Gilles Villeneuve. Torn from this world, the victim of a violent accident thirty years ago today.
The tragic loss of a young life – only 32 years old, we mustn’t forget – now timeless. The cross-swept brown hair, so often shagging above penetrating eyes, never did grey, nor did it thin in his short time either. And it never will.
Should one look around, one may find plenty of stories – and these do add flesh to the legend that is Villeneuve – however photographs of the Canadian at work also tell tales.
Rear-end kicking out – it would for most be the beginning of an accident. For Gilles – and a few like him – it would merely be part of the dance; unconscious of any “work”, it was merely reflex.
His hands a blur – a mere thousand actions occurring instantaneously – the penetrating eyes rarely darted, or drew distraction; just focus, deeply intense focus.
Every inkling of a mis-step corrected long before the machine would make up its mind as to where to throw Gilles next. And then there was Zolder – and the last of the mavericks was gone for good.
Somehow, this modern world has forgotten that art, that beauty. Shame.