Niki Lauda has passed away. As anyone who follows racing (or saw the film Rush) knows, he lived 43 years more than expected, having improbably survived a horrendous flaming wreck at the Nürburgring in 1976 despite significant burns to his face and, more dangerously, his lungs.
The scars from those burns, which he largely chose not to address with plastic surgery, left him a uniquely identifiable person; I once unexpectedly came face to face with him, and there was absolutely no mistaking who it was (his ubiquitous Parmalat cap being utterly redundant for identification.)
Lauda was not an easy man to get along with, exacting and imperious. But the man could certainly drive, and his will in not only surviving his accident but being back in the car six weeks after being given last rites was the other side of that determination. That he went on to three World Championships was thus no surprise.
He had mixed success in the airline business after retirement, but more as a consultant in racing, most recently with Mercedes’ F1 team. Niki Lauda had but one standard: his own.
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