I used to love the Spanish Grands Prix at Montjuic, on the hill overlooking Barcelona. It was as if the whole city engulfed the race – embraced the danger, swallowed the pain. And then there was the sound of an over-rich DFV on over-run, crackling early in the morning, echoing between the trees, or a Matra V12, pushed to its screaming limit on the ultra-fast uphill sweepers. We’d sit in the shade in the paddock area as if it was just another race. Drivers sipped Cokes. Team owners looked fretful. Mechanics lit another gasper.
It wasn’t normal, though; this wasn’t just another venue. This was Montjuic.
This was street racing on the edge of a razor.