Magnus Walker

b500 magazine

Man with a beard

Man with a Beard Builder, Collector, Driver Born in Sheffield -1967 Wrote a letter to Porsche as a 10 year old wanting to be a car Designer Lives in Los Angeles since 1987 Car Enthusiast O ne thing often leads to another. That was how our Mille Miglia adventure began. The epic 1,000 mile fourday romp through the Italian countryside in search of la Dolce Vita.

The Mille Miglia was not actually an event on my dream list, though. The journey began 18 months prior with a random Instagram photo post of my buddy Ray’s 1963 220 Mercedes. It was a rather fetching example in slate gray with a red interior, a three-speed column shift, and gobs of character, soul and patina. Often, that’s all you need.

The IG post I recall was well-received. One comment in particular stood out, from Michael at the MercedesBenz museum in Stuttgart, Germany. It went like this: “How cool that a Porsche guy posts a Mercedes photo.” This was followed by an invite to tour the Mercedes-Benz museum if I wanted to the next time I was in Stuttgart.

Naturally the next time I was over there visiting the other team across town, I visited the iconic museum. The structure alone is enough to grab the attention of anyone, car fan or not. About half way through the guided tour, we came across a 300SL. Casually I mentioned how I’d love to drive one, and to my surprise, Michael replied, “Hey that could be arranged. Would you like to drive it in the Mille Miglia?”

“Yes,” was the only word I could think of. Of course I’d like to drive it. It was as simple as that.

Now, the Mille Miglia is no longer the balls-out pedal to the metal race it was back in the day when Stirling Moss and co-pilot ‘Jenks’ set the course record of 10 hours, seven minutes, and 58 seconds back in 1956. Today’s Mille is more of an exhibition tour of the countryside.

We flew to Frankfurt. Michael met us at the airport, in a Mercedes of course. We drove straight to Brescia, to a nondescript convention center where we first got to see and inspect the car and the MercedesBenz team. Soon, the slightly daunting excitement of the next few days began to sink in.

The good news was we had factory support. All we needed to do was show up and drive.

Our steed for the next few days was a 1955 Mercedes-Benz SL in black with no bumpers. It was car number 359. The three-litre inline six is quite an impressive sight to behold. The doors open towards the sky like a gullwing, hence the name. The sill is wide and low and requires a balletlike pirouette to slide on down into the low-slung bucket seat.

At first I was tilting the oversized moveable steering wheel back to make entry easier. But I soon realized this was tedious, time consuming, and a little over dramatic. After a few tries I was able to slide right in quite easily underneath the steering wheel. Once inside, the car was quite roomy. In fact, I could even wear my signature Derby hat.

The controls of the car are elegant. The shifter lever is dainty with an ivory ball tip. The four-speed transmission shifts into gear quite easily. The inline – six fires right up to a lazy idle.

After a short briefing about the car and a long drivers meeting in Italian, which gave us time to look at the road guide book—also in Italian— Hannah and I decided our best plan was to have fun and not worry about the competition side of things. We had noticed almost everyone else was taking this very seriously, with their road guides filled with highlighted markers, notes, and post-it notes no doubt in reference to where they should be and at what time. At this point, I should mention I had the easy job of driving. Hannah, the greatest co-pilot and navigator, had the hard job of keeping us on track.

The start at Brescia was filled with excitement, noise, energy, people and rain. With 358 cars in front of us, it was also a long wait before we started. But having the likes of Jochen Mass and Jackie Ickx on board telling stories helped to pass the time.

Soon it was our time to belt up and proceed through the tiny streets to the rolling start. The group cheered, the engine roared, and we were on our way.

Once the excitement of the crowds disappeared, the true journey began. Soon we faced our first important decision: Should we follow the car in front of us, who appeared to be going the wrong way, or should we trust our gut, and poor Italian. This was a decision we would make many times over the next few days. Our mantra was, “Run our own race and course.” The first day was quite short and over rather quickly. the next three would not be the same. One of the many exciting things about the Mille is following the motorbike cops into oncoming traffic.

This seemed strange at first but quickly became the norm. As did splitting traffic and splitting past the countless tractors, caravans, and mopeds that dot these tiny narrow Italian streets. remember, the event takes place on open public roads, and it’s often dog-eat-dog out there.

I grew fond of this manoeuvre, as did other drivers. The tricky bit was always slicing back into traffic just before the inevitable roundabouts. I have often thought the Mille Miglia should be called “the thousand roundabouts.” The 300SL is a joy to drive. The gears are tall. The motor is torque. The rear end moves around a lot, and the brakes are wooden. It’s a bit like an e-type jaguar that doesn’t stop as well.

The days were long and sleep was limited. A usual day goes like this; up at 6am; quick bite to eat; pick up the car; report to staging by 7am; on the road by 8am. Then, the race is on.

The days are a mixture of time trials set by stages marked by a certain time distance and average speed. Sometimes we would arrive early only to have to pull over and wait it out watching the stopwatch in preparation to cross the line at the designated time.

Lunch was always a mad dash affair. Then it’s back on the road in the afternoon, often hooking up with a

pair of like-minded spirited drivers swapping positions on the road for fun. Occasionally we’d have to remind ourselves that we were in someone else’s million-dollar car.

Perhaps the best part though of the Mille are the people who line the route cheering you on in all hours of the day and all conditions of weather.

Often as darkness falls and tiredness overwhelms, the night stages are the most difficult. Poor visibility of light rain, fog and weak headlights didn’t help with the fatigue. After 12–14 hours in the car on unknown roads following the guidebook in Italian, the day would end in the town square filled with cheering locals at 9pm to 10pm.

By the time you returned to the hotel, handed over the car, got out the luggage, found the bar, had a drink and ate some food, it was almost midnight before we hit the feathers. My mind was racing about the day’s events, and I probably only slept four hours a night.

This was the schedule for the next two days, rushing from one checkpoint to another. And then, just like that, it was day four. We had covered almost 1,200 miles and were back to where it all began. To be honest, the finish was a little anticlimactic as we waited together in line at a staging area and then drove over the final ramp for a few photos. And that was it.

No big fanfare, no party. But a lifetime of memories.

It was a whirlwind of emotions. I’m not sure we found la dolce vita, as there was no time to stop and sip an espresso and enjoy the view. If you want to see Italy from a car, don’t do the Mille. But if you want an adventure of a lifetime, drive the Mille.