Horse Directory: Tazio Thoroughbred Horse Racing Results

Survey of Grimdark : a collection of civilian slices-of-life / opinions / explanations. Just a small personal map of interesting 40klore not-battles things.

u/sprgsml asked me to "write a list of all the threads that you have posted so far" about "more meat around the bones of 40k lore which is much deeper than just endless depiction of fantastic battles" because he "bets this is exactly why many scour this subreddit through and through".
It's just called 40klore, and we have awesome rulebooks, and wikis for this, haven't we..? Lexicanum/Fandom Wiki/Calixipedia/1d4chan However, I was told that the following mess of links is precisely the stuff some people hope to read about whenever they scour through this subreddit.
So, there's the collection of my posts and the posts of other users about the lore that I repost/reread most often, i.e., it's just a small map of 40k not-battles things interesting for me. It's not a 40k FAQ, it's for at least a bit advanced fans. And 30k things/Primarchs/Astartes are mostly excluded there, the list is mostly about 'casual' aspects of 40k universe, and things that reminds us how difficult (and possibly futile) it is to try to see 40k state of things from our moral/intellectual/etc. perspective.

GRIMDARK SLICE-OF-LIFE

Adeptus Arbites
Imperial Navy
Navis Nobilite
Holy Orders of the Emperor's Inquisition
Adeptus Mechanicus
Adepta Sororitas / the Ecclesiarchy
Astartes

XENOS are fine too

Rangdan/Slaugth/extradimensional stuff
Necrons
Orks
Eldar
The Great Devourer
Tau
Enslavers

"This field must be less than 40000 characters long." -- so the continuation with writeups (high-effort explanations and conspiracy theories) in comments THERE. And everything about our eternal God-EmperoChaos/Psychic Awakening THERE. And about the Chaos humans as an exotic form of the Imperial civilisation, morality and mysticism in a situation where the Imperium has completely degenerated THERE. And the naive and ignorant Dark Age of Technology THERE.
submitted by crnislshr to 40kLore [link] [comments]

Pre-War Racing (The Off-Season History Project

Well, here we are, the off-season. Thanks to Mulsanne, this year the off-season will not be just shitposting, but also a daily reminder about why Formula 1 specifically, and motorsports in general, is the coolest sport around.
So, to start, we get to talk about the ultimate in mobile death traps, pre-war racing.
There are so many incredible stories from this period that it is hard to pack everything in one text without turning it into a long book. Nuvolari, Caracciola, Chiron, The Bentley Boys, Varzi, Rosemeyer, Bira, Neubaer, Ferrari (both the man and the company), Lancia, Alfa Romeo, Renault, Peugeot, Mercedes' Silver Arrows, Benz, Daimler, Pinifarina, all these name and more were living, breathing entities in the years between the invention of the automobile and the first Formula 1 race at Silverstone in 1950.
So let us talk some of these stories (there were so many more left out) and how all of them culminated at Silverstone in 1950...
As soon as the automobile was invented, people started figuring out which one had the top speed, which one was fastest in a straight line, in a circuit, going up a hill, etc.
The first officially recognised race took place in 1894, between Paris and Rouen. Organised by Le Petit Journal, the race was for "horseless carriages" that should be "safe, easily controllable and reasonably economical to run". The first car home was Jules-Albert, Count de Dion, driving a De Dion-Bouton, a steamed powered car of his own making (most of the entrants were using cars they made themselves) that covered the 127 kms with an average speed of 17 km/h. Even if it was a pretty slow race for our standards, it was a very adventurous activity back in the 19th Century. Now we could say that, from the start, this was a formula race, since there were already rules in place, but the truth is that the only formula was having enough money to buy a car and time and willingness to join up and risk your neck in a race.
Now why would the paragraph above say that Count de Dion was the first car home and not the winner? Well, because the first race had the first post fact decision by the stewards and the win was awarded to Peugeot because De Dion's car was considered to not fit the rules, as it was not a practical road vehicle. And the FIA would not be created for more than 50 years... But I digress.
In addition to Peugeot, other names in that first race are still known to us, with Panhard and Benz also sending cars for the race (Panhard had their best car in P3, and the only Benz entry came home P13).
As the 19th Century ended, 1899 and 1900 saw more than 40 races happening all across Europe and America, with wins by Peugeot, Benz, Panhard, Renault (with Louis Renault behind the wheel) and Fiat (with Vincenzo Lancia driving in one of them) and a win by Alfred Velghe, who used the pseudonym Levegh (whose nephew would become infamous in the 1955 Le Mans disaster).
By this time, we can already see the first traces of modern motorsports, with races at Spa (in 1896), Pau (in 1900, in the Circuit du Sud-Ouest, the following year called Grand Prix du Sud-Oest - not a Grand Prix as we know it yet, though). At the same time, a few events were starting to be held every year, with the Gordon Bennett Cup, the Coppa Florio (and the Targa Florio), and the Vanderbilt Cup being the most famous ones.
Gordon Bennett Cup Race
The first "event" in the history of motorsports, the Gordon Bennett Cup Race was the brain child of United States millionaire Gordon Bennett, owner of the New York Herald, and the first one happened in France in 1900.
We could call it the first true formula race in history, as the cars had to have 2 seats (driver and mechanic, both must be under 60 kgs each, ballast would be added if necessary to bring the total weight to 120), with a dry minimum weight of 400 kgs and built completely in the country under which flag it was being raced under (again, bending the rules was already part of racing, as one of the Belgium entries was a French designed car, built under license in Belgium), as the race was not for individuals, but for nations to compete against each other, with a maximum of three entries per nation. The winner of the previous year would host next year's race.
In 1900, the race was from Paris to Lyon, with a distance of 568 km, and it took place in June 14. No maps were given, no track control was established, it was basically a "start in Paris, get to Lyon faster than everyone else" type of event. People on the roads, livestock and dogs, lack of signs, insane unreliability (hence the riding mechanic), everything was an obstacle to the teams, but eventually two cars reached Lyon, with the win going to Fernand Charron from France, driving a Panhard, in 9:09, with P2, and only other car to reach the finish line, arriving 90 minutes later.
The prize, a Panhard with the Genius of Progress driving and Nike, the goddess of Victory as co-driver, went to France and therefore the next year, the Gordon Bennett Cup Race was run in conjunction with the Paris-Bordeaux race. From 1900 to 1905, the last year it was run, the Cup Race would go to the United Kingdom (due to Selwyn Edge's win - more on him later), Germany and back to France for the last 2 editions.
The Gordon Bennett Cup Race also gave birth to what would be the traditional racing colours, an idea by Count Eliot Zborowski, father of future inter-war racing legend Louis Zborowski. Germany, USA, and France were given white, red and blue, so Britain raced with cars painted shamrock green (later known as British Racing Green), and Italy adopted it's now famous rosso corsa in 1907.
The Coppa Florio
First held in 1900, but renamed in 1905 when Vincenzo Florio offered the prize money and a cup to be given to the winner, the Coppa Florio happened until 1929 and was held in different parts of Italy, but after the 1914 race they were held along with the Targa Florio race (exception being the 1927 race, held in France in honour of Peugeot being the first manufacturer to win the race twice).
Among the winners, along with Peugeot, we have Fiat, Isotta-Fraschini, Mercedes-Benz and Bugatti (dominating the last races with the Type 35, which we'll get to in a second).
The Targa Florio
One of the oldest events in motorsports, first held in 1906, the Targa Florio was originally a race around the whole island of Sicily, a total of 148 kms (think even crazier Isle of Man Snaeffel Course). The first edition was 3 laps, for a mere 446 kms in total. It's really amazing that anyone completed that, considering the cars and the course. The winner took 9 hours to complete the race.
Because the track covers the whole island, the drivers would practice in the week before the race with regular traffic (yes, perfectly safe...). The track record for the long versions (duly called the "Circuito Grande") was 2 hours and 3 minutes by Achille Varzi in a Bugatti Type 51 during the 1931 race (average speed of almost 71 km/h).
The list of winners is a who's who in Italian racing in the early years, then getting more international from the mid 50's on. Nuvolari, Villoresi, Varzi, Taruffi, von Trips, Rodriguez (in the year he died), Bonnier, Bandini, Siffert, until the safety aspect couldn't be ignored anymore and the race stopped during the 1977 edition (the Italian police stopped it during the 4th lap after another accident with fatalities).
The makes that won the race are pretty familiar as well. Porsche is the biggest winner (the Porsche Targa was named after Porsche had won the Targa Florio a few times) with 11 wins, followed by Alfa Romeo (10), Ferrari (7), Lancia (5), Bugatti (5), Maserati (4) and Mercedes-Benz (3).
The Vanderbilt Cup
Held from 1904 on and off until 1968, the Vanderbilt Cup was the creation of William Kissam Vanderbilt III and the first regular motorsport event in the USA. Created to mimic the European events, it went on until the USA entrance into WWI in 1917, then re-started in 1936 with a Nuvolari win in an Alfa Romeo (with a certain Enzo Ferrari serving as team manager) and stopped again after the 1937 event (won by Rosemeyer in an Auto Union under the Nazi flag), then it was back again in 1960.
Learning from the Europeans, who had found a way to deal with the public backlash against a bunch of rich people running down people and animals on public roads, Vanderbilt built the Long Island Motor Parkway to hold the race (which also helped open Long Island with easy access and spurred the development of the area), which would then move to racetracks, like the European races, by then already called Grand Prix...
Some of the names that took part (and won) the Vanderbilt Cup are very important in the history of motorsports, both racers and manufactures. Louis Chevrolet (who went there from Switzerland to race and ended up staying), Vincenzo Lancia, Tazio Nuvolari, Bernd Rosemeyer, Nino Farina, Mercedes, Peugeot, Alfa Romeo, Auto Union, Chaparral (with Jim Hall at the wheel), Lola, Ford, the list is long.
It spurred the nascent motor racing scene in the USA and its success was instrumental in enabling all the other events (notably the Indianapolis 500) that came after it.
In 1907, a race between Beijing to Paris was held. If racing from Paris to Lyon was hard work, plagued by accidents and people getting lost, imagine what a race from China to France was like... However, they did it and covered almost 15,000 km in 2 months, with the winning entry being an Italian prince because, really, who else had the money and the time for this sort of folly?
Not to be outdone, the next year a New York to Paris (going through Asia, comme il faut) was held. It took 169 days and spanned an insane 35,200 km, out of which 20,000 km were actually driven.
Both races were held in roads that weren’t really roads, facing winter, spring thaw of glaciers, heavens know how many mechanical failures and all the hardships that come with covering half the world in a flimsy machine. Nevertheless, some people survived the adventure and completed the races, bringing to light that indomitable human spirit and the insanity of humans behind the wheel of a car.
As mentioned before, all this racing in public roads resulted in accidents and deaths of drivers and mechanics and, more importantly, third parties that were not involved in the races, so the pushback from the public was strong and politicians were having a harder and harder time justifying the races taking place at all.
A place where the races could be held without endangering anyone was needed and the racetrack was born. Yes, the "without endangering anyone" part was not going to be so easy, as we all know, but with the cars getting off the public roads, motorsport really exploded in popularity. So in 1907, the Brooklands racetrack was the first track ever built and raced on, a 4.43 km track with banked turns (30 degrees of banking, because why not?), with the first event being held on June 17 (Charles Rolls drove one of the cars that day) and, 11 days after that, the first 24 hour race in the world was held, with Selwyn Edge winning the race by himself (the other cars had two drivers, but Edge was having none of that "rest" nonsense).
Brooklands creation inspired the creation of another racetrack with banked edges across the Atlantic, in Indianapolis.
The Grand Prix is born
In 1906, the Automobile Club de France, tired of fighting with organisers from other countries over regulations, decided to create their own races, under their own rules.
The first one, held in a quiet town called Le Mans, covered a triangular course of 103 kms, was the first motorsport event called a Grand Prix, even though it was more like a rally than a modern grand prix, as the cars were released in 90 second intervals over 2 days. But it was a formula race, with regulations that every car had to comply with, strict (for the time) rules determined to make the competition as close as possible.
The winner, Ferenc Szisz from Hungary in a Renault, had one major advantage over his competitors: Michelin had built him detachable rims, so he could change tyres in 2 minutes instead of 15. From the start, better equipment was already one of the keys to victory in motorsport.
On the same year, the inaugural Targa Florio was held in Sicily and the following year the first Kaiserpreis was held in Germany. The grand prix mania was taking hold...
In 1908, the Grand Prix de France was held with cars with a minimum weight of 1100 kgs and a bore (diameter of the cylinder) of 155mm. Daimler redesigned the engine of their 1907 car and came out with an engine that had a 12 litre displacement (with 154.8mm bore), a completely revolutionary one bolt wheel (and pneumatic jacks for the crew) and three months of testing under their belt. Not surprisingly, Mercedes won the race after 7 hours (and 11 fast pitstops).
But the dominant force in those years would be Peugeot. They built a 5.6 litre engined grand prix car in 1911 that became the class of the field, winning almost everything from the start, including the 1912 Grand Prix de France, the 1913 Coupe de la Sarthe and the Indianapolis 500. Because Peugeot would immediately sell their cars after a race ("Win on Sunday, Sell on Monday" was true even then), other factories started copying their design, which could have made for exciting racing in the following years, if nothing disastrous happened in Europe...
Meanwhile, back in the USA, using that Brooklands inspired track in Indianapolis, a 500 mile race was held for the first time in 1911, with a local driver winning in an American built car. The purse, equivalent to 37 kgs of gold (today, that would be worth about 1.5 million US dollars), was doubled for 1912 and that brought the Europeans out to play and they duly won every race from 1912 until 1919.
Political tensions were rising in Europe and motorsport, with its nationality focus, was another arena where the European powers battled. The 1914 Grand Prix de France, the last one before WWI started, was the height of the racing and of the nationalistic fighting on the racetrack. Peugeot and Mercedes battled over 20 laps around Lyon. After an intense battle (reports say the crowd was incredibly worked up to see a French car win and patriotic demonstrations took place all throughout the race), Mercedes ended up not only winning the race, but finishing 1-2-3, while the Peugeots all broke down. It was not a happy ending of racing in Europe for France, but things were about to get much worse in a much more serious manner...
Racing after World War I
As the Roaring 20's begun, the roar of the engines also begun anew, as racing slowly got under way as Europe rebuilt itself after the destruction of the war.
In 1922, the Autodromo Nazionale Monza was opened and held the first Italian Grand Prix. In 1924, both Belgium and Spain held their own Grand Prix, and in that same year, the Association Internationale des Automobile Clubs Reconnus (AIACR) was formed to regulate formula racing. In 1925, Spa-Francochamps held its first race.
New developments were popping up all throughout this period. Riding mechanics were banned in Europe and in the USA. In 1933, during the Monaco Grand Prix (Nuvolari leads Varzi in the race), the drivers starting position was determined by a qualifying session for the first time ever. Cars were getting more and more reliable. By 1934, there were 18 Grand Prix during the year, with German entries dropping their usual white paint for their soon to be feared silver, in an effort to shed weight.
During the 20's, Alfa Romeo, Maserati, and Bugatti were the leading cars, with Bugatti especially being extremely successful (more on this in a second). In 1925, the first World Championship was held. Consisting of 4 Grand Prix (Indianapolis, French, Europe, and Italy), it was a manufactures' championship (no driver title was awarded) and Alfa Romeo won the first year (thereafter incorporating a laurel wreath in their badge). But rising costs started scaring the manufactures away (sound familiar?) and in 1928 formula racing was scrapped and Formula Libre was introduced. Basically, all rules were off and cars could enter virtually with any configuration.
Back in France, in 1923, the Automobile Club de l’Ouest (ACO) decided to create a race that was would test not only the speed of the drivers, but also the limits of the machines. And so the 24 Heures du Mans was born, with the goal of testing the endurance of both men (later women as well) and machine to the extreme, racing for 24 hours straight, with the winner being the car that drove the longest distance.
A curiosity is that, because the 24 Heures du Mans is not a race of time, but of distance, the 1966 race was not won by Ken Miles and Denny Hulme, who were leading as the 24 hours were almost completed, but by Bruce Mclaren and Chris Amon, because Ford wanted to have a photo finish of their three cars finishing 1-2-3 to further humiliate Ferrari and asked Miles to slow down and let the other two cars catch up. However, because Mclaren and Amon had started behind Miles and Hulme, they covered the longest distance (by 8 meters) and won the race. Imagine if that happened today.... Sorry, let's get back to the topic.
Bugatti Type 35
In August 3, 1924, a machine that would define racing (and winning) in the 1920's was first unveiled. The Bugatti Type 35 would destroy the competition in Grand Prix racing until 1930, earning its final victory in 1931 (by then called Type 39). By the time the car retired, it had won anywhere in the range of 1.800 to 2.000 races (accounts vary, obviously), in various competitions and various guises, by both the factory and an army of privateers. In these years, it won any and everything motorsports had on offer. Endurance, grand prix, it didn't matter, the Type 35 could handle every and anything that came across its path.
In its original incarnation, it had a three-valve 2.0L overhead cam straight-eight engine (first seen on the Type 29). By the time it racing career ended, there had been 8 variations, including some with superchargers (even though Ettore Bugatti didn't like it), and the car had alloy wheels (a novelty), hollow front axle, improved suspension, the car was always ahead of the competition. In total, about 400 Type 35s were built by Bugatti. This is also the car that inspired Ettore Bugatti to respond to one customer that complained that the (notoriously bad) brakes weren't working properly: "I make my cars to go, not to stop".
Names such as Chiron, Nuvolari, Dreyfus, Varzi, Wimille, Grover-Williams, Benoist (these two ended up as infiltrated agents, working with the French Resistance, during World War II and both were executed after capture by the Germans, although Benoist had to be captured twice - both lives worthy of books all by themselves) all raced and won with the Type 35. The car won the Targa Florio (five times, every year from 1925 to 1929), the inaugural Monaco GP (and the 1930 one as well), four French GPs, and many other races.
It was the car with which Hellé Nice, the Bugatti Queen, took the men head on in Grand Prix racing, wowing the crowd and becoming a celebrity. Although never a Grand Prix winner, she was a serious racer and scored very good results in front of the leading drivers of the time, until suffering a serious accident here in Brazil during the 1936 São Paulo Grand Prix, in which 4 spectators and one soldier died (the soldier was killed by Nice's body, thrown from the car). Nice herself was thought to be dead and remained in a coma for a few days (and in the hospital for a few months). With the death of her friend, Jean Bugatti (Ettore's son), in a testing accident, she halted her comeback attempt and, a month later, World War II started. In 1949, Louis Chiron accused her of being a Gestapo agent in France during the war and that effectively killed her career (she ended up dying alone and living under a fictious name in Nice, France). Her guilt was never established, with some saying she was indeed a German agent, others saying that Chiron always hated competing against her. One mystery that will probably never be solved.
Currently, the Type 35 is worth north of a million dollars in the rare times one example goes to auction.
At the start of the 1930's, as the AIACR created a new formula for the 1934 season, with cars limited to a dry weight of 750 kgs and no limit on engine size, Mercedes and Auto Union (a joint venture from Horch, Audi, Wanderer and DKW) were unbeatable. The two German brands dominated racing from 1934 until 1939, winning all but 3 races in those 6 seasons.
Much of the Mercedes' team's success was due to their drivers, especially Rudolf Caracciola, Hermann Lang, and Manfred von Brauchitsch, but a large part of the success of that team is because, starting in 1926, it was managed by Alfred Neubauer. A Ferdinand Porsche appointed test driver for the Austro-Daimler brand that had not had a great success behind the wheel, he would prove transformational when moved to the pits. His contributions to motorsports are still, to this day, relevant. Neubauer invented the position of team manager, came up with the pit board (back then, drivers would have very little information about the race, usually not even knowing their position - it was not uncommon for drivers to be surprised that they had won the race), drilled his team as if it was a military unit in all actions they would have to perform in a race, invested in preparation and readiness (including crisscrossing Italy before and during one Mille Miglia to prepare everything for Caracciola), and finally ordering his mechanics to strip the white paint from their cars in order to save weight, creating the Silver Arrows.
But Auto Union wasn't behind in the development race. First, Dr. Ferdinand Porsche was the designer of their cars. His mid-engined cars had the drivers lower and more towards the front of the car, with a supercharged V16 4.4 engine (running on secret fuel), with independent suspension for all 4 wheels, later upgraded to torsion bar (over rear leaf).
In 1935, a driver's title was instituted, with Caracciola winning the inaugural season and both 1937 and 1938 (Bernd Rosemeyer won 1936).
But, remember those 3 races in that period that the Germans didn't win? Well, one of them is pretty memorable and deserves its own section. Especially because we can introduce a fairly important character of this time.
Nuvolari and the 1935 German Grand Prix
Subject of songs and legends, name of an Italian TV channel dedicated to motorsports, dubbed the greatest driver of the past, the present and the future by Ferdinand Porsche, attributed by Enzo Ferrari as the inventor of the all wheel drift, about whom Il Commendatore said: "Nobody else like him join an incredible sensitivity of the car with an inhuman courage", called by his greatest and bitterest rival, Achille Varzi, "the best driver in all times. He is not a master but an artist of driving. A master could teach. The art can't be taught", unmistakable in his yellow shirt and blue pants, with an Italian flag for a scarf, winner of Grand Prix (24 of them), the 24 Heures du Mans, Mille Miglia (twice), Targa Florio (twice), an European Grand Prix Championship, and many others, also an ambulance driver in World War I, European champion motorcycle racer, called Il Mantovano Volante, Tazio Nuvolari.
The legends around him abound. That he once kissed a girl while going through the banking at Stiges in Spain at 150 km/h; that he controlled the Alfa Bimotore with a side wind that had Enzo Ferrari wanting to cancel the speed record attempt while going more than 300 km/h (that day, he established both mile and kilometre records, both over 320 km/h); that he raced in the 1936 Tripoli GP with a body cast because of suffering multiple fractures the previous day, having escaped the hospital against doctor's orders, driving for over 500 kms and finishing P8; that he told Enzo that buying a round trip ticket for his Mille Miglia participation is bad managing, since it's possible that he will come back in a coffin; that he once said, after one of the many reports of his death, "when someone announce my death, you have to wait three days before crying... everything is possible..."; that he grabbed a piece of ham out of a butcher's broken window during the 1925 French Grand Prix; that he won the 1925 Vanderbilt Cup even though the local mafia "advised" him not to, as they had bet heavily against him; that he won the Mille Miglia in 1930 by overtaking Varzi during the night, chasing him down with his headlights turned off, so that Varzi wouldn't know he was coming.
The man was the definition of a living legend. And one of the biggest moments of that legend happened in Germany in 1935, before 300.000 spectators, among them the top brass of the Nazi Party, in what is known as the "Impossible Victory".
As the Germans dominated Grand Prix racing, the Italian and French teams were left scrambling and hunting for scraps when the mighty Teutonic machines had a problem. But in 1935, Alfa Romeo would score a victory with Nuvolari at the wheel that would enter motorsport lore.
On July 28 1935, the German Grand Prix was held at the Nürburgring, by then already considered the most fearsome track in the world (but no yet called "The Green Hell"). Alfa Romeo brings their modified P3, which had no chance of victory, being almost 100cv down on the Mercedes W25 and more than 70 to the Auto Union Type B. Nuvolari had tried to race for Auto Union, but they not only didn't hire him, but gave "his" seat to his arch-rival Varzi, further enraging Nuvolari (who was 43 at the time), who hadn't won a race more than 5 months before and had recently been in a serious accident. A German victory is assured as the German cars parade before the start. The crowd cannot even consider anything other than a German victory.
The dull and cloudy skies promptly open up as the race starts, and Caracciola, the original King of the Nürburgring, takes the lead. In 6 laps, all the Alfas have stopped, except Nuvolari. Once the rain stops, Nuvolari starts his attack. By lap 11, he is P1, having done Von Brauchitsch, Fagioli, and Caracciola. Soon, Fagioli drops back with a problem, leaving only Rosemeyer, Stuck, Von Brauchitsch (who led the race), and the always dangerous Caracciola to fight for the win. Nuvolari stops to re-fuel, but a problem with the pump forces his mechanics to fuel his car with a funnel, taking more than 2 minutes to complete. By the time he leaves the pits, Nuvolari is more than one minute behind them all, back in P6.
Now driving the nimble Alfa with all he had, Nuvolari starting making up ground on the German cars. By lap 13, Caracciola's Mercedes starts to have problems, so he is forced to slow down, and Nuvolari takes him easily. Rosemeyer and Stuck are next, and Nuvolari has no problem dealing with them, leaving only the leader to chase down.
When lap 22, the final lap, starts Nuvolari is 35 seconds behind the leader, who by this time, has completely destroyed his tyres trying to fend off the charging Italian (he would eventually blow a tyre, finishing the race P5). As the Nürburgring is immense, once the leading cars were through the preparations for the celebration of Von Brauchitsch's win started. The Reich flag was raised, the German anthem was ready in the sound system, and the German High Command started taking their places for the victory celebration.
As the engine noise starts to reach the awaiting crowd, all eyes turn towards the long straight, hoping to see the silver car rushing to victory. But it is not to be! A red car appears first, alone down the straight, racing towards the finish line, where the stunned crowd has trouble believing what they are seeing. Nuvolari takes the checkered flag and, after a moment of incredulity, receives a thundering wave of applause from the crowd, who recognises the impossible feat that they just witnessed. The celebration was delayed because the record with the Italian anthem couldn't be found, since no one thought possible that the German cars would lose.
According to an Italian journalist present at the track: "While Nuvolari was covered with the laurel of the winner, some thousand of amazed blue eyes were fixing his exhausted car. They were seeking vainly the technical reasons of that absurd victory. They didn't find it and they found relief in invoking 'der Teufel', the devil."
After the war, Nuvolari still took part in a few races (winning the Grand Prix of Albi for Maserati), but his health was already declining (legend has it that he drove the 1936 Italian GP with a handkerchief in his hand, coughing up blood all throughout the race) and by 1950, he could no longer ignore the obvious and competed in his last event, a hillclimb in Italy (which he won for his class).
In 1952, he suffered a stroke that left him partly paralysed, dying from a second one the following year.
Rudolf Caracciola
Standing about as tall as Nuvolari at the time, Rudolf Caracciola is another legendary name of pre-war racing. Three time winner of the driver's championship, winner in hillclimbs, Grand Prix, motorcycles; whatever he jumped on, he excelled in and won. Caracciola was given the title of Regenmeister (rain master) for his win at AVUS under torrential rain and fog conditions in the inaugural German Grand Prix in 1926.
His career in cars started by racing for Mercedes-Benz in 1926 until moving to Alfa Romeo in 1931. He then formed a racing team with Louis Chiron for the 1933 season, but he suffered a serious accident that sidelined him for a whole year (and with a leg 5 cms shorter than the other for it). When he returned, it was just in time to join the Mercedes racing team, with which he would dominate Grand Prix racing until the war.
He raced in the inaugural Monaco GP in 1929 (coming in P3, after starting in the back - remember that the grid positions were still determined by a draw, since the first qualifying session was still 4 years away at the same track), he drove for Alfa Romeo under the Scuderia Ferrari name, he drove at AVUS, at Le Mans (leading most of the 1930 race before his car had mechanical problems late in the race), he won driver's championships, hillclimbs all over Europe, he set speed records, he could do it all. He had a healthy rivalry with Nuvolari and a not-so-healthy one with Rosemeyer.
In one speed record session in 1938, however, tragedy struck and Rosemeyer, his rival, was killed when a gust of wind hit his Auto Union (while he was trying to beat Caracciola's record of 432 km/h, set that day) at more than 400 km/h and the car went off road and rolled a few times. Caracciola was deeply affected by Rosemeyer's death, and Neubauer was worried that his star driver would consider quitting, as Caracciola had recently married his second wife (his first had died in an avalanche while he was recovering from his 1933 accident). But there was no quitting his addiction to racing, and he duly returned for the 1939 season.
However, it wasn't going to be a good year, as Caracciola was certain that the team was favouring Hermann Lang and he felt like there was no chance of him winning against the team's wishes. Caracciola did with the German GP for a record sixth time (a record that still stands, by the way), again in the rain, and the Swiss and Tripoli GPs. But with the season starting in June, it wasn't long before the invasion of Poland halted racing.
He went back to his home in Switzerland and stayed there, always trying to be ready for racing to resume once the war was over. Once hostilities ended, Caracciola tried to race in the 1946 Indy 500, but had his Mercedes W25s confiscated as German property, so he went to watch the race. Being offered a car by an American team owner, he was hit in the head by a bird during practice, crashed hard (saved only by the helmet the organisers forced him to wear) and spend several days in a coma. Health concerns kept him off racing for a few years and it wasn't until Mercedes came calling in 1952 that he went back to racing, this time in sportscars.
Immediately, he joined up with old foe Lang and, even when given an inferior version of the W194, he came in P4 in the Mille Miglia. Next up, a support race during the Swiss Grand Prix in the 300SL. Caracciola was looking good for this race, but his brakes failed and he crashed head on, fracturing his leg. This time, the injuries were too much for the 50 year old to overcome and he retired from racing, dying from liver failure a few years later.
He would end his career having entered 204 races, winning 144 of them. Not a bad record...
Post-war racing and Formula 1 is born
As Europe lay in ruins, there were only 3 Grand Prix races in 1946. By then, the AIACR had been re-formed and renamed Fédération Internationale d'Automobiles (FIA) and immediately a new formula was created (cars would be either 1.5-litre supercharged or 4.5-litre unsupercharged) and the field was led by Giuseppe 'Nino' Farina, Jean-Pierre Wimille, Louis Chiron, Achille Varzi (who would die during practice for the Swiss GP in 1948), and Tazio Nuvolari. Alfa Romeo, with the Tipo 158, dominated racing. The British marques, now energised after their brilliant feats of engineering during the war, joined up to crack the Italians domination. In Italy, Enzo Ferrari left the wings of Alfa Romeo and competed with his own cars.
The tracks, most of them badly damaged or used for various war activities during World War II, were rebuilt in various speeds, but by 1949 most of them were back in action, including Monza, the Nürburgring, and almost all the British ones.
In 1949, the FIA determined that a new championship would be created for 1950. Engines were limited to 1500cc maximum size for engines with a compressor (supercharger or turbocharger) or 4500 cc for normally aspirated engines, with no weight limit for the cars. Seven races were held (the British, Swiss, Monaco, Belgium, French, and Italian Grand Prix and the Indianapolis 500), and formula racing would enter a new era...
Some of the drivers of the day Luigi Fagioli, Piero Taruffi, Manfred von Brauchitsch, Attilio Marinoni, Jean-Pierre Wimille, René Dreyfus, Renzo Castagneto, Tazio Nuvolari, Goffredo Zehender, Bernd Rosemeyer, Willi Walb, Achille Varzi and Rudolf Caracciola
submitted by flipjj to formula1 [link] [comments]

Random Driver Highlight #28 -- Marcel Balsa

This driver is #544, but I actually RNG'ed #554 on my driver list. By the time I realised I misread my RNG, I went too deep into this driver's rabbit hole, so I stuck with this dude.
Also, for some reason, I just happen to find drivers that have raced in the 1952 German Grand Prix. Like, seriously. Gino Bianco, Bill Aston, Josef Peters and this dude. And this Grand Prix was also his only World Championship start. No matter where I go, I will find the 1952 German Grand Prix. So, revisiting this Grand Prix one more time, we shall look into the career of...

Marcel Balsa

STATISTICS
Nationality: French
Years in F1: 1952
Teams Raced For: Balsa (privateer)(yeah, his own chassis)
Entries: 1
Starts: 1
Podium Finishes: 0
Points: 0
Highest Finish: DNF (1952 German Grand Prix)
Place on the F1 Food Menu: A condiment, as Marcel Balsa-mic vinegar. Pairs well with Jackie Olive(r) Oil and off-menu item Bertrand Baguette

Part 1: Just a Small Town Guy

Marcel Balsa was born on January 1st, 1909 in the humble commune of St. Frion, population of 194 in 2008, in the department of Creuse in the Limousin region of France. This region was more well-known for its cattle farming than anything else. Obviously, Balsa did not fall into that line of work, otherwise why would I be writing about him in the first place.
Instead, sometime in the late thirties, Balsa took up an interest in motorbike racing. As with any driver of the day, results are hard to dig up, and likewise I have no idea how Balsa did. The only thing I know is that, by 1938, Balsa made the switch from two to four wheels, though whether that's because of success or a lack thereof on motorbikes, I don't know.
Balsa started off his racing career in cars by purchasing a Bugatti, though sources vary on which Bugatti he bought. One source, the Bugatti Revue, states he bought a Type 35B that was converted into a Type 51, but another article by Graham Gauld, Jim Clark's biographer, indicated that he bought a Type 30, then a Type 35B, then a Type 51. I'm gonna take the Revue's word for this one, given how it shows the ownership history of the converted Type 51, but Gauld's information is also useful to take into consideration. In fact, you'll see more of Gauld in this highlight. Anyway, the Revue shows that he bought the car in 1935, but it was only in 1938 did I find any results with Balsa in the Bugatti. And those results weren't bad. He won two local hill climb events that year at Ars-La Chatre and Lapize, setting a record on the Ars hillclimb as well.
It appears, though, that Balsa couldn't be Ars-ed with just hillclimb success (see what I did there? hahah I am funny), and decided to take his Type 51 out for a spin in a Grand Prix. The race would be the 1939 Pau Grand Prix, a race where Balsa would find himself up against the entire Mercedes squad. Obviously, Balsa would find himself nowhere near the front of the pack, but he did decently among his compatriots, running a fine seventh until his Bugatti gave up after 22 laps.
Then the war happened. Balsa must've been aching to take to the track after the war, as just three months after V-Day, Balsa participated in the first post-war racing event held in Paris at Bois de Boulogne, where three separate races were held. While Balsa retired from the Coupe de la Liberation event, he managed to finish 5th in the Coupe de Prisonners race, the main event of the day.
This led on to Balsa participating in a few more Grands Prix in 1946 and 1947, thanks to Henri Marin, who purchased a Talbot 150C and went ahead and shoved a mammoth 4.3 litre engine in it. When Marin, predictably, found the monster too big to drive, he hired a better hand in Balsa to try and tame the beast. Despite the size of the engine, the Talbot was incredibly unreliable as Balsa never finished a race he competed in it.
In that time frame, he did attempt one more race in his Bugatti, the 1946 Grand Prix of Marseilles. Right from the get go, his entry seemed doomed, as he was placed in the same heat race as the entire Maserati contingent, including Tazio Nuvolari, Raymond Sommer and Emmanuel de Graffenreid, all of them established racers and a pre-war racing GOD in Nuvolari. It would be an achievement for Balsa to even qualify for the final itself from this difficult heat race.
Marcel Balsa put his Bugatti on pole. And flew away from the field at the start.
Obviously, such a miracle couldn't last as Balsa eventually got overtaken by the entire Maserati squad, and though he did make it to the final, his car couldn't take the start. Still, that was a brief moment in the spotlight for Balsa.
That moment would soon fade, though, as Balsa wound down his motorsport activity through 1947 and 1948 especially as he sold his humble Bugatti and Henri Marin also sold off his Talbot monstrosity.
Balsa didn't disappear forever, though. He got himself a Veritas RS Sportscar, which he'd race in quite a few races, though more notably, he'd ended up with the unique Jicey-BMW special, built by one Jean Caillas. This French manufacturer was a minor player, and Georges Berger and Eugene Martin had done alright with it. Once Balsa stepped behind the wheel, he actually performed quite decently with it, finishing 4th in Luxembourg in 1949 and winning his heat in 1950 in Cadours, though his podium finish in the final was overshadowed by the death of two-time Le Mans winner, Raymond Sommer, in that race.
However, Balsa didn't participate in many more races in the Jicey despite his success. He had another idea in mind, one that was probably inspired by the Jicey, but I can't say for sure. However, to say Balsa was following along the same lines as Jicey isn't wrong
You see, the Jicey was an attempt to manufacture a French-made 'special' chassis based around a BMW 328 engine. And it worked
And Balsa's plan was an attempt to manufacture a French-made 'special' chassis based around a BMW 328 engine.
And it worked.

Part 2: DIY

Yes, I'm reusing this title from the previous Driver Highlight
Yes, Balsa built his own chassis, a Formula Two special. Apparently based off a Gordini, Balsa constructed his special sometime in 1948, about the time that he sold his Bugatti off to some Australian people. I can't seem to find anything describing how Balsa's special compared to other Formula Two machines of the time, but I bet Balsa was proud of his work, as he'd race it in several local Formula Two events throughout the 50's.
Even though he had a lack of success in 1950 and 1951, I can't say it was Balsa's fault as it was the BMW engine that often gave up the ghost in those events, judging from the race reports. Then, in 1952, the World Championship switched to Formula Two regulations to attract more entrants into their Grands Prix. Balsa often entered a select few events per year, but for this season, with World Championship prestige, Marcel Balsa decided to have a real go with his own Special.
Balsa's results in his own car were average, if not below par. Retirements here and there, including a non-classification in the Grand Prix de Paris at Monthlery, meant his sixth place at Cadours was his only F2 result of note at his local events.
However, when I said Balsa wanted to have a real go at the advantages brought by the regulation change, I mean a real go. A real attempt to race in a World Championship Grand Prix. An attempt to enter his Balsa Special in the history books of Grand Prix Motor Racing.
So naturally, the French driver that had only participated in one race outside France in his entire life would showcase his French-made chassis in the... German Grand Prix??
This was made even weirder as the German Grand Prix was not only a round of the Grand Prix World Championship, but also the West German Championship as well, which meant there was a multitude of one-off German drivers that race. There were all sorts of unusual chassis and specials participating in that race, from Greifzu to Krakau to Nacke to whatever and whoever. Heck, there was even a chassis named Heck. Balsa's own special may have stood out in any other Grand Prix, but here, it was just one of the many BMW-engined oddities in this oddball event.
Unfortunately, Balsa's race wasn't so oddball, qualifying 25th in the field of 34 (!!), and through avoiding Felice Bonetto's messy spin on lap 1 (that's the fourth time I've talked about that one mistake of Bonetto in this series of posts), Balsa made his way up the field. Heck, Balsa was actually overtaking on track, going past drivers like Eitel Cantoni and Toni Ulmen. Having made his way up to 15th place by lap 5, though, Balsa's BMW brutally booted Balsa bon voyage from the race. And that would be that for Balsa's World Championship career. However, he can safely say that he managed to race his own chassis at a World Championship Grand Prix, something few other drivers can share with him.
Balsa's open wheel career also wound down from there, giving up his lovely Special after attempting to fit a French Ford Vedette V8 in the chassis. Apparently, his Balsa Special must've gone to all sorts of places, as in the late 80's, Graham Gauld (I said I'd get back to him), found one in a barn near de Gaulle Airport, owned by a gruff, elderly farmer. Anyway, from then on, Balsa opted to race in Sportscars, and while driving a Veritas Meteor, he suddenly became the God of Monthlery.
Okay, that nickname was made up by me, and the national races he participated in didn't have too much prestige, but still, he won three races in sportscars at Linas Monthlery in 1952 and 1953, and had some decent results when he swapped over to a Porsche in 1955.
From that season on, though, Marcel Balsa would wind down his racing career big time, only entering one or two races a year before retiring in 1964 to run a sports car dealership. He sold a Porsche 911 to Pierre Mauroy (no relation to the former French PM) for him to compete in Le Mans, but apart from that, Marcel Balsa kept on running his garage, living a relatively quiet life until his death in August, 1984.
Even though it only lasted 5 laps, even though it was lost in the whole one-off German collective in that Grand Prix, even though it isn't even listed in Wikipedia's list of constructors, Marcel Balsa effectively raced a chassis in a Grand Prix that he himself built. That's an achievement that shouldn't be frowned upon, and one that most of us, if not all of us (unless Arturo Merzario stalks this subreddit somehow), can't claim to have done.
S, although many people have forgotten your name, I'll remember you, Marcel Balsa.
Okay, that last line was too sappy.
Oh, also, my university life has started. This'll slow me down in Random Driver Highlights, no doubt, but I won't stop just yet, trust me :--). In fact, I may even start another, smaller series of OC posts that'll take less effort once I feel I can start it :--).
All credit to the following sources:
Velocetoday (Graham Gauld Article) -- [email protected] -- Motor Sport Magazine -- The Bugatti Revue -- StatsF1 -- silhouet archive
Jicey Sport -- RacingSportsCars -- OldRacingCars.com -- kolumbus.fi -- F2 Register -- Conceptcarz -- historicracing.com
My Other Random Driver Highlights:
Links to everybody
#21, Cecil Green
#22, Mika Salo
#23, Lucien Bianchi
#24, Gino Bianco
#25, Josef Peters
#26, Roland Ratzenberger
#27, Hector Rebaque
submitted by TheStateOfIt to formula1 [link] [comments]

Drinking Buddies

“Dorcas, ol’ pal, you’re coming drinking with us!”
Dorcas looked up to see a smirking Joshua, his hat still tipped over an eye. Behind him, a gruff looking man with an eye-patch, and a man with an elegant scarf and turban stood, seemingly eager to get going.
“No,” he said, going back to the cleaning of his axe.
“Nuh-uh, you are coming this time, you can’t sit in the castle and mop about your wife all the time! Come out and have some fun, set your mind at ease, even a lil!” Joshua insisted, playfully slapping the bronzed giant across the back.
Dorcas grumbled, “You’re not going to leave me in peace, are you?”
“Not likely,” Joshua said with a wicked smile.
Dorcas let out a long, lingering sigh, his eyes closed, his axe loose in his beefy paws for hands. He silently stood up, placed his axe against a wall, and nodded down at Joshua. “Let’s go,”
“Got ‘em!” Joshua said, punching the air as he turned to his friends, who cheered in reply.
The gaggle of men hurried out of the castle, to the closest tavern. Joshua introduced Dorcas to the eye-patch wearer mercenary, Saber, and the cool fellow named Llewyn, a bard. Dorcas nodded in approval as he was introduced, his eyes surveying the passing villagers, who scurried by the tough looking Heroes from another world.
The tavern, only a few blocks away from the main castle, had seen many, many refurbishments throughout the years, usually paid off by a very embarrassed Royal Castle. This reputation had scared off the more casual drinkers, leaving only non-caring, tough, or crazy individuals to drink alongside Heroes.
Joshua sauntered in, and went immediately to the bar, sidling a stood. Llewyn and Saber took up stools beside him, and Dorcas begrudgingly sat at the end, closest to the door.
“A drink for me and my fellow Heroes, barkeep!” Joshua said, sliding a bag of coins down the bench to the sullen man resting at the other end.
“Where’s my money, Joshua?” he asked, after weighing the pouch.
“Where’s that lovely daughter of yours?” he shot back with a wink.
The barkeep grumbled and began to fill glasses with murky amber liquid, and passed the drinks out.
“To a night out!” Llewyn said, raising his glass.
“I’ll drink to that!” Saber roared.
“Here here!” Joshua added.
Dorcas lifted his glass briefly, and nodded.
The night continued on, with round after round of drink coming down the bench, the laughter growing after each one. Saber’s arm bracers got filthier and filthier, Llewyn launched into an impromptu song at the drop of a hat, which Joshua did every time he threw his head back to laugh, sometimes collapsing off his seat as he reached out to get it back, giggling as he face-planted on the floor. Saber often followed suit, holding his sides in laughter.
Dorcas, meanwhile, nursed his glass throughout the night, shifting every time Llewyn’s arm’s shot out as he accentuated his songs. He helped lift Joshua onto his feet every time he fell, and nodded at all the questions launched his way.
“You’re going out with her?!” Llewyn said, thumping his legs as Saber put away a small photo into a breast pocket.
“Never woulda thought of her, eh? I was just as surprised, honestly,” he said, with a massive grin.
“Wait, wai... wait… wait… Whoes zis?” Joshua slurred, two drinks ahead of everyone else.
Saber chuckled, and swivelled on his stool, almost falling over as he spun, waving his arms comically to right himself. As he did, Llewyn quickly turned to Dorcas, urging him to get in close. Dorcas grunted, and leaned in to let the free-spirited bard whisper directly into his ear; “Shhh, shh, don’t tell anyone, but before I left, I switched both their weapons!”
“Wait…” Dorcas pondered something. “Aren’t the portraits being done tomorrow? For the showcase thing?” He said, thinking of the massive production the Order of Heroes was about to undertake to create art to show of their new protectors to the citizens of Askr.
“I know, and they won’t have time to switch back before we get to the attack art tomorrow!” he said, jabbing at Dorcas’ bicep. He frowned. “My word, it’s like hitting a wall…”
The evening drew on, till it was closing time. Dorcas helped the barkeep push the drinkers out of his door, and began guiding them home. The three had linked arms over each other’s shoulders, and were marching back home, with Dorcas behind them.
“Yoooouuu, are the oceaaaannnss gggrraaayyyy waaaaavvess!” Joshua wailed.
“Destined to ssseeeeekkkk, blah blah blah blaaahhh!” Saber joined in.
Llewyn cackled. “It’s always the same song, always!”
“Well, what are you gonna sing for us, lyrebird?” Joshua asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Well, I’m not sure of the words, but there is a song and dance from Tazio’s world he called the… ‘Marcanna’? No, wait… ‘Macarenna’? Whatever, but you do it like… this…” he untangled himself from the others, and sluggishly began to move his arms in a stilted pattern, first in front of him, then behind his head, and finally down to his hips, where he did a wiggle, and tried to turn ninety degrees, only to over-spin, and fall onto his backside, looking shocked, before they all began laughing.
“Wiat, wait, I’ve got a better one!” Saber said, putting his hand out, silencing the laughter. “Tazio was showing that Fae kid this one…” He clapped his hands together, rubbing them as he prepared himself in front of his friends.
“Dudududud dah, dududududu dah, dudududud duh, dudududud dah dah dah dha!” he sang in monotone, as he worked his arms around his body to the chicken dance. After a few times, he grabbed Joshua by the arm, and began skipping in a circle, singing “Duh duh duh duh duuuhh dduuhh duuuhhh, duuuhhh duuuh duuuhhh!” before tripping over Joshua’s jacket, sending them both to the worn flagstones. Dorcas watched and sighed as the three men laughed at each other on the cold stones.
“What have we got here?” A voice called out suddenly.
Dorcas spun and saw four men walking up behind them.
“Aren’t they Heroes? From the castle?” one asked.
“Look like Zeroes to me,” one said, getting a guffaw from his pals.
“Hey, who you callin’ a ‘Zero’?” Joshua asked, struggling to stand up, before slipping on a wet stone.
The men had arrived before Docas, spreading out to block the lane they were in.
“These guys are supposed to be protecting us?” the one in the middle of the gang said, shaking his head as he looked down at the Heroes, clicking his tongue.
“They’re all fine men in battle,” Dorcas said suddenly, fists balled.
“Oh, crap, I thought they had a pet bear!” the joker of the gang exclaimed, feigning shock. “That’s a man?! He got some more chortles from his comrades.
“If you think you can do a service to this city, join the Royal Knights,” Dorcas said, voice level.
The leader crossed his arms, spitting at Dorcas’ boots. “They’re even more useless than you Heroes. Used by a silent King, letting foreigners do their dirty work. They’re nothing more than punching bags now!”
“Ha, this pup thinks he’s tough! Bet he’s never even seen a Necrodragon before!” Saber laughed as he pulled himself and Llewyn to their feet.
“You’re right, they’re all bark, and no bite…” Joshua said, pulling himself up against Dorcas’ side. “We can take ‘em…”
“Like hell you could!” the burliest of the gang launched at Joshua, but Dorcas’ bicep swung in to stop the blow, sending the man reeling backwards in surprise. Dorcas followed the block with two quick pushes against the man’s shoulders, sending him into a wall. The joker and a quiet guy attacked Dorcas at the same time, but he just shrugged their fists off, shoulder bumping both of them to the floor.
The leader leapt and snapped a punch across Dorcas’ face, jerking his head to the side. He grinned.
For a second, before Dorcas’ paw shot up, snatched the still extended arm of the leader, and effortlessly tossed him into a different wall.
Wordlessly, Dorcas turned and guided his friends back to the castle, who were guided home without question, glancing back occasionally at the moaning heaps of the men left in the alley.
The four headed to the men’s bunks, and slipped into their bunks, boots still on, asleep when their heads hit the pillow. Dorcas watched the three sleeping figures, and pulled their boots off, before heading out to the nearest wash-room, a brush in his hand.
“Dorcas? You aren’t normally out this late!” Tazio exclaimed as soon as he saw him, jumping down the last few steps from the second floor of the castle.
“Was out at a tavern,” Dorcas replied. “Joshua insisted.”
Tazio nodded thoughtfully, his locks of curly hair bouncing with the motion. “He’s been complaining to me that you never go with him. I’m so glad you changed your mind!”
“Was nothin’,” he said, with a shrug.
"Well, I hope you go with him and his drinking buddies more, you might accidentally have some fun, you know?" Tazio said with a grin.
"Mmmm," was the only reply Dorcas gave.
“So, where are you off to now, it’s so late?” the summoner asked, frowning.
“Teeth,” he said, waving his brush before him. “You?”
“Uhhh… Summoner stuff…?” Tazio put forward, wincing as he tried to see if Dorcas bought it.
“Hmm,” he grunted, gave a curt nod, and headed for the wash-room.
Tazio let out a sigh of relief.
Then nearly jumped out of his skin as Dorcas suddenly called out, “Girl?”
“Uhhh… yeah…” He admitted, rubbing his neck as his cheeks flared.
“Take care then, summoner,” he said, and vanished around a corner.
submitted by Tazio100 to FireEmblemHeroes [link] [comments]

[The Hell He Made] A Short Story About Lucifer Stuck on Earth - Excerpt

 "Please, do call me Lucifer." 
‘Frankie’ Francesca Adriano was having one of those days, the kind of days where nothing makes sense, where one is tortured by the chemical imbalance the laymen call feelings. What feelings exactly, she had no clue. Longing for change, may be? London tended to be a rather dull place to live when one does not have money, no ties and nothing really exciting ever happening. Same routine, never wavering. As she popped her earbuds and sat on the back of bus, as per usual, she bopped her head rhythmically to the stupendous sound of Led Zeppelin’s Immigrant Song - Frankie always related to the song, having migrated from dirt-poor Puglia in Italy as a child. She closed her eyes to tune-out all distractions and fancied herself an adventuring Elven warrior Princess in Middle Earth, or feasting with Odin after defeating Surtr. Frankie had always been a dreamer, even as life kept knock her down. She sighed disappointedly as the bus stopped in front of Liam’s Survival Gear. She had been working at the camping and outdoors shop for three years now, her parents not having money enough to send her to college for her dream formation as a social engineer and publicist, and she had taken upon herself to save up as much as she could to one day achieve her goals, even freelancing small pro-bono campaigns for the shop and small nightclubs, as well as keeping her form up in order to get a scholarship for her amazing track or swimming records. Snapping out of her action fantasies, she stopped for the slightest of moments and eyed her reflection before opening up:
Curly dark hair that fell graciously to her swimmers’ shoulders, a smooth skin that resembled the texture of ebony and not a single visible pore, and standing out like two unique sapphires on ashes were her mismatched and mesmerising blue and green eyes, dotted with brown flecks. Despite her less-than-exciting lifestyle, Frankie had a gleaming white smile that would charm anyone, a veritable weapon she used on customers to make them purchase more and spend more time browsing to try and pick her up. Though her heterochromia rendered her face asymmetrical, the subdued and alert nature of her nose that seemed to blend with her sharp cheekbones largely countered the effect. Sadly, despite her genuine Moorish-southern Italian beauty, Francesca resented her triangular jawlines, pegging it as too masculine, and the same went for her athletic form, broad of shoulders and thin of waste, her toned built had been shaped by years of swimming and long-distance running.
In the eyes of everyone else, she was a fit, long-legged gorgeous young African-Italian lady with unique eyes, a smile that would cheer up a blind man and an incredible singing voice. Had she wanted to, she could have had a career as a model, an actress or even a singer but her mother had always taught her beauty was superficial and faded in time-- what remains at the end is what we always were. And even then, after her mother died, she went on to live with her father, convicted felon Ursino Tazio, enforcer for the Italian crime syndicate and Capo of the prostitution racket.
Frankie quickly became a shut-in as she saw her father abuse those poor illegal migrants, brought from Italy or Eastern Europe like cattle, forced to live in squalor and perform for horrible, disgusting men-- but it also awakened her sense of justice. Every day, she would visit the women and try to talk to them, teach them English and help them with anything she could. One of them, Natasha, was owned by another capo, a mean mobster with a blob for a belly, curly grey hair and a bulky nose that looked like a pig’s snout, was covered in bruises. Frankie hatched a scheme to help her get away and run to the police station.
Upon his entering the room for his daily freebie, Frankie hid behind the door with a garrote to knock him out-- and so she did, but he overpowered her and during the struggle, Natasha did manage to escape-- but Frankie was within his grasp, his sweaty hands rubbing all over her body. She remembers his foul body odour, his wrinkled chubby penis, uncircumcised and unwashed, the foreskin sticking together so he had to violently thrust to enter, and in doing so managed to break his frenulum. That night, he raped her three times, and broke her nose, as well as seven bones. Eight years have passed, but as any good catholic, she kept this buried within herself, only thinking about the positive change in Natasha’s life-- and yet, days like these, she cannot help but be on edge and wary of anything out of the ordinary.
But this was just another day, another dollar, or pound in this case, as the shop was located on the outskirts of Chelsea, London. The whole shop was quiet enough that she could easily get her reading done whilst lounging on a chair besides the tiller, every now and then watching as people passed by. Not many people bought outdoors equipment in London, let alone Chelsea- a lot of the customers were football fans buying tents and improvised stick-seats. She was the only vendor in the whole shop, the owner delegating the work as he would often leave the city for hikes of his own. Thus, Frankie was used to dealing with all sorts of clients.
But one caught her attention, a man sporting an Arsenal kit and a cap worn so low it would be hard to even describe his features. He kept making eyes at the tiller, glancing at Frankie and subtly stuffing his jacket with some goods he’d swiped from shelves. Unfortunately for him, Frankie had developed quite the eye for that kind of behaviour and was trained to deal with it appropriately, that is call the cops. And somehow, in her heart of hearts, she did not want this young man to end up in jail for a mistake. She spoke up.
“Hey, bloke in Aisle Four, unless your football kit suddenly grew boobs and a six-month pregnancy, I’d recommend you put it all back before you make me do something we’ll both regret,” She offered the man a smirk, almost chuckling to herself.
“What did you say, bitch?” The man dropped the items on the floor, approaching the tiller and looking intensely into her eyes and drew a firearm at the cashier. Frankie braced herself, her hand overing nearby the telephone. “Say that again, I’ll cut you, bet that.”
Frankie grasped the telephone firmly beneath the counter as she tried to distract him. “No need to escalate anything, I was looking out for you, is all. Leave now, there are cameras--- unless you want---” She was cut short as another customer emerged from an aisle across the room.
The customer was a tall and distinguished blonde man, clad in a dark suit of Italian wool and impeccable style, a dotted shirt with French cuffs and a ring with a ruby the size of a big grapefruit. He was as unarmed as he was disarming, charming and attractive. His piercing blue eyes speckled with gold flecks had a somewhat novelty quality to them and his lips seemed stuck in a perpetual grin, revealing his devilish white smile. The man spoke in an English accent, one that was so outdated it made him sound even more interesting.
“Young man,” He approached, raising his hands in the air in an overly dramatic gesture. “I suggest you put down the weapon before you hurt yourself. Or worse, make me hurt you.” Frankie blinked twice as she saw his eyes turn red for a second. Optical effect? The young man looked back at the man in the suit, pointing and waving his weapon. “Get on the ground, dumb fuck!” He shouted before angrily smashing a display of beef jerky and protein bars.
The blonde man shrugged his shoulders, letting out a heavy and tired sigh as he approached the mugger and allowed the gun to press against his chest, as though he was not afraid of him at al. “That would simply ruin my suit, thus I shan’t comply with your request, Mister Gunman,” He smirked as he reached out inside his suit, the mugger pulling the hammer on the pistol in case he was reaching for a weapon. But instead, he pulled out a white gold cash clip filled with five hundred dollar bills. “Is robbing stores really what you want out of life? Is traumatising this poor woman your only ambition? If it was money you wanted, then money you shall have but listen closely to what I have to say…”
In a quick turn of event, the blonde man grabbed the mugger’s hand, twisting the joints to make him drop the gun and caught it with his spare hand, disarming it before tossing it into the bin from twenty yards away. He then placed the clip inside the mugger’s jacket’s pocket and patted it gently, the mugger still under his control. “I used to be quite the rebel myself, never following rules and it cost me dearly-- you could say my punishment was to oversee the punishment of others, people such as yourself. And to be quite frank with you… I miss it.” The man snapped the scaphoid bone of the mugger before patting his back in an effort to dust off his coat.
“May I never see you do anything of the sort, Mister Gunman,” He gently waved as the man left the store, holding his broken wrist. “Put some ice on it for half an hour and splint it-- it’ll take nine months to heal and you will never hold a gun again. Thank me later.” Turning his back on the cashier who had witnessed the whole scene and found herself dumbfounded at what had just unfolded before her eyes, the blonde man walked back to his aisle and picked up where he left off.
A moment later, he walked back to the register, holding a piece of ultraviolet resistant zip ties, a few metres of rope and a cricket bat. Frankie gazed at the items, individually harmless, but together formed a serial killer’s starter kit, before looking back at the handsome man. Having noticed her staring, the man let out a soft chuckle. “You’re wondering, huh.” Frankie found herself without an answer, once again, taken aback by the man’s erratic nature. “N-No, sir.” She was both fascinated, aroused and scared of this stranger.
“I know the look, you needn’t worry or lie to me. Let’s say, I can read people like others read Grindr profiles-- You saw me deal with this tosspot of a ruffian earlier and I show up wishing to purchase roping and zip ties, it is only human of you to assume,” and even through Frankie’s unspoken accusations, the man kept a composed look and a genuine smirk on his face. “If you must know, I intend to use them for bondage. I have a couple of ladies waiting for me and I am running rather late-- I shall have to make up for lost time by spanking harder.”
Frankie’s face turned bright red as she did not know whether it was intended as a joke or a genuine statement, for this man was as mysterious as his motives were. “T-That will be 17.50£, Sir.” She spoke hesitantly, stammering through the words she uttered. But her client patted his suit, finding no cash on hand as he gave it all the the mugger earlier.
“I would love to pay you what I owe, and I always do - my word is my bond - and yet for the first time since I was thrown out of home, I find myself without means to pay,” he offered his hand tentatively towards Frankie and as he did so, she was overcome by the desire to interlock fingers with him. “There are other ways, my dear child. Perceptive, beautiful and remarkably clever, you must want more out of life. Do tell, and it shall be yours.” His eyes flashed red once more, but it was too late, Frankie was already smitten and under his charm.
The next words she spoke came from deep within her subconscious as she had never realised her true ambitions, her dreams, or where she saw her life going before accepting this stranger’s even stranger offer. “I-I want to… be a lounge singer.” She snapped out of the connection after having shared her dreams with the man and he, in turn, retrieved his hand. “Lounge singer, eh?” He patted his suit’s lining in order to take out one of his business cards: white grain with a relief-printed Lord Samael Morgenstern and his number on the back. Sliding the card on the counter, he smiled warmly at the cashier.
“I happen to be quite the singer myself, though I can be faulted for my fondness towards the keys. Come by The Lighter Touch tonight and I shall make it happen,” he leaned forward to kiss her cheek as gently as his earlier touch had been. “Oh, and Frankie… If you ever require assistance, call the number on the back. It is a favour of sorts.”
Frankie’s cheek reddened as he kissed her, his lips felt soft and warm as they pressed against her pale cheeks but as he pulled away, she quickly realised she had never told him her name. A cursory reading of the card gave her his name, Samael Morgenstern, an actual Lord. Was it an assumed name? Who was he really? Before he stepped out of the store, holding the goodie bag in one hand and toying with a lighter in the other, Frankie interjected. “Sir, may I ask who you are and why you are doing this? This whole hero thing, giving out favours and helping me?”
Samael stopped on his trail, looking ahead for a moment. “People misunderstand me, misquote me, judge me all too easily. It is not easy being in charge of the worst this world has to offer, and yet, I did my part and was vilified for it-- as I shall be, forever. What people do not seem to understand is I never chose to be this man that deals out karmic justice, neither am I a heroin, and in truth, young lady, I have been searching for my true self for as long as I can remember. All I can say for sure is that I am not evil, nor do I encourage evil deeds… One thing is certain,” he looked over his shoulder back to the cashier, his eyes, where they were once pure oceans of blue and gold, were now as red as blood. “You know who I am.” Without any other word, he left the shop and gently closed the door behind him.
Frankie looked at the glass door he’d just closed, following his silhouette as he walked out into the street but the man was gone in one blink. The young woman fell on her arse, grasping at the metallic edges of her stool. Satan? She thought to herself, connecting the dots. Was that the Devil? She joined her hands together in a sign of prayer, almost as to null her encounter with the force of evil. But she did not hear God, not that she ever did before, and yet this time someone answered...
“Please, do call me Lucifer.”
submitted by DentistWhy to lucifer [link] [comments]

Fire Emblem Heroes: Zeroes to Heroes (tentative title) - Chapter 1: World of Zenith (part 1)

I’ve lost my mind.
Gone! Poof! Out the window like the family cat when I got a puppy!
So, to keep what scraps of sanity I have remaining, I figured writing my experiences down would be a smart move. Maybe a record of my life on paper, (or a scroll, I guess,) will be better than the gibbering mess of spit and bulging eyes I’m sure I’m going to become.
Ok, let’s set the ground work. I’m Tazio; odd name, sure, but my younger sibling is apparently named Kiran. I say sibling because I’ve never met them, and don’t know their gender, so off to a good start there.
Anyway, I’m getting sidetracked.
I was having possibly the best day of my life. I was going up to win a lottery. A lottery! As I’m going up to collect the massive, glossy, glorious cheque, I suddenly felt dizzy, and collapsed. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel light radiating against my face, a light so powerful I thought I was being nuked or something.
The light faded, and I felt whistling wind, and the chirping of birds, for about two seconds. Then, my body collided with what
I’d later find out was grass.
I still screamed out when I landed.
I wasn’t hurt, more shocked than anything. I could remember feeling the grass, and the cool drops of morning dew soaking through my clothes. It all smelt fresh, earthly, untamed. Nothing like the astro-turf back home.
I head a girl talking at that point.
“Oooh?! You’re actually here? Then the ritual actually worked…?”
I muttered a “Huh?” as I pushed myself up off the ground, opening my eyes, tears streaming down my face after the light. I finally noticed my arms.
I was in a pale-white cloak, with golden-stripes materializing in Celtic-like patterns along my forearms. I wore dark coloured gloves, thick enough to stop the cold, but tight enough for me to feel anything I needed through them. I reached up to my face in confusion, and found a hood hanging over my head as well.
“I- Wha-?” I stammered, spinning around on the spot to check my entire body out now, afraid to find something else new, like a tail, or webbed feet.
If you’re suddenly wondering why I’m writing things so detailed here, I was hoping to become an author in my old world. Thanks for prying. Moving on.
The girl cleared her throat, and I looked at her finally.
A young woman (I won’t write down what I’d guess her age to be, in case she ever reads this…) stood before me. She wore a tunic of similar colouring to mine, pale-white with golden patterns along the stomach and chest. A large golden pauldron covered her left shoulder, covering feather-like fabric coming over her arm. A similarly designed gauntlet protected her left forearm as well, but her right arm appeared free of armour. A plain blue cape sat ragged against her back in the morning damp, limp and almost lifeless.
A strange neck-brace/ornament wrapped up from an emblem on her chest to a wing-like shape beside her head. She was obviously some kind of warrior, a knight maybe, I thought at the time.
I looked at her face. She had closed her eyes, but I could tell she looked pretty. She had the kind of face that made me think she winked a lot, and was quite coy. She had deep red hair tied off into a ponytail that trailed behind her cloak.
I was a strange mixture of surprised, scared, and aroused. I don’t want to go into it more than that.
The knight-lady began a speech that sounded like she’d practised before. Her voice was as level as could be, and deep and serious sounding.
“O Great Hero from another world! Thou hast come far to fulfil your role in our legend!” She stopped, and raised her arms, opening her eyes, smiling slightly.
“For our kingdom stands on the very brink of ruin, and thou…!” Her smile faltered.
“And thou…” Her arms dropped to her sides, her shoulders sagging.
She must’ve seen the gapping mouth, popping eyes and general bewildered expression I had on my face. I was good at making that face. It must’ve been practise for that day, I suppose?
“Hold on, are you really our Great Hero?” She asked, her left hand on her hips, her right poking a finger to her chin in contemplation.
“Am I your what?” I asked as incredulously as possible.
“Hmmm, yeah, you don’t look or sound like the ‘thee-and-thou’ type…” She confirmed, nodding her head while appraising me. I felt like she lingered on my lack-lustre arms for too long.
“Oh, really?! Well, I have no idea what you are supposed to be, or where I’m supposed to be?! Imagine my confusion, lady!” I screamed at her, gesturing with my arms, the robes flapping as I shook in anger.
The lady gave a sly smile. “Oh, you want to know where you are? Probably how you got here as well? That’s fair enough. Well, you’re in – “
She was cut off by the violent rustling of shrubbery to our left. I only just then noticed the large, stone dominating the background. I guess I was to confused by everything else to pick up on it.
Anyway, a man clad in navy and gold armour burst out into the clearing. He hefted a large, nasty looking axe in both arms, before he pointed straight at the girl.
“FOUND YOU!” He bellowed in a rough, accented voice. It sounded Nordic to me, but I’m not a linguist, so all bets are off for what he sounded like.
“Drat!” the lady shoved me backwards, making me fall on my backside. She raced off to an axe that lay against a tree to the right of the temple. She was surprisingly fast with all that armour on. “How did one of those Emblians get here already?” She gripped her axe, the silver blade glinting in the rising sun. “Oh, I guess it was the flash of light…” She mumbled loudly.
She looked back at me and yelled, “Stand back! I’ll take care of him, somehow!”
I was already pushing myself away from the open field, into the forest, my heart racing.
Then, the strangest thing happened.
You know, on top of being summoned to another world.
I looked out at the field, and could almost see all of it, like I was standing above it all. I could see the axe fighter beside the temple, and the knight girl a good five or six paces from him. The battlefield lay open to me to see, to plan and toy with…
I blinked and the ‘vision’ was gone. Anna carefully stepped out into the middle of the plain, he boots clicking against the worn stone covered in tufts of grass. She was just out of range of the fighter, even if he lunged at her.
The fighter stalked out onto the field now, his axe ready, his stance low and predatory, his feet moving him carefully forward.
The duellists began circling each other. The Emblian guy tried to spook the girl by feinting forward with his axe, or quick stepping to a side.
But the girl kept her cool. She smiled that coy smile, and stood tall, her shoulders straight, her axe held in front of her.
She attacked!
She charged at the fighter with a ‘Yaaa!”, her red eyes ablaze. She struck down a savage blow upon the fighter, her blade slamming into his shoulder. He growled and pushed the flat of his blade against his opponent, flinging her back a bit. He then retaliated, his axe chopping through the air for the warrior-ladies neck.
I watched this all, and could see it all happening in a strange, almost cinematic fashion. But, I could also see the fighter’s strengths, weakness’, and tactics. In a word, sloppy.
I saw the pattern of his swings, and shouted out “Left side, now!”
The girl smirked, dodged another swing, and put all her force into her next attack, swinging her weapon into the Emblian’s left side.
The man croaked out a cry of pain as the head of the axe sank into his softer, clothed side.
And like that, he vanished.
There was no explosion of sparks, or the melancholy dispersion of glowing lights, like in a movie. He just faded away.
Kind of anti-climactic in my opinion, but I’m just the guy sitting on his butt on the sidelines, so…
The girl sighed once the fighter had vanished, and leaned onto her axe for support. After a moment of rest, she walked over to me. I’d pulled myself up off the floor, flicking mud off my white robes. I’d pulled my hood off as well.
“Thanks for that. I probably had him, but you saved me a lot of time and effort,” She said, winking.
“Anytime…” I said without thinking, putting my fists to my hips.
“Now, I bet you want answers, huh?” the girl asked. I nodded, tapping my now booted foot to accentuate my desire.
“Well, my name’s Anna! I’m the Commander of the Order of Heroes!” She said proudly, puffing her chest out. “We believe that Heroes should live free, in their own worlds. Our enemies, the Emblian Empire,” She waved back to where the soldier had been, “Enslave them… Those fiends...” She spat.
I tried to put my hand up to slow her down and explain a bit more, but she was on a roll. And I’d seen her use that axe.
“Anyway, the realm we live in, Zenith, has gateways to other Worlds, the Worlds Heroes come from. Have you ever heard of the Worlds of Awakening? Birthright? Conquest? What about Revel- oh, wait, never mind that one!” She said with a girlish giggle, her finger to her chin again. It seemed to be her pose, of sorts.
I just narrowed my eyes and shook my head no, hoping she’d get on with it.
“And that’s only a few! There are many more Worlds, and many, many more Heroes! The Emblians invade those Worlds and binds Heroes to serve them with magical contracts. We, as in the Order of Heroes, fight to free them! As you could see, that soldier was from the Emblian Empire. They’re mounting a full scale invasion of my kingdom of Askr, their neighbour, and we’re running out of resources, and most importantly, Heroes.” Anna sounded defeated now, her eyes dropping to stare at the floor.
“I was desperate for help…” She admitted, and turned back to look at the temple. Or was there something past it?
She looked back at me, grinning now. “So, I performed a summoning ceremony! And instead of a random, wea- ahem, low level Hero appearing, you appeared instead! Like out of the prophecy! Lucky us!”
“Yep, lucky you…” I said, scratching the side of my face, wincing.
“Oh, but we don’t have time to rest. We have to go, now, if we’re going to save my kingdom!” She said urgently, suddenly remembering something. She reached out and grabbed my arm, and began pulling me through the trees beside the temple.
submitted by Tazio100 to FireEmblemHeroes [link] [comments]

Talsa

This driver is #544, but I actually RNG'ed #554 on my driver list. By the time I realised I misread my RNG, I went too deep into this driver's rabbit hole, so I stuck with this dude.
Also, for some reason, I just happen to find drivers that have raced in the 1952 German Grand Prix. Like, seriously. Gino Bianco, Bill Aston, Josef Peters and this dude. And this Grand Prix was also his only World Championship start. No matter where I go, I will find the 1952 German Grand Prix. So, revisiting this Grand Prix one more time, we shall look into the career of...

Marcel Balsa

STATISTICS
Nationality: French
Years in F1: 1952
Teams Raced For: Balsa (privateer)(yeah, his own chassis)
Entries: 1
Starts: 1
Podium Finishes: 0
Points: 0
Highest Finish: DNF (1952 German Grand Prix)
Place on the F1 Food Menu: A condiment, as Marcel Balsa-mic vinegar. Pairs well with Jackie Olive(r) Oil and off-menu item Bertrand Baguette

Part 1: Just a Small Town Guy

Marcel Balsa was born on January 1st, 1909 in the humble commune of St. Frion, population of 194 in 2008, in the department of Creuse in the Limousin region of France. This region was more well-known for its cattle farming than anything else. Obviously, Balsa did not fall into that line of work, otherwise why would I be writing about him in the first place.
Instead, sometime in the late thirties, Balsa took up an interest in motorbike racing. As with any driver of the day, results are hard to dig up, and likewise I have no idea how Balsa did. The only thing I know is that, by 1938, Balsa made the switch from two to four wheels, though whether that's because of success or a lack thereof on motorbikes, I don't know.
Balsa started off his racing career in cars by purchasing a Bugatti, though sources vary on which Bugatti he bought. One source, the Bugatti Revue, states he bought a Type 35B that was converted into a Type 51, but another article by Graham Gauld, Jim Clark's biographer, indicated that he bought a Type 30, then a Type 35B, then a Type 51. I'm gonna take the Revue's word for this one, given how it shows the ownership history of the converted Type 51, but Gauld's information is also useful to take into consideration. In fact, you'll see more of Gauld in this highlight. Anyway, the Revue shows that he bought the car in 1935, but it was only in 1938 did I find any results with Balsa in the Bugatti. And those results weren't bad. He won two local hill climb events that year at Ars-La Chatre and Lapize, setting a record on the Ars hillclimb as well.
It appears, though, that Balsa couldn't be Ars-ed with just hillclimb success (see what I did there? hahah I am funny), and decided to take his Type 51 out for a spin in a Grand Prix. The race would be the 1939 Pau Grand Prix, a race where Balsa would find himself up against the entire Mercedes squad. Obviously, Balsa would find himself nowhere near the front of the pack, but he did decently among his compatriots, running a fine seventh until his Bugatti gave up after 22 laps.
Then the war happened. Balsa must've been aching to take to the track after the war, as just three months after V-Day, Balsa participated in the first post-war racing event held in Paris at Bois de Boulogne, where three separate races were held. While Balsa retired from the Coupe de la Liberation event, he managed to finish 5th in the Coupe de Prisonners race, the main event of the day.
This led on to Balsa participating in a few more Grands Prix in 1946 and 1947, thanks to Henri Marin, who purchased a Talbot 150C and went ahead and shoved a mammoth 4.3 litre engine in it. When Marin, predictably, found the monster too big to drive, he hired a better hand in Balsa to try and tame the beast. Despite the size of the engine, the Talbot was incredibly unreliable as Balsa never finished a race he competed in it.
In that time frame, he did attempt one more race in his Bugatti, the 1946 Grand Prix of Marseilles. Right from the get go, his entry seemed doomed, as he was placed in the same heat race as the entire Maserati contingent, including Tazio Nuvolari, Raymond Sommer and Emmanuel de Graffenreid, all of them established racers and a pre-war racing GOD in Nuvolari. It would be an achievement for Balsa to even qualify for the final itself from this difficult heat race.
Marcel Balsa put his Bugatti on pole. And flew away from the field at the start.
Obviously, such a miracle couldn't last as Balsa eventually got overtaken by the entire Maserati squad, and though he did make it to the final, his car couldn't take the start. Still, that was a brief moment in the spotlight for Balsa.
That moment would soon fade, though, as Balsa wound down his motorsport activity through 1947 and 1948 especially as he sold his humble Bugatti and Henri Marin also sold off his Talbot monstrosity.
Balsa didn't disappear forever, though. He got himself a Veritas RS Sportscar, which he'd race in quite a few races, though more notably, he'd ended up with the unique Jicey-BMW special, built by one Jean Caillas. This French manufacturer was a minor player, and Georges Berger and Eugene Martin had done alright with it. Once Balsa stepped behind the wheel, he actually performed quite decently with it, finishing 4th in Luxembourg in 1949 and winning his heat in 1950 in Cadours, though his podium finish in the final was overshadowed by the death of two-time Le Mans winner, Raymond Sommer, in that race.
However, Balsa didn't participate in many more races in the Jicey despite his success. He had another idea in mind, one that was probably inspired by the Jicey, but I can't say for sure. However, to say Balsa was following along the same lines as Jicey isn't wrong
You see, the Jicey was an attempt to manufacture a French-made 'special' chassis based around a BMW 328 engine. And it worked
And Balsa's plan was an attempt to manufacture a French-made 'special' chassis based around a BMW 328 engine.
And it worked.

Part 2: DIY

Yes, I'm reusing this title from the previous Driver Highlight
Yes, Balsa built his own chassis, a Formula Two special. Apparently based off a Gordini, Balsa constructed his special sometime in 1948, about the time that he sold his Bugatti off to some Australian people. I can't seem to find anything describing how Balsa's special compared to other Formula Two machines of the time, but I bet Balsa was proud of his work, as he'd race it in several local Formula Two events throughout the 50's.
Even though he had a lack of success in 1950 and 1951, I can't say it was Balsa's fault as it was the BMW engine that often gave up the ghost in those events, judging from the race reports. Then, in 1952, the World Championship switched to Formula Two regulations to attract more entrants into their Grands Prix. Balsa often entered a select few events per year, but for this season, with World Championship prestige, Marcel Balsa decided to have a real go with his own Special.
Balsa's results in his own car were average, if not below par. Retirements here and there, including a non-classification in the Grand Prix de Paris at Monthlery, meant his sixth place at Cadours was his only F2 result of note at his local events.
However, when I said Balsa wanted to have a real go at the advantages brought by the regulation change, I mean a real go. A real attempt to race in a World Championship Grand Prix. An attempt to enter his Balsa Special in the history books of Grand Prix Motor Racing.
So naturally, the French driver that had only participated in one race outside France in his entire life would showcase his French-made chassis in the... German Grand Prix??
This was made even weirder as the German Grand Prix was not only a round of the Grand Prix World Championship, but also the West German Championship as well, which meant there was a multitude of one-off German drivers that race. There were all sorts of unusual chassis and specials participating in that race, from Greifzu to Krakau to Nacke to whatever and whoever. Heck, there was even a chassis named Heck. Balsa's own special may have stood out in any other Grand Prix, but here, it was just one of the many BMW-engined oddities in this oddball event.
Unfortunately, Balsa's race wasn't so oddball, qualifying 25th in the field of 34 (!!), and through avoiding Felice Bonetto's messy spin on lap 1 (that's the fourth time I've talked about that one mistake of Bonetto in this series of posts), Balsa made his way up the field. Heck, Balsa was actually overtaking on track, going past drivers like Eitel Cantoni and Toni Ulmen. Having made his way up to 15th place by lap 5, though, Balsa's BMW brutally booted Balsa bon voyage from the race. And that would be that for Balsa's World Championship career. However, he can safely say that he managed to race his own chassis at a World Championship Grand Prix, something few other drivers can share with him.
Balsa's open wheel career also wound down from there, giving up his lovely Special after attempting to fit a French Ford Vedette V8 in the chassis. Apparently, his Balsa Special must've gone to all sorts of places, as in the late 80's, Graham Gauld (I said I'd get back to him), found one in a barn near de Gaulle Airport, owned by a gruff, elderly farmer. Anyway, from then on, Balsa opted to race in Sportscars, and while driving a Veritas Meteor, he suddenly became the God of Monthlery.
Okay, that nickname was made up by me, and the national races he participated in didn't have too much prestige, but still, he won three races in sportscars at Linas Monthlery in 1952 and 1953, and had some decent results when he swapped over to a Porsche in 1955.
From that season on, though, Marcel Balsa would wind down his racing career big time, only entering one or two races a year before retiring in 1964 to run a sports car dealership. He sold a Porsche 911 to Pierre Mauroy (no relation to the former French PM) for him to compete in Le Mans, but apart from that, Marcel Balsa kept on running his garage, living a relatively quiet life until his death in August, 1984.
Even though it only lasted 5 laps, even though it was lost in the whole one-off German collective in that Grand Prix, even though it isn't even listed in Wikipedia's list of constructors, Marcel Balsa effectively raced a chassis in a Grand Prix that he himself built. That's an achievement that shouldn't be frowned upon, and one that most of us, if not all of us (unless Arturo Merzario stalks this subreddit somehow), can't claim to have done.
S, although many people have forgotten your name, I'll remember you, Marcel Balsa.
Okay, that last line was too sappy.
Oh, also, my university life has started. This'll slow me down in Random Driver Highlights, no doubt, but I won't stop just yet, trust me :--). In fact, I may even start another, smaller series of OC posts that'll take less effort once I feel I can start it :--).
All credit to the following sources:
Velocetoday (Graham Gauld Article) -- [email protected] -- Motor Sport Magazine -- The Bugatti Revue -- StatsF1 -- silhouet archive
Jicey Sport -- RacingSportsCars -- OldRacingCars.com -- kolumbus.fi -- F2 Register -- Conceptcarz -- historicracing.com
My Other Random Driver Highlights:
Links to everybody
#21, Cecil Green
#22, Mika Salo
#23, Lucien Bianchi
#24, Gino Bianco
#25, Josef Peters
#26, Roland Ratzenberger
#27, Hector Rebaque
submitted by TheStateOfIt to PostPreview [link] [comments]

The Real IMPOSSIBLE Pullup (Slowest One arm) -Tazio Il Biondo- Calcio Serie A (1978/1979) Milan - Bologna 0-0 Taylor Atwood - 758kg 1st Place 74kg - IPF World Classic Powerlifting Championships 2018 Eddie's certificate course is always available - YouTube Chantal Curtis

ALTO SERVICE ITALIA SRL. Via Tazio Nuvolari, 77/79 55012 CARRAIA - CAPANNORI (LUCCA) - TOSCANA Tel. +39.0583980891 3 – Sebastian Vettel, Rubens Barrichello, Alain Prost, Ronnie Peterson, Stirling Moss, Juan Manuel Fangio, Alberto Ascari, Tazio Nulvari Italian Grand Prix: F1 Betting Tips At the start of the 2019 Formula One season, Ferrari will have identified these two weeks as a big opportunity. The operation yielded betting receipts showing winnings of €2.7 million. The prison terms for those convicted as a result of the scandal were as follows: Hoyzer - 2 years and 5 months, another referee implicated in the operation, Dominik Marks - 1 year and 6 months, and betting ring leader Ante Sapina - 2 years and 11 months. Racing Horse Tazio was sired by and out of Danzig's Pleasure, Tazio is a 15 year old Bay Gelding horse owned by Twin Pines Thoroughbreds Ltd and trained by Ms L Bertling. Find out more with our Thoroughbred Horse Profile Directory and Horse Racing Results. Tazio Bettin - TazioBettin. Wendy Bettin - WendyBettin. Chris Bettin - chrisbettin. Brian White - BettinPonysKid. Ofc. Jacob Bettin - OPDOfcBettin. Sports betting is the activity of predicting sports results and placing a wager on the outcome. The frequency of sports bet upon varies by culture, with

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The Real IMPOSSIBLE Pullup (Slowest One arm) -Tazio Il Biondo-

Tazio Il Biondo the italian butterfly 321,630 views. 3:16. Climbing a Chair Challenge! Can you do that? -Tazio Il Biondo- - Duration: 1:16. Tazio Il Biondo the italian butterfly 181,565 views. Chantal Curtis "Bet your bottom dollar" (Ben Tax, Ernest Donable) 12'' Maxi 45rpm - Trema 310 071 Disco Sept. 1979 France. Permission to use this streaming footage was granted by the International Powerlifting Federation and they allow me to post these videos on my platform. Facebook: https://www.facebook.com ... The Sopranos - Jersey "family" discover the real Cosa Nostra in Italy + Italian subs and trivia - P1 Some of the funniest moments with Gordon Ramsay on Kitchen Nightmares. #GordonRamsay #Cooking Gordon Ramsay’s Ultimate Cookery Course – http://amzn.to/2BzAud...