ran silently through my mind again. When we sailed through the vineyards of Graz with an old beetle. There were always four of us. We had developed a system to improve ourselves. One was driving, the other three were sworn. If the jury found that the driver was not driving the last corner to the limit, he had to give the wheel to the next. There was never any doubt with Jochen. When it was his turn, he did not give up the wheel. He was the wildest dog of all, with a vehicle control that I have not experienced in this way to this day.
The funeral at the central cemetery in Graz was the largest event Graz has ever experienced. All Formula 1 back then was there. When a trumpeter played Jim Morrison’s “The End”, Jochen’s wife, Nina, collapsed. Afterwards, I couldn’t participate in the meal together. I had to be alone.
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Jochen was always the German for us. He was born in Mainz, where his parents owned a spice mill. When his parents were killed in an air raid in Hamburg, Jochen went to his grandmother in Graz. But he always kept his German passport. From the beginning he drove with an Austrian racing license, but it was not until he celebrated his first successes that the public adopted him as an Austrian.
The spice mill in Mainz, which he inherited, once helped us out of trouble. Jochen and I drove to the Nürburgring as fans of the German Grand Prix. Shortly before Mainz we ran out of money. We then headed to his spice mill that he was always so proud of. The night porter wanted to call the police because he thought we were hippies. We were only saved when Jochen, the chief secretary, rang the bell. He recognized his boss and gave him money from the box. We could go on. We slept in the car anyway.
Incredible charisma
In the late 1970s, Jochen was posthumously honored as a world champion. The trophy was presented to his wife Nina. But the title wasn’t just what made Jochen so special. He had incredible charisma and the charisma of a pop star. His accident triggered a kind of daze that I only experienced again after Ayrton Senna’s accident.
Without Jochen there would never have been a racetrack in Austria, perhaps never a driver in Formula 1. Because he was the initial spark for all of us. Dietrich Mateschitz was also a great admirer of hers. He has his old autograph that he should treasure. Even today there are still fresh flowers on Jochen’s grave and the candles are constantly lit. I visit it often. Always alone, but never on September 5.
