from
https://www.goodwood.com/grr/f1/the-history-of-f1-the-1970s/

Damien Smith
The history of F1: the 1970s

Bernie Ecclestone was little more than a minor player up until the early
1970s. A sometime racer in 500cc Formula 3, he’d befriended and advised
the promising Stuart Lewis-Evans, until the south Londoner succumbed to
burns sustained in a crash at the 1958 Moroccan Grand Prix. The
second-hand car trader subsequently withdrew from the race tracks to
focus on… empire building, let’s say – until Jochen Rindt rocked up in
the mid-1960s. As the Austrian’s star rose in the first year of the new
decade, so too did Ecclestone’s – but in a quieter, less demonstrative,
but by no means less effective manner.

Read part one of this series here: The history of F1: The 1950s

Again, Bernie lost a good friend to this bloodthirsty sport, when Rindt
was killed at the wheel of his Lotus 72 at Monza on 5th September 1970,
having already gathered enough points to become F1’s only uncrowned
world champion – a ghoulish honour that will remain forever unique (we
hope). But this time, Ecclestone chose not to drift back into the
shadows. Instead, he bought Brabham, for a snip from designer/engineer
Ron Tauranac, who had no hope against such a man. Bernie had now thrust
his well-heeled boot firmly into the F1 door – and the rest of him would
soon follow.

From our supposedly enlightened perspective, the early 1970s seem
endearingly colourful, uncomplicated, raw and refreshingly untamed – at
least from an F1 perspective. But the reality was a wider world that had
been made drab and brought low, in stark contrast to the sunny optimism
of the preceding decade, by the lingering grind of the Vietnam War,
increasing social and trade union unrest, deepening political cynicism
and a fuel crisis that led to the economic stall of the three-day week.
Life was grim for many. Much like David Bowie, racers and jetsetters
Jackie Stewart, Emerson Fittipaldi and Clay Regazzoni must have looked
to most like they had beamed in from another planet.

The cars they drove were ever closer to the ground, sitting on wide,
slick tyres and gripped by ever-expanding wings on the noses and hung
out the rear. And national colours were suddenly passe. Tyrrells were
Elf deep blue, Brabhams turned Martini white, Lotuses were first red,
white and gold in deference to the Gold Leaf tobacco brand, then
unforgettably, dramatic fag-packet black and gold. And Colin Chapman
wasn’t troubled to sign away his team’s name either when there were
sponsor dollars to be had – so the Lotus 72 became the John Player
Special. Nothing was sacred in the gauche 1970s, including, it seemed,
the life of racing drivers.

As Stewart and Fittipaldi shared world titles, their friends and
colleagues perished around them: Piers Courage, Jo Siffert, Roger
Williamson, Helmuth Koinigg, Peter Revson – and for Jackie, the final
heartbreak. Francois Cevert. Worn down by the stress, fear and sheer
numbers of those he’d lost, Stewart had already decided to call it a day
at the end of 1973, telling only Ken Tyrrell of his intention. Wife
Helen didn’t need to know, she’d only live in greater fear, counting
down the races. Then at the last one, his friend, protégé, team-mate and
anointed successor crashed through the steel barriers in practice at
Watkins Glen. Stewart, his career numbers forever frozen on 99 GP
starts, 27 wins and three world titles, never raced again.

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Fittipaldi, disenchanted by Chapman and the loss of a title he felt
should have been his, left for McLaren and in 1974 became champion for a
second time. But now here was a new threat, like Rindt, another
straight-ahead character from Austria, a buck-toothed oddball at first
dismissed as a ‘pay driver’. There were hints at March and BRM, but once
he was in a Ferrari all doubts were banished: Niki Lauda was the real deal.

Read part two of this series here: The history of F1: The 1960s

F1-1975-Silverstone-Niki-Lauda-Clay-Regazzoni-Mauro-Forghieri-Luca-di-Montezemolo-Ferrari-312T-David-Phipps-MI-Goodwood-17112020.jpg

Ferrari had slumped to a low ebb by ’73, cushioned to the bosom of Fiat
but riven by politics and malice. Bespectacled genius Mauro Forghieri
had paid for the failures (not for the first time) but now was ushered
back, by a smooth-talking lawyer with energy and a vision. He’d seen an
ally in Lauda, who knew Forghieri was the key – and the perfectly
packaged and proportioned 312T was unlocked. Nine pole positions, five
wins: this was as close to domination as it got in the cut-and-thrust of
(mostly) Cosworth DFV-powered F1 in the mid-’70s. Ferrari, against the
grain, had put the garagistes back in their place.

But then Fittipaldi pulled the pin and sensationally quit McLaren to
join his brother Wilson in a Brazilian dream-team (that would slowly
turn into a nightmare). Who on earth would replace him? James Hunt was
all that was left.

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But McLaren had inadvertently struck gold with the lanky English public
school boy, who had been so error-prone early on he’d been nicknamed
‘Shunt’. At Hesketh, for anyone who cared to look beyond the champagne
patriotism, he’d proven his worth, most notably beating Lauda fair and
square at Zandvoort in ’75. Now Fittipaldi had unknowingly gifted him an
M23 – and Hunt was ready to fly.

As punk created a ‘Year Zero’ effect in British sensibilities, so too
did Hunt and Lauda in the closeted, niche sport of F1 during the long,
hot summer of ’76. They’d been friends and flat-mates before all this,
but now they were pitted in the middle of a raging Ferrari vs. McLaren
rivalry. Early on, Lauda had the edge, but Hunt clawed his way into the
fight, winning brilliantly in Spain – only to be disqualified on a
technicality. At Brands, the feud boiled as fans pelted cans on to the
track in protest that Hunt was to be barred from the restart, following
chaos at Paddock Bend. The blue-blazered officials bristled, they’d
never seen such a thing – and relented. Hunt won, and only months later
would be disqualified.

Then Niki had his accident at Bergwerk. The Nürburgring – the long,
original one, dubbed The Green Hell by Stewart – was already an
anachronism by August 1976. In the aftermath of Lauda’s fiery accident
it would become revered, but no longer feared, F1 history.

Lauda’s fight for life and brave comeback six weeks later at Monza –
complete with gaudy images of him gingerly peeling a sweat and
blood-soaked balaclava from his burnt, raw face and head – define that
year, that decade, perhaps Niki himself, but only for a voyeuristic
wider world attracted solely to the horror-movie adrenaline ride of this
insanity that hid behind the name of ‘sport’. Ecclestone, growing in
understanding of what F1 could become and increasingly a voice of
cohesive influence among the British teams, took note.

The live TV coverage of the soaking finale at Fuji was the culmination,
as Lauda found a new level of mental fortitude by bravely walking away
from the craziness. Hunt overcame a puncture and pitstop to become
champion – to his initial disbelief – by a solitary point. It had been
like a movie script (and would be one day).

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On the back of 1976, Ecclestone negotiated TV deals that would make F1 a
regular visitor to living rooms on Sunday afternoons, and began to
unleash the potential. On track in ’77, Lauda – who had lost his ally di
Montezemolo at the end of his first championship year – set aside his
fury at Ferrari for its doubt and lack of loyalty in his darkest hours
to claim another title, then exacted cold revenge by immediately
quitting for Ecclestone’s Brabhams. He could have been champion again in
’78 – had Bernie not spotted the bigger picture and withdrawn Gordon
Murray’s potentially game-changing BT46B fan car after its maiden
victory at Anderstorp. Murray was exasperated, but Ecclestone was canny
enough to recognise F1’s momentum would be lost by one-team domination.

F1-1978-Brands-Hatch-Ronnie-Peterson-Colin-Chapman-Mario-Andretti-David-Phipps-MI-Goodwood-17112020.jpg

Chapman was less concerned when his ‘Black Beauty’, the stunning Type
79, swept through the rest of the summer in the hands of Mario Andretti
and Ronnie Peterson. Here was the true force of the 1970s, as
ground-effects aerodynamics began to be fully harnessed. But still the
cruelty of this sport knew no bounds, as beloved Peterson was lost when
complications set in to the leg injuries sustained at Monza. “Motor
racing is also this,” said his sorrowful team-mate and new world
champion Andretti.

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The final year of the decade would point the way towards the next one,
as Chapman blew the Lotus advantage and lost his way, Lauda quit
mid-season to run an airline and Frank Williams – once a no-hoper and
so-called start-line specialist – unlocked the key to lasting F1 success
in partnership with his new friend Patrick Head. The FW07 – a properly
engineered and fully realised ‘copy’ of the Lotus 79 – broke through at
Silverstone as Regazzoni claimed a swansong victory, then blunt
instrument Alan Jones proved once and for all that his opportunistic win
at the Osterreiching for Shadow back in 1977 hadn’t been a flash in the
pan. After missing out at Silverstone, he won four out the next five
grands prix.