At the risk of revealing rather more about myself online than might be prudent, I like to sleep with the curtains open. There’s nothing like waking up without the fevered blare of an alarm, instead being gently coaxed awake by the dawn light – especially when one is on holiday. And so I am stirred from a weary slumber by my first Austrian sunrise. Having landed in the area in total darkness, I hadn’t even considered my surroundings; such was the focus on a safe arrival and a comfy bed.
My insistence on not drawing the curtains means a vaguely reluctant six am wake-up. In a moment of remarkable morning boisterousness, I rise from the bed to check out the view, rather than my usual lazy scan of Facebook or interrogation of Autosport. I’m suitably rewarded.
My hotel room features large, double casement windows; two of them framing the most incredible Alpine vista. I don’t know quite what to do – in fact for the first time in my life I think I might be speechless. The hotel is elevated from neighbouring houses, creating a vast panorama. The skies are perfect pastel blue, with a couple of aeroplane vapour trails to break up the palette. Early morning dew blankets the ground, with sparse trees poking their jagged branches out from the soft greens of the surrounding pastures. The mists hang low over the fields, dampening the scene, creating a private, almost mystical atmosphere.
The colours are glorious, with those morning mists softening the mountains which create the backdrop. The local buildings are all formed from natural, earthy hues; adding to the spectacle, not taking away from it. I open the windows and poke my head out into the cool air, trying to breathe everything in and capture the atmosphere. I reckon it’s about the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. And then the church bells start. Something intuitive deep in my psyche retains a unique affection for the sound of church bells. There is just nothing to compare to their noble tones peeling across a rural valley. It’s absolutely magical.
Eventually I tear myself away from the view – I love good scenery but I love racing even more. We’re immensely fortunate to have a guide for the weekend. My friend and motor racing accomplice Clemens grew up in the hills around Rechberg and has been coming to the event since he was a child. He’s kindly offered to show us around for the weekend. Such an idiosyncratic and non-anglicised event could be tough for those of us whose German barely extends to enthusiastically announcing trips to the cinema.
Rechbergrennen is quite unlike any other race meeting. Those well-versed in UK hillclimb and club events won’t be unfamiliar with parking in farmers’ fields – crikey, the stony track up to Prescott’s car park still gives me nightmares – but the paddock arrangements are plain bizarre. There is no space for a proper paddock so the event simply adopts every square inch of grass, macadam and agricultural shed within a mile of the start line. In practice this means the main road is fully of awnings, fields are (bilaterally I hasten to add) plundered and local farmers lease their outbuildings; presumably the livestock is put out to pasture but the lack of obvious bovine activity suggests they might be in the farmhouses themselves. At Rechbergrennen, you simply cease to be surprised by the sheer communal integration of the event.
The paddock (such as it might be) is absolutely mega. The smell of race fuel fills the air, the sun is burning off the early morning mist and the atmosphere is buzzing. Each car is a hive of activity as the locals prepare to range themselves against the hill and their European Championship counterparts. This is not a commercially-driven area of the sport and even the fastest machines are prepared by just a small team of mechanics. Don’t expect corporate hospitality to land here any time soon.
There’s a real buzz in the air this morning; everyone’s well fired up for the event and the crowd is large, even at 9am on practice day. It retains that relaxed vibe and inclusive accessibility that makes club race meetings the most feel-good to attend.
That’s not to say this isn’t a significant event. It’s a qualifier for the FIA’s European Hillclimb Championship and, until the return of F1 to the Red Bull Ring in 2014, was the country’s best-attended motorsport event. A crowd of 30,000 isn’t unusual and the passion of the spectators is as fever-injected as you’ll find at any F1 race. The Austrians love their racing – and love their hillclimbing.
The morning’s runs are well under way by the time we reach the startline. Uniquely in my experience, the start is directly adjacent to a large, malodorous, steaming pile of manure belonging to the near-by farm. The German translation is misthaufen (thanks, Clemens, for usefully expanding my vocabulary) and it must rank as the most incongruous thing I’m yet to see at a race track. The event is shaped, and takes its character, from just these features.
With the smell of the misthaufen still clogging our nostrils we pause to watch a few of the opening runs. There’s generous spectator banking along most of the course and the start is a popular spot. The locals are already in attendance in strong numbers and the beers are flowing. Of particular interest is the high percentage of young fans. While this kind of event in the UK would be populated almost exclusively by greying, beardy chaps of a nerdy disposition (I speak as one myself…), here teenagers are gathering in excited groups, independent of their parents. Clearly this is an event these guys grow up with and it’s certainly no niche hobby.
Off the startline, drivers bang it up a couple of gears before hitting a slow-ish chicane. Formed artificially from tyre barriers, this simply keeps speeds down before one of the fastest sections of the track. With a farm on the right-hand side, a left over a bridge crossing a small stream leads drivers into a flat-out wooded blast flanked by Armco. We climb into the woods and prop ourselves among the trees. The warm, earthy smells of the woodland floor and trees contribute to a unique, all-sensory spectacle.
The sound is fantastic through here, and so is the sense of speed. We chance upon a mixed group of touring cars – from Group N-type Mitsubishi Evos through to savage home-built specials. The engine noises bouncing off the barriers and the trees, the warmth of the woodland and the fever of the crowds (who ascend trees to catch the best views) are utterly beguiling.
We dive out of the woodland and trek across open fields bordering the track. It’s really quick here and the prototypes are out in force. Pedals mashed and throttles open, these guys are flying; mere feet away from us and a similar distance from trees on their left. It’s flat out for the best and the engine notes only fall from the tyre scrub of the next right-hander, just out of our sight. Faggioli, the great Italian champion, flashes by; blink and you’ll miss him. Quite literally: the top boys are travelling so quickly they’re in view for no more than a second. It’s fierce, breathless stuff.
While the top guys like Faggioli take two minutes to ascend the entire hill, we labour across a grassy field and, carefully negotiating one family’s back garden (I promise I’m not making this up), pop out above the long left-hand hairpin which has become such a crowd favourite. This huge corner is still pretty brisk and the land surrounding it forms a natural amphitheatre, attracting huge crowds. We settle on the ground to enjoy the fastest cars of the weekend. A black, Italian Reynard F3000 weapon screams into view, stage left, a couple of sharp downchanges, a swift change of direction and it’s soaring up the hill away from us. A proper race car on a mountain road. Wow.
Barely has the Reynard faded from view than we are treated to the next aural assault. Otakar Kramsky’s Reynard K15 is tackling the flat out right, hidden among the woods. The scream of race engine is suddenly silenced by a sickening thump. There’s smoke rising from the trees and mild hysteria from the confused crowd. It’s immediately clear this is a very serious situation.
Emergency vehicles and attendants are quickly on the scene but it’s evident it’s not a straight forward incident. All activities on track are curtailed until further notice. In the absence of anything else to do we continue to wander up the track, awaiting good news. It’s a truly beautiful day and the horror of Kramsky’s accident couldn’t juxtapose more angularly with the perfect day. The hills are vivid green, the skies glorious blue and that amazing ribbon of Tarmac carving a perfect grey swathe amongst the natural beauty.
We adopt a fantastic spectating spot high up on the hill, with the valley opening out in front of us, mountains in the distance and the track curving gently beneath our feet. We enjoy the local wurstl – a delightfully oily sausage served with crusty bread, tomato ketchup and horseradish mustard. It’s a snip at €3.50. 
While he’s not translating anything very positive, it’s a great comfort to have Clemens here to translate. All the commentary is in German and there’s no interspersion from a Brit to break things up as one might experience during the major events at Spa, Monza, Monaco or Le Mans. Without Clemens there, it would’ve been a deeply confusing time – and even more so had Kramsky’s accident been out of our sight. We just have to sit tight and wait for updates.
Eventually, the terrible news we’d feared is announced: the Czech driver is dead. It’s only the fourth fatal accident at an event I’ve been present for and it sends a chill down my spine. How can such a wonderful sport, one which brings such joy to so many, present such tragedy? It’s a terrible confliction and one I often struggle to reconcile. Kramsky, I learn, had been an extremely capable hillclimb racer; not a young man, he was a multiple Czech champion. The only consolation we can find is that he had perished doing what he loved.
The atmosphere is subdued among the crowds now. They have remained out in force, enjoying the fine weather and the local pilsner but now begin the trudge back home. We follow the circuit road downhill and wonder at its challenge. There are grass banks, trees, ditches, signposts, rainwater gullies, farmhouses, bus stops and all manner of road-based ephemera to snag the unwary. This special challenge is what had drawn me to this branch of the sport in the first place – the thought of drivers tackling open country roads in proper race cars. It seems to me to be one of the last links to those great days of Continental road racing: Le Mans; Spa; the Mille Miglia; the Targa Florio; Dundrod; et al. I had anticipated that the drivers would master the challenge and not the other way round. The irony of wanting to witness the spectacle but not the potential consequences was not lost on me. We humans are nothing if not contrary.
It’s surprising and bizarre to find ourselves walking the section of track where Kramsky’s accident actually occurred. It feels slightly voyeuristic and deeply macabre, yet we can’t stop ourselves. It seems that Kramsky put wheels just a little too far to the inside of the long, fast right-hander. Whether he caught the kerb, a bollard, or simply lost it on the dirt is unclear. What is painfully clear is that he lost grip and immediately plunged off the road to the left. Here the trees were unprotected by any kind of barrier and the poor driver would’ve simply been a terrified passenger. His Reynard felled several trees before coming to rest among in woodland. I have a lump in my throat.
Breakfast the next morning is a sober affair. The frisson of excitement in the air is gone. The FIA’s representatives for the weekend are staying in the same hotel and they wear forlorn expressions throughout. Most awful is the appearance of Faggioli with his team and family. He dines with his wife and young son; it’s impossible to imagine the demons he must be wrestling: the burden of responsibility for his family but his all-consuming passion for his sport. It’s impossible not to feel moved seeing the innocent playfulness of the man’s son and the equal concern of his wife.
At one stage on Saturday, it looked as if track activity on Sunday might even have been curtailed altogether. In the end, the drivers convened and agreed to proceed; it was what Kramsky would’ve wanted. The morning is slightly subdued compared to the previous day. There’s a feeling that everyone just wants to get a safe run under their belts. Having lost most of the Saturday running, and certainly their momentum, the drivers are running briskly but safely.
There’s no return loop at Rechberg and the cars don’t run in batches, as one might see in the UK. That means the entire field (all 251 of them!) runs up, then waits at the top before running back down the hill to the paddock. Compared to the neat 20-car batches one might know from, say, Loton Park, it feels odd.
Still, the cars are coming thick and fast and there’s a huge variety of awesome machinery to savour. A few teams have obviously decided to leave early – or suffered mechanical malaise. That means a few entries are missing which is disappointing but, under the circumstances, understandable. Tiny Steyr Puch650 TRs kick proceedings off and from there a fresh competitor appears every 30 seconds or so. From a pre-war Alta to the latest, hugely potent, prototypes and amateur modified hatchbacks to wind tunnel-developed single seaters – all tastes are catered for.
It’s hard to know where to start when picking highlights from this heady cocktail of motor racing miscellany. Certainly I’m struck by a couple of beautifully-wrought home-brew specials: one Opel Kadett and one Ford Escort Mk2 remind me of the great days of Special Saloons, Modsports and AMOC Intermarque. Exaggerated wheel arches, jutting splitters and crazy rear wings all redolent of a time when ideas were big and rulebooks were small.
The Bulgarian Audi Sport Quattro is a sight to behold. The small crew has annexed a lay-by on the street for its portion of ‘paddock’ and brought with it an enthusiast gang of fans. Apparently kicking out 850bhp, the Quattro is utterly savage. Announcing its arrival with the usual chorus of chirrups and whistles, it pitches on its suspension as it brakes and accelerates; that iconic five cylinder warble providing its exit music. It’s hard to imagine the terror of trying to maintain anything like safe and dignified progress in light of such ludicrous performance.
It would be remiss not to mention the car which led me to Rechbergrennen in the first place: the mighty Team Edlinger BMW 320 IRL. Taking the modified saloon car to its natural conclusion, the BMW retains a very vague E30 320 silhouette but packs a 550bhp Nissan Indy Racing League punch – and delivers it through a Prost F1 gearbox. The arches are wild, the aero heroically silly and the noise is from the heavens. Driver Erich Edlinger grew up in the mountains around here and his driving reflects his local knowledge: he’s straight on it. The crowd loves the car – and with good reason. It’s as awesome as I had hoped and expected.
With the runs completed, the real fun can start. The entire field (all 200+ cars) descends the hill in a crocodile longer than the course itself. The crowds break ranks and line the road side, loudly and demonstratively showing their appreciation. Forget the Tifosi at Monza or the Holden fans at Bathurst, this is pure automotive passion. The drivers are greeted like heroes and the cars are worshipped similarly. It’s loads of fun and again we are treated as responsible human beings and expected not to do something stupid like walk in front of a car: very refreshing.
We elect to watch the day’s final runs from nearer the start of the course, in fact just a few hundred metres further on from the previous day’s tragic accident. This is a pretty long corner – certainly not a hairpin in the traditional fashion – but gently cambered and reasonable quick. It’s approached flat out as the drivers dodge lamp posts and bus stops. The sight and sound of the fastest guys through here remains surreal.
A rain shower briefly interrupts proceedings, but only by slowing everyone down a little. In fact Team Edlinger falls victim to it badly and its ascent in the afternoon is a full thirty seconds down on its morning run. Tough break during a national championship final, but that’s hillclimbing and that’s motor racing.
Into the last dozen or so racers of the weekend and the track is dry once more, the spectacle of the cars at speed is magnificent. It’s intoxicating hearing proper racing engines at maximum attack among the mountains, and on public roads. Suddenly the crisp perfection of competition exhaust snarl is broken once again. A light blue sports prototype is spinning through the air vertically, shedding bodywork as it goes. It can barely be 100 metres from the spot where Otakar Kramsky had perished 24 hours earlier.
Once again we sit and wait; a second medical extraction in as many days. The atmosphere is sombre as Renzo Maggiani is removed from his car and airlifted to hospital. The news arrives later that he is recovering well and soon discharged from hospital. In light of those two massive accidents, it comes as a relief that the remaining drivers ascend the hill with typical force, precision and in safety. As the great Faggioli flies towards us, threading his way past the street furniture at a speed beyond any of his rivals, I think of his young son playing innocently at breakfast time.
And, with Faggioli once again crowned king (by a full nine seconds), the 43rd Grosser Bergpreis von Osterreich is over and the drivers can meander back to their make-shift homes. There’s still something of the carnival atmosphere going off around the track. The fans here revere the drivers and the sport, and they cheer for those competitors who have so thrilled them. Privately they will mourn the loss of one of their own. In the meantime, the local teenagers need to try and snare a photo with the best-looking female drivers. It’s like The Inbetweeners have landed in Austria and gone racing.
It’s been something of a rollercoaster of emotions. This event is truly magical: to see pukka racing machinery let loose on such spectacular roads is unmissable. This particular weekend, though, has provided a vivid demonstration of the true perils of road racing. Real roads and real racing cars make for a special combination but the price of any mistake is high. Rest in peace, Otakar Kramsky, and thank you for doing so well what most of us can only dream of.
