Fermo Posta Paradiso Fermo Posta Paradiso PrefazioneFermo Posta Paradiso BiografiaFermo Posta Paradiso LettereFermo Posta Paradiso Audiopoetry

P.O.Box Paradise. For Jim Clark.

Jim 25. Jim Clark.
This is how the magazine “Auto Italiana” had nicknamed you when you won your first Formula One World Championship.

On Lotus 25. Colin Chapman had tailored it like a suit around your horizontally lying body, in such a way that it became the splendid aerodynamic torpedo with which, from the first to the last lap,  you routed all the gladiators. Such a refined elegance: British Racing Green, despite you being a Scotsman, matt yellow wheel rims, the same colour as the thin and discreet stripe that ran centrally along the nose of the car, the latter glossy. A small steering wheel, three spokes of polished harmonic steel covered in red leather, a pair of lightweight black leather gloves, the Dunlop overall, sky-blue as an elegantly tight-fitting pyjama with your name hand-stitched on it, Jim Clark, above your blood type.  The black helmet with, maybe, a hint of blue reflections. No sponsor for no-one. Just passion.

You could see the driver’s face well in 1963.
The vigilant eye behind the goggles, the facial features, the hard set of the lips, all confirmed how you were indeed that natural talent that the stopwatch declared you to be, that the chequered flag declared you to be.

The photographs, with no telephoto lens, were taken by the photographers, all madmen as the race stewards and the fans, while you aimed for the apex of the turn, at full speed, reclining your head backwards and inclining it towards the inside of the curve, as if you were riding an Olympic bobsleigh, as you went by, flat out, barely a metre from the prone photographer. There, on the naked grass, where the asphalt ended, where sometimes an accident occurred and everybody died. Crazy. Like love.