How to Win in Belgium By Not Really Coasting

Scotland's Jimmy Clark, 28, is everything a world champion auto racer ought to be: bright, cool, daring, earnest, fearless--and lucky as a field full of four-leaf clovers. Last week he won the 280-mile Belgian Grand Prix to make it two out of three races so far this year. And he didn't even realize what he was doing.

In practice, Jimmy's 1964 Lotus developed mechanical trouble, and he had to trade it in on a 1963 model that was geared too low for the ultrafast Spa Franchorchamps course. So there he was, a few laps from the end, touring unhappily around in fourth place. Out front in a Brabham-Climax, the U.S.'s Dan Gurney was burning up the track, leading Britain's Graham Hill and New Zealand's Bruce McLaren by 40 sec., and Clark by 90 sec. Play safe? Not Gurney.

Where Was Anybody? Gurney had not won a Grand Prix race in two years, and this was going to be a victory worth savoring. On the 28th lap, he blasted around the 8 3/4-mile course at 137.6 m.p.h.--breaking the old track record by more than 2 m.p.h. Then the Brab-ham's engine began to miss. Gurney screeched into the pits. "Gas!" he yelled--and imagine his surprise. There was no gas: fuel-company mathematicians had concluded that nobody would need to refuel. Frantically, Gurney wheeled his sputtering Brabham back onto the track. On the last lap, he ran completely out of gas.

Tall, mustachioed, and very British, Graham Hill would have cut a dashing figure at the winner's stand. But the fuel pump of his B.R.M. quit just 100 yds. past the spot where Gurney sat nursing his grief. In the grandstand, the fans began to get restless. Where was Gurney? Where was Hill? Where was anybody? At last, Bruce McLaren's Cooper cleared the crest of the last hill and started down the final straight. But McLaren was only coasting: his generator belt had parted and his engine was dead. Then came a sound that made McLaren swivel in his seat--a staccato roar, rapidly increasing in volume. Here was Clark, buzzing merrily along, ignorant of the drama up ahead. Down the straightaway rolled Bruce McLaren, at a desperate 30 m.p.h. Down the straightaway flashed Jimmy Clark, at a casual 130 m.p.h. McLaren was pounding his knees in helpless frustration as Clark zipped past, just 300 yds. from the finish.

"Who, Me?" In the confusion, the flagman was waving the checkered flag at everybody. Clark apparently hadn't noticed McLaren, hadn't seen Hill stopped by the wayside. So he kept on going--anxious to find out what had happened to Gurney. Photographers commandeered a car and rushed after him. "Jimmy," they shouted. "You're wanted at the victor's stand!" "Who, me?" asked Clark. "What for?'

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