Rush

What has turned into a classic Formula 1 season.

With the weather conditions so uncertain,

the drivers prepare for...

the track is still dangerously wet,

but following a drivers' meeting,

- a decision has finally been taken. - Three minutes to go.

Everybody off the grid now.

Twenty-five drivers start every season in Formula 1,

and each year two of us die.

What kind of person does a job like this?

Not normal men, for sure.

Rebels, lunatics, dreamers.

People who are desperate to make a mark

and are prepared to die trying.

My name is Niki Lauda,

and racing people know me for two things.

The first is my rivalry with him.

Photographers, please clear the grid.

What about Hunt? Has he changed?

No, he's going on wets.

I don't know why it became such a big thing.

We were just drivers busting each other's balls.

To me this is perfectly normal,

but other people saw it differently,

that whatever it was between us went deeper.

The other thing I'm remembered for

is what happened on 1st August, 1976,

when I was chasing him like an asshole.

Trauma trolley, please.

Hello, I think the racetrack telephoned ahead that I was coming.

Hunt. James Hunt.

What's the matter? No one ever seen a spot of blood before?

- Are you all right? - Absolutely fine.

We all thought you'd been in an accident.

I have.

If you call a friendly disagreement with another driver an accident.

What did you disagree about?

It's none of your business.

Sorry...

His wife.

That's going to need a couple of stitches. It's a nasty cut.

It was a nasty blow. Done with a bloody crowbar.

- Why? What did you do? - Nothing.

Only what she asked me to do.

Which was...

I'd be happy to show you, if you like.

Oh! Sorry.

I have a theory why women like racing drivers.

It's not because they respect what we do,

driving round and round in circles.

Mostly they think that's pathetic, and they're probably right.

It's our closeness to death.

You see, the closer you are to death, the more alive you feel.

The more alive you are. And they can see that in you.

They feel that in you.

My name is James Hunt.

My father is a stockbroker,

my sister is a barrister and my brother is an accountant.

And I...

Well, I do this.

It's a wonderful way to live.

It's the only way to drive.

As if each day is your last.

I've never been to a Grand Prix before.

Oh, you still haven't.

- This is Formula 3. - What's that?

It's a lower division,

where idiots like me mess about

in the hope of being talent-spotted to race in Formula 1.

- You look disappointed. - No.

Ah. You only slept with me because you thought I was famous.

That's not true.

Don't worry. I will be one day.

Morning, everyone.

- This is Nursie. - Gemma.

Nursie, this is Bubbles Horsley, team manager.

How do you do?

- Bubbles? - Yeah.

- Doc Postlethwaite, our designer. - How do you do?

And Alexander, Lord Hesketh, the team's owner.

How do you do?

Fine, thanks.

Well done, Superstar.

- That's the car? - Yep, that's her.

Lotus 59.

1,000cc Cosworth MAE engine.

She's no beauty, but goes like the clappers.

Nothing to be worried about. Does it before every race.

Good sign, actually. Means he's stoked.

All Formula 3 cars to the assembly area now, please.

Drivers please bring them to the scrutineering bay now.

All right, Superstar?

Never better, patron.

- Have a gargle with this. - Thank you.

Quick toke of this.

At Crystal Palace today, James Hunt's on pole,

with Austrian newcomer Niki Lauda alongside him

and Dave Walker completing Row 1.

Row 2 is Mike Beuttler and Dave Morgan,

- with Tony Trimmer and Gerry Birrell. - Who's that?

He's new.

- Some German. - Austrian.

He's been here since 5:00 am, walking the track.

You might actually have to concentrate today, James.

You'll need these.

Okay, start her up.

Ah! What music!

They could never have imagined it,

those pioneers who invented the automobile,

that it would possess us like this, in our imaginations, in our dreams.

Nursie, men love women,

but even more than that, men love cars.

- Come on, James! - James! Come on, James!

Go, James!

Hunt's still in the lead,

but Niki Lauda is right on his tail.

Hunt and Lauda are proving to be in a class of their own.

They're leaving the pack far behind.

Herr Red Devil's on his tail.

Lauda takes a look down the inside...

and he's sold him a dummy!

Lauda is through! He's in the lead!

Hunt will be determined to make up for that mistake.

Hunt's in Lauda's slipstream.

Lauda's not leaving any gap.

The Lotus goes for the inside. It's an aggressive move from Hunt.

Oh! There's contact!

The leaders have spun out! Lauda's facing the wrong way!

The back marker's gone through.

You can see why Hunt's fellow drivers

call him "Hunt the Shunt".

Asshole!

- Go on, James! - The Kraut's out of it.

Lauda is clearly furious.

There's every reason to expect sharp words in the pits.

It's gonna be victory for Hunt.

It's gonna be an ignominious defeat for Niki Lauda.

So James Hunt scores his third major Formula 3 win of the season

here at Crystal Palace,

after a desperate battle with Niki Lauda.

Lauda was unable to restart

after Hunt's aggressive move caused them both to spin out

in the last lap of the race.

Hard luck. Better luck next time.

Hey, asshole.

That was my line. I had that corner.

Do you mean the one that you spun out of and finished facing the other way?

I think that corner had you.

That move was total suicide. What if I hadn't braked?

- We'd have crashed. - But we didn't, did we?

Thanks to your impeccable survival instincts.

Fuck you. What's your name?

James Simon Wallis Hunt. Remember it, my little Jerry friend.

Jawohl. Remember ze name.

And it's very simple. Hunt. It rhymes with...

cunt.

A word that happens to describe you perfectly!

Who was that?

I've no idea. He looks like a rat, doesn't he?

In my home town, Vienna,

my family is famous for one thing… business.

My grandfather was a businessman,

my father, too.

So when they heard I wanted to race cars for a living,

they had a few things to say.

Gut.

So if my family wasn't going to help me,

I decided to risk everything and take out a loan myself.

I found a Formula 1 team with an okay car

and an owner who had run out of money

and was willing to accept my terms.

And so, ladies and gentlemen,

I'm delighted to say

that the winner of the Guild of Motoring Writers Award Driver of the Year...

is James Hunt.

Superb news!

- Well done, James. - Superstar!

Fantastic!

- Well done. Congratulations. - Thank you so much.

Yes!

Erm...

You know, my parents always wanted me to be a doctor...

or a stockbroker or something.

They gave me the first-class education,

but, well, that all went terribly wrong

and I ended up with you lot.

Thank you. I need it more than you do.

I mean, I have a hot head, an inability to tolerate discipline.

- Yes! - Very true.

I fall out with people left and right.

The only creatures I've ever really loved or have treated honourably

are budgerigars.

So in any normal area of life I'd be... or I am, a total liability.

The only thing I've got going for me is I'm quick in a car.

So, thank you for this and for acknowledging that.

I'm going to give it to my father

and tell him to put it on the mantelpiece

and imagine it's a first-class degree in medicine.

Well done, Superstar.

Another season like that and I'll move you up to the big time.