“Silver Dreams” The Last Vestiges of the 1955 Swedish Grand Prix

Written by Ken McGavin | © Copyright 2024

A Short Story About The 1955 Mercedes-Benz 300SL Gullwing Chassis no. 198 040 55 00531 at the 1955 Swedish Grand Prix

Funny,” she says, catching the 37 year old interviewer unready; sitting opposite her, his face has been fixated on his iPhone screen for minutes, but as he looks up, the studio spotlighting catches a glint of her silver top and he can’t stop the stupid gaze that comes across his face. She might be 68 years old, but she’s drop dead gorgeous and has an elegance and sophistication that has him teetering somewhere between admiration and attraction. He thinks she belongs more in Monaco with billionaires and celebrities than in this sterile photography studio in Santa Monica with him. The thought snaps him to attention.

“What’s funny?” His question sounding more embarrassed than confused.

“That binder you brought,” her eyes motioning under his chair, “that’s all on me?”

“Um … I guess so.” Her blank stare backing him up a bit. He’s not really sure what to say or what’s even happening; this is new for him. He typically writes articles for automotive magazines on car owners and their collections, but now he’s wondering if he’s lost it and going crazy … he’s never talked to a car before. “I looked through most of it, but that’s not really what I do.” Uggh, he thinks to himself, why’d he say that? He’s not sure if her stare is now irritation or confusion but he picks up the binder and leans in.

“There’s a lot of cool photos in there, and articles, but it’s mostly just dates and names. I came to hear the story about Sweden, not some history binder, if that makes sense.”

He relaxes a little and she can see he’s settled into it now. His uncomfortable jitters and over compensating posturing have gone away, he’s focused and ready; she knows this body language, she’s seen it in her race car drivers. Her confidence restored as well, she begins “Well then, you better strap in.”

He laughs, “Clever.”

He looks over his shoulder at the empty studio, his videographer was already dialed in with their settings and his photographer had worked out her best angles with the studio lighting before they stepped out for a cigarette. But sitting here alone with a 1955 Mercedes-Benz 300SL Gullwing with Grand Prix race history, he thinks to himself, this will be sensational.

He looks back at the videocamera over his shoulder, reaches around and presses the start button on the camera; he then nods for her to begin.

“Where should I start?” She’s never been interviewed before, she doesn’t know what to say.

“How about your first start?” A self-amusing grin coming across his face.

“I was born on the 19th of July, 1955—“

“Two days after Disneyland opened.” He cuts in. He realizes how stupid that sounded. “Sorry, my Mom was there on opening day, she was a little girl, and my whole family are big Disney Ear-Heads.”

She’s amused by the comment. “It’s funny thinking about Disneyland now that you bring it up. I suppose when most people hear you say ‘I’m going to live in Southern California’ they think about Hollywood, palm tree-lined beaches and Disneyland, but I’ve never actually thought about going to Disneyland, funny. Now that I’m here maybe I’ll cruise by some day.”

He apologizes again. “Sorry, please.” He motions for her to continue.

She picks up where she left off. “I was born in Sindelfingen, it’s a small Southern German town, at the Mercedes factory, but almost immediately I was sent to Sweden.” He can see her eyes starting to flicker with memories like an old film reel and he instantly recalls some of the grainy photographs he saw in the binder of her hustling past hay-bails lining the rural Swedish roads of Råbelövsbanan, a mouthful he won’t dare try to pronounce.

“Were you sent up to Sweden just for the race?”

“Yeah. Well, technically I was imported by Philipsons Automobil-Aktiebolag.” She can see that all these Swedish and German names are a bit fullbodied for him, so she tries to make it a little easier for him as she continues. “I’m sure these are some of the names in that binder of yours.” Her smile relaxes him again. “Gunnar, was the owner of Philipsons; it was the eponymous Mercedes-Benz dealership in Sweden and he sponsored just about every sportscar event during that period, but if the factory team was going to make an appearance, well then watch out, because nobody did showmanship like Mercedes. Although I suppose that was really more Alfred than it was Mercedes-Benz.”

“Alfred Neubauer you mean?”

“So you did read the binder?” She jokes back.

“Yeah Alfred Neubauer, he was the chief of Mercedes-Benz Grand Prix Team.”

“I’ve heard him called ‘The fat man with a thousand tricks’.” His remark makes her laugh, their conversation is now going exactly how he wanted.

“I suppose that’s how some saw him.” She pauses, he senses there’s a lot she can tell about Neubauer, but rather than push, he wants to see what she’ll willingly say. “He was …“ another pause, “complicated.”

“How so?” As he softly leans forward to show real interest his metal chair makes a creak on the concrete floor.

“He was fat, I’ll give you that, he probably never met a meal he didn’t like.” She winces a bit. “That was cruel, I shouldn’t say that. You know he was actually a great racer too. They always talk about him as the big team boss, but in the mid-’20s he was quick, raced the Targa Florio, and that’s no joke. But the thousand tricks, I think really comes from how well prepared he always was. What is it they say, luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity; well that was Alfred. He was always the most prepared, he was an organizational mastermind!” She put real emphasis on that, showing sincere admiration and appreciation for her boss. “When we were in Sweden, and keep in mind this wasn’t Le Mans or the Mille Miglia, this was a relatively small race, I overheard a journalist snickering saying something like ‘You’d think he’s Patton invading Sicily.’ That was Alfred, the best prepared.” The way she’s smiling now shows real fondness for the memory, or perhaps amusement at her next thought. He waits for her to continue. “But yes he was big, but big in life; he was dynamic and full of mirth. You know they called him Don Alfredo at Mercedes?” She lets a small giggle escape. “He was probably the best raconteur I ever met, some of the stories he’d tell about racing for Mercedes in the Targa Floria or just the way he’d talk about Caracciola and his driving style; you could tell he loved racing and he loved his drivers too; even Moss, whom I’m sure kept Alfred up at night.”

“Why do you say that?” He knows that Stirling Moss was one of the best drivers of the period, and he’s personally fascinated with his legendary drive at the ’55 Mille Miglia.

“Oh Stirling was brilliant, don’t get me wrong, but he was young and a little restless for Alfred. You have to remember, most of Alfred’s drivers were guys like Rudi Caracciola, Karl Kling and of course Juan Manuel Fangio.” She side eyes the binder again. “Want to see if those names are in your binder?” She winks. “These guys were proven champions, Grand Prix winners, Le Mans and the Carrera Panamerica; but Moss was different than those guys. He was young, and short, and maybe a bit of a chip on his shoulder; but he was thrilling to be around, especially for the fairer sex.” She winks again. “But you got the impression that he had something to prove.”

“But didn’t he? I mean the ’55 Mille Miglia is kind of legendary right?” This millennial clearly knows a bit more about racing than she’d first judged him for.

“That race was a few months before I was around, but yeah, it was a race all the SLR girls talked about; some with a bit of jealousy I suspect. One of the SL gals though told me that she took Stirling and ‘Jenks’ on drives along the route for weeks before the race so they could make notes about the road. She said they were the most exhilarating drives of her life!”

“What about the SLR from the race?” He has a model of it on his desk, daily he admires the bright red numbers on the silver paint, something about that number too, 722.

“I heard Moss describe her, 722 as you all call her,” it’s like she’s reading his mind “as ferocious! I think that’s why he loved her so much, the way she sang to him and Jenks through those Italian towns, must have been like listening to Puccini’s ‘Gianni Schicchi’.”

He takes her good spirits as the perfect time to ask what he knows will be the most sensitive question of the day. “Did you talk to any of the SLR girls about Le Mans?”

Instantly he regrets asking it. Her stabbing glare quickly turns to what he senses will be tears.

“No, how could I?!” She sharply and solemnly tries to close that chapter.

“I’m sorry,” he has to push further though, “I know it was a great tragedy—”

She cuts him off. “Why because you saw a video on Youtube? How could you understand anything about something like that.” Her voice cracking.

He knows better than to respond to that directly, instead he tries to softly pivot. “Can you tell me what it was like at Mercedes?”

“It was dark.” She hesitates but knows he’s not trying to be hurtful so she lets it go. “Levegh and her both died … instantly thankfully.” Her eyes welling up with tears. “The fans though, it was horrifying … 82 of them. It’s the worst thing imaginable for a car you know, things can go wrong and it’s not your fault, but somehow you feel like it is. You always do. They’re our responsibility, we’re supposed to take care of them. Our drivers I mean …” Her voice trembling as she pauses. “They’re ours, and we’re supposed to protect them.” He tilts his head with an empathetic smile. He gives her time to breath through it as the tears are freely flowing now. He’s never given any thought to this, that a car could have such deep regard and feelings for her driver. He’s heard racers talk about their connection to a car, how at times they were one with it, but he always just thought that was a figure of speech. Looking at her in this moment, he admires the way the light warmly glow off of her silver form, there’s a heart and reverence to her that he’s now truly seeing for the first time.

Her gaze still on the ground immediately in front of her. She softly begins again. “One time I heard Fangio’s SLR say that Levegh saved them.” She looks up to meet his empathetic smile. “They were right behind Levegh along the pit straight. She said Levegh didn’t have any time to avoid the slower car that cut across him, but in the last split second, Levegh raised his arm out signaling to Fangio trailing behind. That’s the kind of racer and man Pierre Levegh was.” She kind of huff laughs. “That wasn’t even his real name you know, Levegh. It was a racing name he gave himself in memory of his uncle. But there you go, that was Pierre, a gentleman in the truest sense.” Her tears begin to flow again and suddenly he feels a lump in his throat and his own eyes welling up.

“Thank you, would you like to take a break, do you need some fresh air?” He wants to give her all the space she needs.

“No. Thank you though. ’55 is tough, and I suppose you can’t really talk about it without talking about Le Mans.”

As she recomposes herself, he tries to humor her and regain her trust. “And Disneyland.” He says softly, and she softly smiles in return. Resettled, he gingerly moves back to try and regain their rhythm.

“I’m sorry to ask this question, and sorry if I phrase it or it comes out wrong, but I’m confused about something with Le Mans.”

“What’s that?” She looks confused and little tender, he knows he has to tread lightly to start.

“Everybody says that the Le Mans accident caused Mercedes to withdraw from racing.”

“Mm-hmm.” She tentatively responds, unsure where he’s headed with this.

“But did it?” He’s still treading lightly, but this is something he really wants to get into.

“I see, well you already know the problem with that story though don’t you. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here, to talk about …“ she pauses to place emphasis and put him in a bit of check, “Sweden right? Wasn’t it the Swedish Grand Prix you said you wanted to hear about?”

“Well, yes, I mean exactly. If Le Mans caused Mercedes to withdraw from racing—“

She decides to get to the point and interrupts his train of thought. “Then why was I in the Swedish Grand Prix, just two months after Le Mans?”

“Exactly!” His revelation coming across a little too joyful.

He’s struck the right chord though, he can tell. “Forget about Sweden,” she replies sharply, “what about the Dutch Grand Prix at Zandvoort on the 19th of June, just 8 days after Le Mans … the next fucking weekend they were racing again! And the British Grand Prix at Aintree on the 16th of July, where young Stirling famously won in front of his home crowd, almost as if nothing had happened just a few weeks before.” She stops, shaking a bit. “Like I said, nobody did showmanship like Mercedes.”

He can see her honesty came with deep frustration, he’s not sure how to press on, so he leaves her there momentarily with her own thoughts, but as she continues it’s as if she now feels disloyal and needs to explain herself. “You have to understand, things were different back then, we didn’t talk about being hurt, ever, and we certainly didn’t talk about how things made us feel. We were just expected to get on with it. Like in ’52 when Kling hit a buzzard in the Carrera Panamericana; they were flat out doing something like 135 miles per hour, the damn vulture came crashing right through her windscreen, imagine how much that hurt her, imagine her codriver’s surprise when he got smacked in the face and bloodied up by a vulture.” She shakes her head, almost surprising herself recounting the incident.

“We were just expected to get on with it, and win, and we did!” He can hear it in her voice, it’s a mixture of pride and contempt. “We didn’t talk about how bad the road conditions were or how nasty the weather was, we just got on with it. And we loved it, we all did, it’s what we were born to do, race! But that doesn’t mean we forgot them …” she pauses for a long moment softening with a deep breath, “they would have understood, maybe they’re the only ones that could understand why we went on.”

They both sat in silent respect for a moment before he asks, “When do you think the decision to stop racing was made then?”

“The truth?” Her eyes a bit raised. “Mercedes decided to end the Grand Prix program weeks before Le Mans … in a boardroom! Isn’t that a nice bit of truth for you? Not on the track, not by a racer, not by somebody that could understand it all like Neubauer, but by a board of people that had no clue what we did or how we risked everything out there; hell they probably didn’t know the front side of a pair of racing goggles.”

The insult makes him laugh and it seems the perfect transition. “What can you tell me about Sweden, other than Alfred’s armada?” He smiles, reassuring her that the toughest part is behind them.

“Well it was a complete success.” Her spirit and smile returning. “Mercedes brought a pair of the SLR girls for Fangio and Moss, as well as 5 Worksprepared, factory-competition 300SLs, including yours truly.” She’s beaming now. “Two of the SLs were paired with works drivers Karl Kling and ‘Taffy’—“

“Sorry, Taffy? Who was Taffy?” The question might be stupid but he couldn’t resist.

Laughing, she clarifies. “Taffy was a nickname for, you might want to write this one down, Wolfgang Alexander Albert Eduard Maximilian Graf Berghe von Trips.” She can’t help but laugh. “I suppose now everybody now just calls him ‘von Trips,’ but we all called him Taffy; funny nickname for somebody that was born into nobility don’t you think?”

“Ah yeah, I’m going to have to look up his full name.”

She continues, “And well the other three 300SLs were prepared for a few Swedish drivers. Bengt Martenson and Erik Lundgren, and then of course my guy, Olof Persson.” She says his name slowly and there’s a mixture of pride and excitement in her emphasis. “But we all called him ‘Mas-Olle’.”

“Why’s that? Does ‘Mas’ mean something in Swedish?” He’s expecting one of her expert explanations.

“I don’t know … that’s a good question. I suppose it was just a way to know which Olle you were talking about.” Her voice completely unsure about this, he can tell it bothers her a little as she shifts.

“There was another Olle Persson?”

“Funny right? Ya ‘Mas-Olle’ and ‘Grus-Olle’ and they were both Swedish race car drivers, go figure!” Her amusement returning a bit, but he can tell she still doesn’t like not knowing why they called him ‘Mas-Olle,’ it’s as if she feels like her friendship with him has been knocked down a little.

“One of those Swedish things I’m sure, like Ikea instructions, who knows.” He says reassuringly with a sideways grin. “What was raceday like? Were you nervous?”

“Sure, it was my first race. I didn’t really know Mas-Olle so we weren’t meshed together like the SLR girls were with Fangio or Moss, but I was ready; Alfred and Rudy made sure of that. We were really well looked after, and not just mechanically, there was a team of guys making sure that we gleamed that weekend. We were constantly getting washed and wiped down in between sessions. There was an area outside the garages, it was mostly all dirt and gravel, but there were these concrete pads where they’d place us to wash and dry us, but Rudy …“ her eyes make a point of interest for him to notice the name, “Rudolf Uhlenhaut, had driven his new dream gal up from Germany to put her through the paces and test her.”

“Dream gal huh?” He knows who she’s talking about, and yes she was a dream alright, in fact the ‘Uhlenhaut’ 300SLR Coupe just sold at an invite only auction this past year for a reported $142.9 Million.

“Oh ya, she was a dream, Rudy’s dream really, she was an SLR like what Fangio and Moss were racing, but she was a coupe with Gullwing doors like me. She really had it going on, but she wasn’t ready for racing, she was kind of Rudy’s thing at that time.” Raising her brow in a bit of an eye-roll.

“When they’d put her up on the cement pad to wash her, you would have thought it was Grace Kelly getting a wash down out there, she turned men into boys, and boys too would just sit there in the gravel watching her get cleaned, it was a bit much for me, but I suppose she made the rest of us look like the motorpool.” Dismissively laughing to shake off her own jealousy.

He knows she’s fishing for a compliment but he doesn’t mind being on her hook. “Please, have you seen yourself, and I can’t imagine you looking better then than you do right now.”

The compliment worked, she got what she wanted. He moves her off the thought of Rudy’s gal and back to the race. “Other than the Mercedes-Benz showmanship, what was the weekend like?”

“Oh it was perfect, the weather was really quite nice and the track was in this idyllic rural setting with wheat grass all around. It was a big turnout too. There must have been something like 80,000 fans there! And it felt like a Mercedes parade with all 5 of us SL gals matching in silver running together with sequential black numbers in our black Rudge wheels; and the track was lined with Mercedes- Benz banners, it felt like the whole weekend was just for us.” The smile across her face radiated in the studio light, she’d never looked brighter or more alive than she did right now describing the race; this is what she was born to do and she was reliving the moment at full speed. “I remember the morning was a little cloudy, I wasn’t worried about rain or anything, although that would have made for plenty of excitement.” She chuckles, “It was new asphalt, see they’d just paved the track for the race, it was a big deal.” He needed no convincing, but she felt like she might be getting a little carried away with thoughts of grandeur. “But by the time we were lined up on the grid for our race the air was perfect, it was well under 20 degrees out, maybe like 17 degrees celsius, which was perfect for my NSL engine with a sharper camshaft, special pistons and adapted cylinder head that was all specially tuned for me by Mercedes for a higher performance with an extra 20 horsepower.” The pride and confidence was beaming across her. “Two of the other SL gals running with Kling and Lundgren ran away from the start, they were running nose to tail for most of the race. Mas-Olle and I ran well too, at first we were a bit down in the running order, but as Mas- Olle settled into me, we found a rhythm that was just dreamy; revs hitting perfectly with gear changes, my brakes giving more and more confidence as we came into those hard righthanders and then smooth bang on acceleration down the long straights. There were a couple of spots along the straight after the Fredrikslund turn that had a little rise and fall in the track, where if we’d made a good exit and had just a few extra miles per hour down the straight I could feel my suspension release and fully relax in a brief weightless leap, I couldn’t believe it, I’d never felt so good in my life!” He didn’t dare interrupt her. “As Mas-Olle found his footing with me, we climbed our way back through and after passing some Jaguars and Porsches, we made it a Mercedes stern to stern 1,2,3 with Mas-Olle and I taking the show third position!”

And there it was, he could see it in her face, hear it in her voice, sense it from her posture, racing is what she was born to do and she loved it.
He’s beaming too. “And I thought you said Alfred was the great raconteur!” They both let out a small laugh.

Just then a loud metallic noise shatters the stillness of the studio as the door 50 feet to the right of him opens flooding the studio with daylight.

“Sorry to keep you waiting so long, I couldn’t avoid that call.” The 44 year old almost glides as he walks across the studio. He’s smartly dressed in a well tailored dark blue windowpane wool jacket, probably custom made in Italy, paired with a light blue button up shirt with his monogram ‘CDS,’ embroidered on the lower left rib area, definitely Italian, a pair of jeans that fit too perfectly not to be tailored; but he appears completely comfortable and completely approachable. The interviewer almost hates how much he likes him. He’s been incredibly polite through this whole process and he’s one of those guys whose success seems to come as smoothly as putting on a belt. The interviewer shakes himself back to the moment and stands up.

“Thank you so much for inviting me here, I really appreciate it.” The interviewer extends his hand and they shake.

“Of course, again, I’m sorry that call kept me so long.” He leans against her, his right hand just above her left brow. “So, what can I tell you about her that’s not in that little binder of yours?”

The interviewer can’t help the instinctual laugh that comes out, but he knows she’s found a good home here in California. He’s not sure if she’ll ever be raced again the way she was in Sweden, but he knows she’s in good hands.