The television monitor in the Brabham garage showed Carlos Pace's red and blue BT45 settling into eighth position, the gap to Scheckter ahead stable at 1.8 seconds. Jack Hartley stood at the pit wall, binoculars still in hand, watching the Brabham disappear into Curva do Sol.
"Thirty laps to go," Gordon Murray said, his Scottish accent clipped as he clicked his stopwatch. "If Alfa holds together, we're looking at our first points of the season."
Bernie Ecclestone appeared beside them, his expression characteristically neutral. "Big 'if,' Gordon. Very big."
Jack said nothing, but his grip on the binoculars tightened. The carbon brakes had worked perfectly—better than he'd dared hope. But now the race was about something far more fundamental: whether the Italian twelve-cylinder engine could survive forty laps of racing at Interlagos.
The garage had no telemetry systems, no live data feeds, no electronic readouts displaying oil pressure or temperature. This was 1976. They were flying blind, relying on stopwatches, lap times, and whatever information Pace could communicate through hand signals when he flashed past the pit wall. It was motorsport stripped to its most basic elements: watch, wait, and pray the machinery held together.
"He looked good through that last sector," Charlie offered hopefully.
"He looked good through the last sector before his gearbox exploded at Silverstone too," Bernie replied flatly.
Gordon said nothing, his eyes locked on the stopwatch as Pace's lap time updated on the manual timing board. Two minutes, thirty-two point eight seconds. Consistent. Steady. No signs of distress.
Yet.
The next few laps unfolded with methodical precision. At the front, Niki Lauda had built a commanding lead, the Ferrari 312T running flawlessly as the Austrian dictated the pace. Behind him, the battle for the podium positions was building—Hunt defending second from Regazzoni's relentless pressure, with Jarier's Shadow lurking just behind, waiting for either to falter.
In the midfield, Pace drove with careful calculation. The carbon brakes continued to deliver their advantage, but he was acutely aware of the engine's weight penalty and fuel consumption. Every corner was a balance between pushing hard enough to maintain position and preserving the machinery for the distance.
On lap twelve, the tension at the front finally erupted.
"Hunt and Regazzoni are wheel-to-wheel!" Murray Walker's voice carried through the commentary feed with mounting urgency. "This is getting dangerous! They've been at it for ten laps! Something has to give!"
The showdown came at Cotovelo, the tight right-hander before the long run to the main straight. Regazzoni, burning with competitive fury after losing the lead to Lauda, drove with increasing desperation.
Hunt, fully committed to defending second place, saw the Ferrari attempting to come through and faked a move to force Regazzoni's focus to the wrong side of the corner.
Regazzoni bit, turning in tight to block the feint.
Hunt executed his counter-move, driving deep to the inside, getting wheel-to-wheel with the Ferrari through the apex.
"They've touched!" Raymond Baxter called. "Contact between Hunt and Regazzoni! Paint swapping at racing speed!"
The two cars made contact—just a brush of aluminium —but enough to upset both machines momentarily. Hunt, using the McLaren's better traction on the power-down, pulled decisively ahead through Mergulho. Second place secured.
But Regazzoni's fury hadn't been satisfied—it had been ignited.
Jean-Pierre Jarier, seeing both cars compromised through the corner, attempted to capitalize. The Shadow driver had a better run out of Cotovelo and dove for the gap on the inside.
Regazzoni, humiliated by Hunt's successful pass and now facing the prospect of losing another position, made a fatal decision. Before his Ferrari was fully stable, he cut the steering wheel violently left, attempting to slam the door on Jarier's Shadow.
"NO!" Murray screamed. "Regazzoni has moved across! Jarier can't avoid him! CONTACT!"
Jarier's front wing clipped the left endplate of Regazzoni's Ferrari with a sickening crack. The aluminium bent and sagged, the wing instantly losing all aerodynamic function and dragging against the track surface with a sound like tearing metal.
"Regazzoni's front wing is destroyed!" Raymond said, his voice carrying genuine concern. "That was pure rage from the Swiss driver! He's heading to the pits—he has no choice! That wing is completely broken!"
Regazzoni wrestled the wounded Ferrari into the pit lane, his race effectively over as mechanics swarmed to fit a replacement wing. By the time he rejoined, he'd dropped to the very back of the field, his podium hopes shattered by his own temper.
Jean-Pierre Jarier, having survived the contact, was elevated to third place, the Shadow running flawlessly.
In the Brabham garage, the timing board was updated. Pace had inherited seventh place.
"One step closer," Charlie murmured.
"Twenty-eight laps to go," Gordon replied, still counting. "Long, long way."
"Lap fourteen," Raymond's voice came through the commentary feed. "And we have another retirement. Vittorio Brambilla's March has pulled off at Pinheirinho, trailing smoke. Engine trouble ending what was already becoming a difficult afternoon after losing position to Pace earlier."
The twentieth lap marked the precise halfway point of the race. As the leaders crossed the line to begin the second half, Murray Walker provided the comprehensive update that millions around the world were waiting for.
"Twenty laps completed, twenty to go, and here's how we stand at the halfway mark of the 1976 Brazilian Grand Prix! Niki Lauda leads by a commanding eighteen seconds—an absolutely dominant drive from the reigning World Champion. The Austrian is in complete control of this race."
"James Hunt holds second in the McLaren," Raymond added, "but Clay Regazzoni's early challenge has been neutralized by that pit stop for wing repairs. Jean-Pierre Jarier now runs third in the Shadow, driving a measured, intelligent race. Then it's Emerson Fittipaldi fourth, Jochen Mass fifth, Jody Scheckter sixth—still benefiting from that extraordinary opening lap. And Carlos Pace has climbed to seventh in the Brabham. That's a strong showing from the Brazilian, fighting for points at his home race."
In the Brabham garage, Jack allowed himself a cautious optimism. Halfway done. Twenty laps remaining. Pace's lap times were consistent, showing no signs of mechanical distress.
"We might actually do this," Charlie said quietly.
"Don't," Gordon snapped. "Don't even think about it. Not until that car crosses the finish line."
Bernie said nothing, but his eyes never left the timing board.
The next nine laps passed in tense calm. The field spread out as drivers found their rhythm, managing tires and fuel, calculating the final sprint to the finish.
Pace held seventh comfortably. Inside the cockpit, he could feel the Brabham working beneath him—the engine's distinctive note, the subtle vibrations through the chassis, the way the carbon brakes responded to every input with unwavering consistency.
For the first time all weekend, he allowed himself to think about the points. Seventh place meant no championship points. Small, perhaps, but invaluable for a team fighting to establish itself.
Then, on lap thirty, everything changed.
"CARLOS REUTEMANN IS SLOWING!" Murray's voice suddenly carried real alarm. "The sister Brabham! He's pulling off at Descida do Lago! Look at that smoke! That is catastrophic engine failure!"
The television feed cut to Reutemann's white and blue BT45 coasting to a stop, a thick plume of blue-grey smoke trailing behind it. The Argentine driver climbed out, shaking his head in disgust as marshals rushed forward with fire extinguishers.
In the Brabham garage, the atmosphere transformed instantly from cautious optimism to barely controlled panic.
"Same engine," Gordon said quietly, but his voice carried through the suddenly silent garage. "Same specification. Same mileage. Same stress."
Jack felt his stomach drop. The engineering part of his mind immediately began calculating: both cars had qualified within a second of each other, both had been running similar lap times, both engines had been subjected to nearly identical thermal and mechanical loads.
If Reutemann's engine had failed after thirty laps, what did that mean for Pace's?
"Get a board ready," Bernie said, moving toward the pit wall. "Tell him to ease off. Preserve the engine."
One of the mechanics grabbed a chalk board and scrawled in large letters: ENGINE - EASY
Gordon stood at the pit wall, holding the board high as Pace flashed past on the next lap. Through the binoculars, Jack saw Pace's hand come up—a brief gesture, thumb up, message received.
But Pace's next lap time told a different story. Two minutes, thirty-two point four seconds. Four-tenths quicker than his average.
"He's not listening," Gordon said grimly.
"He's racing for position," Bernie replied. "Can't blame him.
"If that engine goes, he finishes nowhere," Gordon shot back.
Another board went up on the following lap: PACE CRITICAL - COOL DOWN
Pace's hand came up again. Thumb up. Message received.
His next lap: two minutes, thirty-two point two. Faster still.
"He's ignoring us," Charlie said, incredulous.
"He's in seventh place at his home race," Jack said quietly. "He's not backing off."
Bernie's expression remained neutral, but something flickered in his eyes—was it approval? Frustration? Acceptance of the inevitable?
"Ten laps to go," Gordon said, his voice tight. "Let him drive. Either it holds or it doesn't."
Lap thirty-one passed. Pace's engine held.
Then lap thirty-two arrived, and the catastrophe at the front reached its climax.
James Hunt's McLaren, which had been running a perfect second place for twenty laps, suddenly snapped sideways at the entrance to the main straight.
"HUNT IS SPINNING!" Murray's voice cracked. "McLaren has lost it! He's going backwards! He's hit the barrier! Hunt is OUT!"
The McLaren slammed into the tire barrier with a sickening impact, aluminium debris exploding across the track. Hunt climbed out immediately, uninjured but furious, staring at the long streak of oil his car had deposited across the racing line.
"Look at that oil!" Raymond said urgently. "Hunt's car has left a massive trail right across the racing line! That's incredibly dangerous!"
The danger materialized one lap later.
Jean-Pierre Jarier, now running second and driving the race of his life, came through the same section unsighted, committed to his racing line.
The Shadow's rear tires hit Hunt's oil slick.
"JARIER!" Murray screamed. "He's hit the oil! The Shadow has snapped sideways! He can't catch it! He's going into the barrier!"
The Shadow spun violently across the track and slammed into the opposite barrier, the impact severe enough to crack the monocoque. Jarier climbed out slowly, shaken but unharmed, staring at the oil that had ended his brilliant drive.
"Unbelievable!" Raymond said, his voice carrying genuine disbelief. "In the space of two laps, we've lost Hunt from second and Jarier from what was going to be second! The race has been completely reshuffled!"
The timing board updated frantically:
P1: Niki Lauda (Ferrari)
P2: Emerson Fittipaldi (Fittipaldi)
P3: Jochen Mass (McLaren)
P4: Jody Scheckter (Tyrrell)
P5: Carlos Pace (Brabham)
In the Brabham garage, the atmosphere shifted from dread to cautious, desperate hope.
"Fifth," Charlie breathed. "He's fifth!"
"Eight laps to go," Gordon said, his eyes locked on the timing board. "Eight laps. Just hold together."
Jack raised the binoculars, watching Pace's BT45 emerge from Curva 2. The car looked stable, smooth, no visible signs of distress. But with no telemetry, no data, no way to know what was happening inside that engine bay, they were gambling blind.
Another board went up: P5 - HOLD PACE
Pace's hand: thumb up.
His next lap time: two minutes, thirty-two flat. Faster again.
"He's still pushing," Charlie said.
"Of course he is," Bernie replied. "He's in fifth at Interlagos. Who wouldn't push?"
Gordon said nothing, just kept clicking the stopwatch. Seven laps. Six laps. Five laps.
On lap thirty-six, another retirement changed everything again.
"Emerson Fittipaldi is slowing!" Murray called. "The Copersucar has run out of fuel! He's coasting! Oh, what a disaster for the home hero! Fittipaldi is out!"
The Brazilian's white and green car rolled to a stop at the far end of the circuit, Fittipaldi sitting motionless in the cockpit for a long moment before climbing out, devastated.
The positions updated:
P1: Niki Lauda (Ferrari)
P2: Jochen Mass (McLaren)
P3: Jody Scheckter (Tyrrell)
P4: Carlos Pace (Brabham)
P5: Patrick Depailler (Tyrrell)
P6: Tom Pryce (Shadow)
P7: Hans-Joachim Stuck (March)
"FOURTH PLACE!" Charlie shouted, abandoning all professional composure. "He's in FOURTH!"
"Four laps to go," Gordon said, his voice tight. "Four laps. We're so close."
Jack's hands were shaking as he raised the binoculars. Fourth place. Three championship points. After all the struggle with the Alfa Romeo engine, after all the development challenges—Carlos Pace was running fourth at his home race.
But something was wrong.
Through the magnified lenses, Jack could see a faint shimmer of heat haze rising from the engine cover. More than normal. More than safe.
"He's got Depailler right behind him," Charlie observed, watching the gaps on the timing board. "One point, two seconds. Closing."
Another board went up: P4 HOLD - DEPAILLER CLOSE
Pace's response was barely visible—a quick wave, acknowledgment without commitment.
Lap 37:
Carlos Pace, inside the cockpit of the BT45, was acutely aware of two things: he was running fourth at his home race, and something was wrong with the engine.
The power delivery had developed a slight hesitation on the over-run. Nothing catastrophic, but enough to tell him the Alfa Romeo was suffering. The temperature gauge—one of the few instruments that actually worked—showed the needle creeping toward the red zone.
But behind him, Patrick Depailler's blue and white Tyrrell was filling his mirrors.
Pace knew his only advantage was the carbon brakes. Against Depailler's speed and lighter car, he needed to defend with surgical precision.
Down the start-finish straight, Pace employed a small, early weave—forcing Depailler to commit to a line slightly earlier than desired. A psychological move, establishing that this position wouldn't be surrendered easily.
Into Curva 1, Pace braked savagely late. The carbon discs bit hard, the BT45 shedding speed with brutal efficiency. Behind him, Depailler was forced to brake earlier.
"Look at that defense from Pace!" Raymond observed. "He's using those carbon brakes to dominate the braking zones! Depailler can't get close enough to make a move!"
Through Descida do Lago, Pace braked early but turned in sharply, forcing Depailler wide. At Curva da Ferradura, he drove tight to the inside, making Depailler run the longer outside line.
Lap thirty-seven complete. Pace held fourth.
Three laps remaining.
In the Brabham garage, another board went up: 3 LAPS - ENGINE OK?
Pace's response this time was different. His hand came up, wavered, then gave a horizontal wobble. The international signal for "uncertain."
"That's not good," Gordon said quietly.
"Three laps," Bernie replied. "He just needs three more laps."
Lap 38:
Depailler had studied Pace's defensive pattern. Now, down the long straight following Descida do Lago, he made his move.
The Tyrrell got a perfect exit and caught a massive tow from the BT45. Depailler pulled out to the left, drawing alongside Pace as they approached the braking zone for Curva da Ferradura.
"DEPAILLER IS ALONGSIDE!" Murray screamed. "This is for fourth place! Pace is going to lose it!"
For one terrible moment, Pace was beaten. Depailler had the momentum and the commitment.
But Pace didn't panic.
He braked at his chosen marker—terrifyingly late—and the carbon system bit with perfect force. Depailler, on the outside, had to brake earlier. His momentum carried him wide.
Pace pivoted the BT45 with precision and got on the power first, firing past the wide-running Tyrrell.
By the exit of Ferradura, Pace had held fourth place.
The grandstands erupted. Two hundred thousand Brazilians screaming, watching their local hero defend against a faster car with pure skill.
"PACE HAS HELD HIM OFF!" Murray's voice cracked with emotion. "What a move! Those carbon brakes are making all the difference!"
In the Brabham garage, Charlie was jumping. Gordon had both fists clenched.
Jack watched through the binoculars, his heart pounding.
But through the magnified lenses, he could see something new: a thin wisp of vapor rising from the engine cover. Not smoke. Not yet. But close.
Lap 39:
Depailler wasn't finished. Through the infield at Pinheirinho, he closed again.
Pace employed every defensive trick he knew. Braking deep, forcing Depailler to lose rhythm. Running perfect lines that left no gaps.
"He's defending like a man possessed!" Raymond called. "Every corner, every braking zone! But Depailler is still there!"
Down the back straight, Depailler caught another tow, pulling alongside again.
At Mergulho, Pace drove the perfect line—inches from the grass edge, carrying impossible speed. Depailler had to back out.
"One lap to go!" Murray shouted. "One lap between Pace and fourth place! This is magnificent!"
In the cockpit, Pace felt the engine hesitate. Just once. Just a momentary stumble in the power delivery.
Then it recovered.
One more lap. Just one more lap.
Lap 40:
The white flag waved. Final lap.
Through Curva 1, Pace executed his defense one last time. Behind him, Depailler was 0.8 seconds back and committed to one final assault.
They accelerated down the back section, and Pace felt it.
The engine stumbled. Not a momentary hesitation this time. A real misfire. The power delivery went ragged, the note changing from a smooth roar to a coughing snarl.
"No," Pace whispered inside his helmet. "No, no, no. Not now."
Depailler saw the BT45 suddenly lose speed and pounced. He pulled alongside on the run down to Ferradura, the Tyrrell's Cosworth engine screaming in perfect health.
They went through the corner side-by-side, but Pace had lost the crucial weapon—his late braking meant nothing if he couldn't accelerate out of the corner. Depailler powered past on the exit.
Fourth place gone.
But worse was coming.
The engine's misfire became constant. Pace could feel components failing inside the Alfa Romeo, metal grinding against metal, oil pressure dropping, temperature soaring into the catastrophic zone.
Down the main straight, Tom Pryce's Shadow closed with frightening speed. The engine was dying, each cylinder firing erratically or not at all.
Pryce swept past. Fifth place is gone.
Then Hans-Joachim Stuck's March appeared in his mirrors, closing like a freight train.
Pace tried to hold him off through Junção, but the engine was barely producing half its rated power now. Stuck drove past almost casually.
Sixth place is gone.
Carlos Pace nursed the dying Brabham through the final corners, the engine coughing and sputtering, threatening to seize completely. The crowd's cheers had turned to groans of sympathy as they watched their local hero's race fall apart in the final moments.
He crossed the finish line in Seventh place.
Zero points.
The positions flashed across the timing screen:
P1: Niki Lauda (Ferrari)
P2: Jochen Mass (McLaren)
P3: Jody Scheckter (Tyrrell)
P4: Patrick Depailler (Tyrrell)
P5: Tom Pryce (Shadow)
P6: Hans-Joachim Stuck (March)
P7: Carlos Pace (Brabham)
Carlos Pace lifted off the throttle completely the moment he crossed the line, and the Alfa Romeo immediately gave up. The engine seized with a terrible grinding noise, metal components fusing together from heat and friction. The car coasted to a stop on the cool-down lap, smoke finally beginning to pour from the engine cover.
Marshals rushed forward. Pace sat in the cockpit for a long moment, hands still on the wheel, staring at nothing.
Fourth place with four laps to go.
Eighth place at the flag.
From three championship points to zero in the space of three corners.
He finally climbed out, removing his helmet slowly. The Brazilian crowd, despite everything, gave him a standing ovation. They'd watched him fight. They'd watched him defend brilliantly. They'd watched the machinery betray him at the worst possible moment.
Pace raised one hand in acknowledgment, but there was no smile. Just devastation.
In the Brabham garage, silence.
Jack Hartley stood motionless, still holding the binoculars, watching Pace climb out of the dead car. Around him, the garage was frozen—mechanics with tools in hand, Charlie with his stopwatch stopped, Gordon Murray staring at the timing board as if willing it to change.
Bernie Ecclestone's expression remained neutral, but his jaw was tight.
"The carbon brakes worked," Gordon said quietly. "They worked perfectly."
"The engine didn't," Bernie replied.
"Fourth place with four laps to go," Charlie said, his voice hollow. "Four laps."
Jack lowered the binoculars. Months of work. Months of development and testing and redesign. The carbon brakes had performed flawlessly—exactly as promised. Pace had driven brilliantly, defending against faster cars with skill and technological advantage.
And the Alfa Romeo had failed them when it mattered most.
"We need to switch back to Cosworth," Gordon said, his Scottish accent thick with frustration.
"We're contracted to Alfa," Bernie replied. "For the season."
"Then we're going to have a long season."
Nobody disagreed.
Jack watched the television monitor as they replayed Pace's final lap—the engine failure, the positions lost, the heartbreak visible in every corner. This was Formula One in 1976. No electronic management systems. No fail-safes. No second chances.
Just brutal, unforgiving mechanical reality.
"Eighth place," Bernie said finally. "Zero points.But it's just the first race, we need to go back to the drawing board after we return "
"Cold comfort," Gordon muttered.
"It's motorsport," Bernie replied. "Comfort is rarely warm."
Jack said nothing. But as he watched Carlos Pace walk slowly back toward the paddock, shoulders slumped, he understood something fundamental about this era.
In 1976, brilliant engineering wasn't enough. Perfect execution wasn't enough. You could do everything right, fight for every position, defend like a champion—
And still finish with nothing.
That was racing.