Rouen - circuit for the gods

This is not to disparage the current breed of pilotes - the in-car camera has allowed us a glimpse of how it is to be in a McLaren cockpit when Ayrton Senna is on a qualifying lap. But Rouen, like the Nurburgring or Clermont Ferrand or what remains of the original Spa-Francorchamps, serves to remind of a different kind of bravery.

After the celebrated coming-together between Senna and Alain Prost at Suzuka in 1990, perhaps the most relevant comment came from Mario Andretti: "If there would've been no run-off area, there would've been no accident..." And when, recently, I spoke to a '60s Formula 1 star of the ethics of today, of swerving towards a rival, of rampant intimidation, his simple comment was, "I think perhaps these fellows feel just a bit too safe..."

He wasn't suggesting he would have it any other way, that it was somehow reprehensible Formula 1 should be much less perilous than it was. No, it was simply an observation, nothing more or less, based on the "give an inch, take a mile" theory, of which there are no more virulent exponents than Grand Prix drivers.

"In my day," he said, "if you went off the road, probably you were going to hit trees. Until the late '60s, the cars were made of spaceframe tubing, which would crumple on impact, and stick bits through you. There was every chance of fire, of course, and the overalls in those days were virtually useless, from that point of view. You had an open-face helmet, and no seat belts. It was all a bit silly, really, when you think about it..."

As well as that, they raced at places like Rouen Les Essarts, and however sanguine you believe yourself to be, nothing prepares you for what lies beyond the pit straight.

If there have been greater drivers in the history of this sport, probably there have been none braver than David Purley, whose favourite circuit this was. "Every lap at Rouen," he once told me, "I'd come past the pits, and I'd start to scream into my helmet. It was something we were taught to do in Aden: if you were going over the top, about to face a bunch of loonies with Kalashnikovs, the theory was it gave you instant courage, took your mind off what you were doing. Well, I worked on the same principle at Rouen, and it helped, believe me..."

What Purley, and everyone else, faced at Rouen was something like the ultimate roller-coaster - but a roller-coaster where you were in charge of your own destiny. Past the pits the road plunged suddenly downhill and right, then straight, then left, then straight and right, and on and on like that, until you stood on the brakes, went for bottom gear, turned through a right-hand hairpin, and set off uphill for more of the same. This was some respite, but not much. "All the time," Purley said, "you had that downhill sequence in your head - that you were getting nearer and nearer to facing it again.

"It was like being madly in love with a headcase's wife," he grinned. "You had the feeling sooner or later he'd catch you out, but it was so exhilarating you had to keep going back..."

Over time it exacted its dues, that stretch of road. I last saw a race there in 1972, a summer in which Emerson Fittipaldi was winning every weekend, and Henri Pescarolo crashing every weekend. Formula 1, Formula 2, it made no difference. In that F2 race, both men acted out their roles, Emerson beating Mike Hailwood in a classic battle, Henri flying over the barrier, and out of sight. I saw the accident, and knew he could not have survived, but a couple of minutes later there was the bearded figure, green helmet in hand, running across the road, cheating The Reaper once again.

Four years earlier, though, Jo Schlesser had not done. In July of 1968, the French Grand Prix was run at Rouen, and to Honda, which that month was launching its Mini-copy in France, it seemed a fine idea to have a Frenchman drive for it in the Grand Prix.

Schlesser was 42, a fine driver, but had never competed in Formula 1. This, for him, was a lifetime's dream, and it was no matter Honda was offering him a new and unproven car - a car which regular driver John Suttees had briefly tested, and found virtually undrivable.

It was horribly wet on race day, and Schlesser crashed early in the race. On the downhill stretch his engine cut, and the car, without any drive, ran wide at the right-handed Nouveau Monde, skimming up the bank, before exploding back on the track. Much of the chassis was of magnesium, and for Schlesser there was no chance of survival.

Jacky Ickx dominated the race for Ferrari, and took his first Grand Prix victory that day. By the time he took the flag, the sun was out, the track virtually dry. But Schlesser's accident signalled the end of Rouen Les Essarts as a venue for the French Grand Prix.

These days they use these public roads for racing only once a year, in June, for a round of the national F3 championship, and for saloons. And next year's meeting, they tell me, will probably be the last ever.

Half a dozen laps in hazy sun this morning left me in some wonder that they use it still, for much of the track winds through woodland, with no sign of guardrail or run-off.

Inevitably, all kinds of images came back to me, most notably the celebrated pictures of Fangio opposite-locking his Maserati 250F down through the swerves in 1957, all nonchalance and delicate artistry, a man literally miles ahead of the rest, doing something simply because he was able, relishing his own craft.

He only raced there once, and consequently tends to overlook it when you ask him about his favourite tracks. "Francorchamps, Berne and the Nurburging," he says. And what about Rouen? I asked. "Ah, Rouen!" he responded, eyes alight. "Si, si, si! A fantastic circuit, that one..."