A race that ended too soon, the shock, the world that cried and that smile as beautiful as sad that suddenly became immortal. Ayrton Senna was not a champion like many, he could get on any car and the color would not have made any difference: the fans followed him everywhere, because he was the one they loved. Twenty-six years is a long time, formula one is another story, he has written pages for new champions, he has seen challenges and boredom flow, but that deadly collision at 14.17 on May 1, 1994 took forever away from racing of soul. In Imola the death on the track so bloody of the driver from San Paolo marked a line between what was there before and what would be no more: and not only the duels between turns and overtaking with Alain Prost, that hatred that it tasted of abraded tires and fiery glances, but made of respect and pure competitive spirit, the love never born with Ferrari that could not write in its annals the name of the greatest champion. Formula one since that first of May lacks a champion that such premature and violent death has made him a timeless hero. He was 34 years old recently, three world championships already won, and an uneasiness stronger than ever: he almost wanted to give up running on the Imola track that Sunday, too many bad omens.
The cursed weekend had started with the accident without consequences for Rubens Barrichello, had continued in the tests on Saturday with the tragedy of Roland Ratzemberger: the fatal accident at the Villeneuve curve of the Austrian driver had shocked everyone, Senna first. So much so that the Brazilian champion had raced that little GP before the crash with the flag of Austria in the car: he would have liked to wave it at the finish line in case of victory to pay homage to the missing driver. That flag was found in Williams stained with Senna's blood. He who was afraid in those hours, he used to dart in the rain: "Nobody ordered us to race in formula 1, but we are not paid to die" he said contesting the advent of new rules that had taken away the safety of the machines and pilots. On the road, that pensive boy who was always on the hunt for inner peace (he looked for it in God he said) had done so much since, after having climbed the minor series, he had made his F1 debut in the home GP, in Brazil in 1984 at the helm of the Toleman-Hart. He was 24 years old and for ten he would have been, with mixed luck, however, the number one: and even with the small English team, in fact, he managed to obtain extraordinary results immediately. As the second place in Monaco under a storm. And from those hairpin turns came the leitmotif of his career: talent in the rain and rivalry with Prost. In 1985 the move to Lotus: on the unbeatable test lap and the seven pole positions won say a lot.
But it is with McLaren that in 1988 he wins the first world championship, and the enemy is found in the team Prost. A rivalry that has become epos. "He is humanly incompatible with me - said Senna of the French rival - but I could not imagine my career without Alain". And Prost at the death of the Brazilian had admitted: "I will miss Senna". Yet the hatred on the track never subsided: in the 90s after the parenthesis of the world championship won by Prost, but much contested and which also cost a disqualification to Senna, the Brazilian returned to the roof of the world for the second time. The trio arrived the following season. In '94 the farewell to McLaren and the transition to Williams: but it was not the super car with which Prost had won the world championship the year before. The cockpit was tight, the driving was not too stable: in short, the feeling with the Brazilian had not been triggered. And also in San Marino, the third race of that bewitched world championship, Senna had conquered pole: but the race ended on the seventh lap. Senna went off the track at the Tamburello curve, due to the failure of the steering column. The single-seater went mad, the tremendous collision. The fatal injuries. The rescue on the runway, the tarpaulins to cover the inert body on the ground, the rush to the hospital in Bologna, the hope that follows the helicopter in flight. But at 6.40 pm the heart stops beating: the fracture of the skull base is devastating. The tragedy arrives everywhere, crosses the TV, leaves a world and a country, Brazil, drowned in pain. Because Senna was not one like many, he was a predestined, the champion of dreams and melancholy, samba and saudade. For twenty years Ayrton Senna da Silva has been the grave number 11 at the Morumby cemetery: the flag of Brazil and a simple epitaph: "Nothing can separate me from the love of God". Nobody forgot it, because that smile never went out. The crazy race that ended too soon turned him over to the world forever.