Lessons From the Life and Death of Gilles Villeneuve

More than three decades after his death, Gilles Villeneuve remains a totemic figure in motorsport. Arguably F1's greatest cult icon, he is often acknowledged as the most gifted driver not to win a world title. His home circuit in Montreal is named in his honour, he is still adored by Ferrari's Tifosi, and his son Jacques carried the family name to great success during the nineties.

As a universal favourite for fans and competitors alike his story has been told many times, so only the essentials are needed here. Villeneuve spent the vast majority of his career driving for Ferrari, won six grands prix, and lost his life pursuing pole position at the 1982 Belgian Grand Prix. Despite of those wins – including Monaco in 1981 – he is most famous for two enduring events: his brilliant battle with Rene Arnoux for second place at the 1979 French Grand Prix; and the bitter feud with his teammate, Didier Pironi, which Gilles carried to his grave.

Villeneuve, who was born 66 years ago this week, certainly had the respect of his contemporaries. Jackie Stewart called him "phenomenal", Niki Lauda described the Canadian as "a perfect racing driver", while to Keke Rosberg he was "the hardest bastard I ever raced against, but completely fair." Fans loved him, as did the press of the day. His death hit the sport hard; his veteran team boss Enzo Ferrari, who had seen many drivers die in his cars, was unusually affected.

His legend lives on with a strength that only a fallen icon can achieve. He certainly enjoys greater popularity than more successful drivers who have lived into old age. Death allowed Villeneuve to transcend his own era and become a hero to generations of fans who were not even on this planet at the same time as him.

In some ways this is obvious enough. Villeneuve went out at the height of his abilities. He did not grow old and continue racing when his skills had faded (something his son has been more guilty of than most). He did not become an out of touch old man trying to remain relevant in a fast-moving sport; he did not sign endorsements with questionable regimes or defend the indefensible because a sponsorship deal required it. In other words, he remained pure.

For want of a better phrase, there is also the romance of a man who died pursuing his passion. For those who did not see Villeneuve race, his death is part of a linear narrative, offering brutal confirmation of his total commitment to the sport. Once you have watched the highlight reel of his incredible scrap with Arnoux and his superhuman efforts to drag a crippled Ferrari back to the pits that same year at Zandvoort, it makes sense that he would lose his life at the age of 32. Of course a man as committed and brave as Gilles Villeneuve was destined to die at the wheel. And of course he should do it pursuing pole position.

But I'm not sure that those of us who didn't see Villeneuve race can make any real judgements on him in this regard, because death completely distorts the story. The battle with Arnoux and the shredded tyre carcass at Zandvoort achieve greater significance because Villeneuve died. His past actions are informed by the end result. Whereas for those who were there they exist as separate events, to us they are extra detail added to an almost mythical driver who we already knew lost his life.

What Villeneuve does represent is a wholly different approach to making it in motorsport. Today's future racers know at the age of 10 that they want to reach F1. They're already racing karts with paid-up mechanics, and pitching up in motorhomes, and wearing custom-painted crash helmets. The sport has been professionalised right down to the lowest rung. And I don't know that this is a good thing. The Villeneuve-era amateurism – amateurism in its best sense, racing first and foremost for the love of it – feels like a far more conducive environment to develop men and women of his abilities.

Villeneuve cut his teeth driving far too fast on the roads of his native Berthierville. After a few too many crashes, he graduated to drag racing events. He tinkered with his own cars, pushed them beyond their limits, then fixed what he'd broken. He did not fully understand that you could make a living in motor racing until his late teens, and certainly had no path plotted out towards F1.

He later raced snowmobiles professionally, winning the World Championship Snowmobile Derby in 1974 (it was here that he honed his sense of control and balance to perfection). He won Formula Atlantic titles in 1976. Of course there came a point when F1 became his goal, but that certainly hadn't occurred by the age of 10, or even 20. And he certainly wasn't part of a professional culture that develops homogenous young racing drivers. Fast and well-mannered and in some ways smart, yes, but with many of the kinks that engender genius ironed out.

Would it do a young driver today any harm to contest a snowmobile championship, assuming they didn't break any major bones (I think a few small bones can be broken, if needs be, in the pursuit of development)? No. Did it hurt Gilles Villeneuve to begin his racing career in his late teens? Clearly it did not.

This variety of experiences helped to develop the Gilles Villeneuve who arrived in Formula One at the tail end of the 1977 season. They helped to develop, or at least enhance, the strength of character that said, "I'm going to get this ruined grand prix car back to the pits and keep fighting." In some ways racing at the lower levels is more competitive now than ever, yet it has been homogenised to the point that it teaches young drivers less about the wider world and their sport. Given that many of them won't make it as professionals, they may as well pick up something worthwhile along the way, just as Villeneuve probably learned a lot searching for a new deal with a snowmobile manufacturer in 1971.

Of course, Villeneuve also highlights the terrible waste of life witnessed in F1. He raced in the sport's bloodiest era, becoming the eighth man in less than a decade to perish in a grand prix Formula One car (and the first of two in four races in '82).

And in this sense things have changed for the better. The sport will never be perfect, because strapping human beings into carbon fibre projectiles and asking them to race will always be dangerous. Nevertheless, the statistics are better. Whereas nine drivers died between the 1973 and 1982 seasons, four lost their lives between 1983 and 2015, two of those in the same horrible weekend. Death is no longer an occupational hazard of the sport, not something every driver must stare in the eyes on a fortnightly basis. It is still there, but a lot of hard work and lessons learned have dramatically improved the sport.

Then again, the daredevil nature of the 1970s was what made men like Villeneuve so immensely popular. It was the knowledge that they could die the next time they stepped into the car that gave them that otherworldly quality, and it is this that ensures they hold such allure with today's fans. You can't have it both ways.

Which leads to the final lesson we can learn from Gilles Villeneuve's life and death: that there will probably never be another like Gilles Villeneuve.

@jimmy_weeks