Driving an Icon
A rare postwar Mercedes-Benz racing car coming up for auction triggers memories of a long-ago drive in the same machine
Article by Karl Ludvigsen, Photography Jesse Alexander & Daimler Archives
Old memories came roaring back this past March as news broke that Bonhams would be auctioning a Mercedes-Benz W196, an icon of Grand Prix racing from 60 years ago. This famous car has long fascinated me. Of its complexity and ingenuity, Laurence Pomeroy Jr. wrote at the time, “One may say figuratively that if the BRM be likened to a typewriter, the four‑cylinder Ferrari is the equivalent of an abacus and the Untertürkheim cars rate as an electronic calculating machine.”
Above(featured image): Karl Ludvigsen on the Daimler-Benz test track in Stuttgart in the W196.
I have written about these cars before, including in my history of Mercedes-Benz racing, and first saw them in the Mercedes-Benz Museum in 1958. When in late summer 1961 Mercedes-Benz North America announced a product-launch press trip to Stuttgart, I urged the company to include a drive in a W196 for the editors attending. I was soon to leave Car and Driver magazine for a post at General Motors, so getting to drive a W196 drive was a major box to tick. MBNA agreed, which led to the opportunity to step into an open-wheeled W196 at the works test track on August 14, 1961.
The 00006/54 chassis I drove was the same Juan Fangio drove in 1954 to wins at both Grands Prix in Germany and Switzerland. Hans Herrmann had placed fourth at Monza and retired from the Spanish épreuve at Barcelona with fuel-pump ailments in the same car. Updated for 1955, the car carried Karl Kling to second place in the Italian GP. This very car has now emerged from a private collection to be auctioned by Bonhams at Goodwood Festival of Speed in July 2013.
Before driving the W196 back in 1961, I had researched its unusual design. For fast-track superiority, in 1954 Mercedes-Benz built a powerful, heavy and complex fuel-injected straight-8 engine. Even made primarily of a high-silicon aluminium alloy called silumin, with covers and cam housing cast of magnesium added in 1955, the engine weighed 429 pounds, heavier than other V-8 racing engines of the day.
Fully calculated for stress, the highly sophisticated space-frame chassis consisted chiefly of tubes about an inch in diameter. Though it weighed only 79 pounds, the chassis was considerably stiffer in torsion than the 181-pound 300SL space frame.
To achieve the lowest possible center of gravity, the engine was mounted in the chassis canted over 30 degrees to the right, with a secondary driveshaft used to locate the heavy crankshaft 2.6 inches lower than the center of the clutch. Ground clearance was only 4.1 inches, and the center of gravity just 12.2 inches above the surface. Weight distribution, averaged from full to empty tanks, was 45/55. Dry weight for the variant I tested was about 1,480 pounds. Front and rear tracks were 52.5 and 53.5 inches respectively, while the wheelbase across the W196 series ranged from 92.6 to 84.8 inches.
As I peered upward at a gray-threatening sky over the Daimler-Benz test track between the Stuttgart works and the Neckar River, these impressive statistics, along with critical comments of leading drivers John Fitch and Stirling Moss about the Porsche-synchronized 5-speed transaxle filled my mind. I had rather hoped for a sunny day at the Nürburgring, but you can’t have everything.
A cadre of blue-suited factory mechanics surrounded the W196, a dull silver object breathing brute force rather than beauty. This impression is misleading; the machine is sophisticated rather than stunning in action. After viewing the double-ended parallel-straight track, I was led to a large gray-painted wooden box. The lid was flipped up to reveal six sizes of crash hats and six pairs of goggles. As always, legendary Mercedes preparation was front and center.
Suitably lidded, I climbed aboard. The detachable steering wheel was already removed; indeed, the mechanics were quick to remove the wheel at every opportunity on the assumption that drivers wanted out of the car the instant it stopped. My feelings were just the opposite. They were going to have to drag me out.
It was a long stretch into the roomy cockpit and essential to step on the seat first. Covered in traditional plaid, the seat was well-cushioned and canted deeply to the rear so that my knees bent high and my torso leaned back. It’s a relaxed position that takes up a minimum of chassis space. My legs were spread nearly a yard apart around the clutch housing and central drive shaft in a unique splayed stance that looked odd but felt fine.
I found myself peering, almost, through the shallow windshield over a bonnet that was relatively high to the low, reclining driving position. There was little sense of driving an open-wheeled car. The left-front wheel was only partially visible and the right one almost completely hidden by the ram-plenum housing fitted when the body was streamlined in 1955.
The four-spoke steering wheel was locked on its ten splines in a position that is physically near vertical, but actually feels more horizontal because the driver is leaning back so far. The grooved wooden rim had a hefty feel, with a surprising inch of free play in the steering gear at rest.
The minimal dashboard illustrated designer Rudolf Uhlenhaut’s desire to limit the driver’s technical involvement. There are only three instruments: oil pressure left, 10,000-rpm tach in center and water temperature, right. The dials are mainly ornamental; the engine will run long periods with no oil, the desmodromic valve gear that pushes valves closed as well as opening them, allows wild over-revving, and coolant temperature is thermostatically controlled.
A switch on the dash sends battery current to the whirring fuel pump that prevents vapor lock in the fuel injection, while a big key under the panel at the right switches on one magneto first, then the other, then both. My only starting instructions were to engage the clutch fully and to hold out a small spring-loaded knob under the panel to the left. I reckon it retarded ignition, but it seemed to make little difference, as the engine barked to life during a first-gear push-start even though I’d botched the knob routine.
Underway, my first problem was getting the hang of the shift pattern. There are five forward speeds, with first over to the left and forward. You can’t get into that side of the gate without first pressing a button on top of the knob – first was intended for starting only – while an additional latch keeps you out of reverse. But it was the top four gears that were baffling. In a normal 4-speed box, upshifts from first to second and third to fourth are made with a straight-back yank, with third located up and across the gate. On the Mercedes, you shift up by shoving straight forward, and the normal 2-3 motion would jump a driver from second all the way to fifth.
I had much to unlearn. It was some consolation to know that Moss’s tendency to go from second to fifth led to the creation of an elaborate gate interlock – first used in Italy’s Mille Miglia on the 300SLR – and that the likes of Fangio and Fitch were fooled by the gate at first. But you learn. An early misstep sent a chill up my spine when I realized I had shifted from third to second gear when I “upshifted” with a straight-back motion and just barely engaged the clutch enough to send the exhaust note skyrocketing. I caught the error in time and didn’t make it again, but I was never able to trust the box entirely.
The trouble the shift – if one could call it trouble – is that its Porsche-designed synchromesh is so smooth and powerful that the lever feels the same going into any slot at any speed. The big lever moves in an arrogantly positive way in a machined, vintage-style gate with long fore-and-aft travel. In its use of synchromesh, the W196 was unusual among modern GP cars while the gate itself definitely recalled the 1930s.
I took care to release the clutch fully before turning on the tap. The clutch behaved impeccably despite its reputation as a weak spot in the design, especially when used in the heavier 300SLR. It’s a stiff clutch by any standard. Once, I tromped on the clutch and thought, “That’s too stiff for the clutch. I must be on the dead-pedal.” But it was the clutch after all.
The W196 power curve is extremely steep to a sharp peak at 290 brake horsepower and 8,500 rpm. There’s not much torque until 5,000 rpm; the first torque peak is at 6,400 and there’s a second wind at 8,100. The straight-8 pulls smoothly to 5,000, when it suddenly comes alive with the hollow, booming roar that marks these cars – like two Porsche Spyders sounding off at once. It’s not deafening, but it does induce a ringing in the right ear. I only took the engine to about 7,000 rpm, enough to get the full, sensual surge of that first leap of torque. It moves out – and right now.
Engine throttle response was startling. A jab at the pedal for a downshift brings an instant, eager response that overdoes it until you learn to match dosage to need. This is a key advantage of fuel injection on a racing engine, as throttle response can be a problem with multiple big Venturi carburetors. I went full bore to 7,000 in third, fourth and fifth around the test track, perhaps 120 mph with the low gearing and small back tires fitted. The 00006/54 used up the short straights very quickly indeed – which brings us to the brakes.
When I started out, the brakes were cold. When I first applied them, I was sure I was headed for the bulrushes. They began to warm up, however, and soon were answering the pedal with smooth, strong deceleration. Braking is aided by a hydraulic servo developed by ATE for truck use, fitted for the first time to the SLR in 1955.
It was only possible to probe the handling on two turns – one long, tight right and one fast left-hander – but it was obvious that the 00006/54 was an amazingly easy and safe car to drive. It wasn’t just a case of being “forgiving,” of allowing you to rescue yourself with ease; the W196 felt quite capable of handling the rescue all by itself. When I entered the tighter closing turn a hair too fast, the tail swung automatically out, as if to say, “Okay, now make the correction like I told you and you’re in business” – in German, of course.
Exactly as chassis designer Ludwig Kraus had intended, steady cornering speeds provoked gentle understeer. Apply power and the tail shifts easily outward toward balanced neutrality; more power brings oversteer in an unbroken progression. The entire spectrum of handling was easily accessible. Steering was light yet highly informative, with a way of instilling confidence. At 2.5 turns lock to lock, it was fast enough to cope with the car’s very progressive motions – a product of a high polar moment of inertia.
Maurice Smith, then editor of The Autocar magazine, also drove the W196 that day. He found the Mercedes far more stable than Moss’s Maserati 250F, which he had driven on another occasion. The 250F had jumped about on its hard springs and needed constant correction of very quick steering; Smith also found the Mercedes ride superior. The W196 certainly was comfortable – for a racing car – and the low center of gravity and relatively high roll center assured minimal corner lean. The 00006/54 had a curiously light, hollow feel, as of a stiff shell to which the drive elements were attached. This one was obviously much used by ranks of eager journalists, for it was a little loose in both appearance and action.
After perhaps a few more than my allotted number of laps, a mechanic started waving flags at me and threatening to throw himself in front of the car if I didn’t stop; I had to come in. The many onlookers around the track dispersed and the mechanics packed up their gear. As the echoes of its exhaust subsided, this W196 Mercedes again became one of the world’s most fascinating mobile museum pieces.
Today, more than 50 years later, my memories of that amazing drive on an overcast day in 1961 remain sharp as crystal. If the successful bidder for 00006/54 would like some tips on driving it, I’m available.
1954–1955 Mercedes-Benz W196
Engine: 8-cylinder inline, desmodromic valves,
mechanical fuel injection
Bore & Stroke: 76 x 68.8 mm
Displacement: 2,496 cc
Compression ratio: 12.5:1
Power: 290 bhp at 8,700 rpm Power per liter: 116.1 bhp
Torque: 183 lb-ft at 6,300 rpm
Transmission: 5-speed, Porsche synchromesh
Wheelbase: 92.6 inches
Front track: 52.5 inches Rear track: 53.5 inches
Front tires: 6.00 x 16 Rear tires: 7.00 x 16
Curb Weight: 1,670 pounds
Maximum speed: 191 mph (with low-drag body)
Above: In late summer 1961, Jesse Alexander took this photo of Karl Ludvigsen, then a journalist for Car and Driver, when Ludvigsen drove the W196 in which Juan Fangio won the German and Swiss Grands Prix in 1954, before the car was put on display at the Mercedes Museum.