Clinica Mobile


	May 20, 2003

	PASOLINI AND SAARINEN COMMEMORATION AT MONZA

	The Monza circuit and its Director Mr Ferrari and the Clinica Mobile have organised a ceremony to commemorate one of the most tragic events in the history of motorcycling, occurred at Monza on May 20, 1973: the death of Jarno Saarinen and Renzo Pasolini. Thirty years later, the tragedy becomes innocent: that terrible day will be remembered at the same time at which it had happened, 3 p.m., by leaving roses at the scene of the accident. The ceremony will be attended by Soili, Jarno's wife, Teppi Lansivuori, his racing companion and brotherly friend, and the sweet Sabrina and the rest of Renzo Pasolini's family. It will not be a private ceremony: anybody who wishes to attend and bring his or her deep-felt tribute will be more than welcome. Dr Costa recollects the Monza tragedy with these words in his book: At 3 in the afternoon, at the first corner (there were no chicanes back then) Jarno Saarinen and enzo Pasolini died in a terrible accident that toppled a total of seventeen riders. Despite the efforts made by Dr. Giancarlo Caroli – a skilled trackside medic our team had specially called in for the event – these two riders could not be saved. Not even the fact that we had managed to resuscitate Walter Villa and Victor Palomo was able to console us. That day, the tears that ran down my face as I hugged Saarinen’s gentle wife seemed to flow without end, and through them I caught a blurred glimpse of the unforgettable moments that had marked my friendship with the two dead riders. My grief-stricken mind was filled with memories, the most insistent of which were linked to events that had occurred some two months previously, at a time when nothing seemed to hint at such a terrible future. On the eve of the second edition of the Imola 200, Renzo Pasolini was running a fever and had a terribly sore throat. Just before the race, despite all the treatment he’d received, his chances of being on the starting grid were practically zero. Yet his will to race was so great that despite being almost delirious with fever, he mounted his Harley Davidson Superbike and, lap by lap, to the applause of the crowd, steadily rose up through the ranks of riders. Suddenly, he pulled off the track to enter the pits. Taking off his helmet to reveal a bright red fever-struck face, he said “I stopped ‘cause something strange was going on: at the start I had twelve riders in front of me, and after overtaking several of them there still seemed to be loads to overtake. I just couldn’t figure it at all, and it was only towards the end that I realised I was practically delirious with fever and was – quite literally - seeing triple. For every rider in front of me, I saw three. Three times twelve is a lot of competition even for me, so I thought I’d best get back and get some serious treatment. On 25th March 1973, an International Race had been organised by the Costa-Ronci-Tempesta triumvirate and family friend Pietro Dalpozzo. In the 350 cc category Jarno Saarinen was battling it out in the rain with Giacomo Agostini; as he came into the Tamburello, one of motorcycling’s most thrilling – and dangerous – corners, he fell heavily. The apprehension was great; Jarno arrived at the small trackside hospital conscious and calm, more than anything dismayed at having fallen. As he stripped off his mud-covered leathers he put us at ease, convinced that his injuries were superficial. However, the translator Giovanni Fantazzini - one of my father’s most faithful followers and beautifully fluent in German (even more fluent than in Italian according to some) - said that the Finnish rider’s right knee was beginning to trouble him. I examined him again. Unable to find anything wrong, I suggested he apply plenty of ice to the knee as it could swell. It was not a suggestion based on clinical diagnosis: it was, rather, made out of a sense of concern for someone who I thought of as a legend. In the evening, as we were having supper at the Hotel Molino Rosso, a worried Giovanni Fantazzini urged me to take another look at Jarno Saarinen in his hotel room. I found him lying on the bed, his wife Soili sitting next to him looking thoughtful. There was a lot of ice packed around his knee. Smiling, he started talking in German, Giovanni translating: “Dottorcosta”, (all in one breath, a habit that, years later, would be Mick Doohan’s too) he began, “you told me that this knee would have swollen and now that you’ve been proved right you’re going to have to do something about it because I want to race on 1st April at Misano, 8th April at Modena, 15th April at the Imola 200 and 22nd April during the ‘first ever’ World Championship race in France at Le Castellet”. The knee was horribly swollen, full of liquid which was most likely blood. I took him to the casualty Department at the Istituto Ortopedico Rizzoli of Bologna where I had worked in my graduation year, 1967. Consulting with my maestro, Prof. Alessandro Dal Monte, I removed a large quantity of blood from his knee. We immobilised the joint in a lightweight support. I already knew riders were strange and “mad”, but it was only then that I became fully aware that riders have something magical about them which keeps them outside the prison of rules. I now know that man’s most lucid, vivid moments are lived when he is at his “craziest”, anchored to reality as if in a dream, where pain is no longer just a useless worry but a kind of gift - of infinite value. I now know the worst madness is that of those who declare their sanity yet immediately retire to their lair to lick their wounds: those that see protection in only the still waters of tranquillity. They fail to realise that stagnant waters a offer a poor spectacle compared to the tumultuous crash of the mountain stream, the waterfall. (…) When race day, Sunday 8th April, came, we were both very excited - perhaps me more than him. The arrangement was thus: he would run through the first race cautiously to get the feel of things and then give it everything in the second. Jarno was true to his word: during the first race he put his knee through its paces, content to find that it was working well. I was probably as happy as he was in this regard, but it was a happiness dulled by anxiety: “What if, in the second race he throws caution to the wind, and compromises his recovery?” Doubts multiplied. An ever-more insistent voice was shouting at me to advise Jarno against competing in the second race. In the end I went over to him and stammered that I thought he’d best wait another week, for his own good. I will never forget his crushed look of disappointment nor his disturbing reply. The joy had left the scene altogether. I was accused of having betrayed the one true moral in the world. I had been deviated towards that irrepressible need to save the species - to the detriment of that noble mission to help a human being respect his individuality, his inclination and his innate talent. Jarno’s words would prove unforgettable, words that still guide me through life’s uncertainties: “If you want to keep on being my doctor, providing me with proper treatment won’t be enough. Because you’ll have to abandon any reservation you might feel in letting me return to racing as soon as I’m able. Give me the truth about my condition and after that any responsibility is mine and mine alone.” Soon afterwards he mounted his bike and went on to win that second race, then the Imola 200 and then all the 250 cc and 500 cc races in the World Championship for the next 42 days until he died on the track at Monza. During that appallingly sad night I cried like a child, blaming myself over and over again for not having encased him in plaster for 2 months, envious, for once, of those who hide in the quagmire of indecision. That night I dreamt of my father who had, in the morning, received reassurance from Jarno that he would be competing in three races (a combined 250, 350 and 500cc event) on 30th September at the Imola-held Shell Gold Cup. The smiling, serene features of my father cheered me. I saw that the face of the disappointed Jarno who has listened to my cautious advice at Modena was no worse than the terribly disfigured one that I saw dead at Monza. The loss of a life well lived is, no matter how sad, a natural fatality. To lose a life without living it is, though, a mortal sin. So I continued working in the world of motorcycling and since then I have always taken sides with those who try to live their lives to the full rather than those that try to run from it. Every time I help a rider get back in the saddle it is Jarno’s smiling face that encourages me. Jarno taught me that we can choose to be men and that joy is drunk from the same cup that contains grief.”
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