The Uncrowned King of Argentina

On July 7, 2021, the motorsport world fell silent. Carlos “Lole” Reutemann, one of Formula 1’s most enigmatic and technically gifted figures, had passed away at the age of 79. To the casual observer, he is a statistical anomaly: 12 Grand Prix victories, 45 podiums, and a heartbreaking runner-up finish in the 1981 World Championship—lost by a single, agonizing point. But to those who truly understand the sport, Reutemann was something far more profound. He was a poet behind the wheel, a man of brooding silences and explosive speed, whose potential was often strangled by his own introspection.

Patrick Head, the legendary Williams engineer, once described Reutemann as an “enigmatic genius,” noting that while his brilliance was undeniable, the results rarely matched the talent. Reutemann was famously private, a man who spoke little and felt deeply. He did not leave behind a tell-all autobiography or a list of his heroes. However, by examining the tapestry of his four-decade career—his interviews, his rivalries, and his driving philosophy—we can deduce the five drivers he admired most. These were the men who held the keys to the greatness Reutemann chased, the legends who taught him how to race, and ultimately, how to live.

1. Juan Manuel Fangio: The Weight of the Crown

For any Argentine driver, Juan Manuel Fangio is not just a hero; he is a deity. For Reutemann, Fangio was the “dream itself.” The parallels between the two were poetic yet heavy. Both hailed from the Argentine countryside—Fangio from Balcarce, Reutemann from Santa Fe—and both carried the hopes of a passionate nation on their shoulders. But while Fangio retired in 1958 with five world titles, Reutemann entered the sport in 1972 tasked with the impossible job of being the “next Fangio.”

Reutemann didn’t just admire Fangio’s speed; he worshipped his intellect. Fangio was the master of the “long game,” a driver who could preserve a car when others were destroying their gearboxes. He won with four different teams—Alfa Romeo, Mercedes, Ferrari, and Maserati—proving that the driver, not the car, was the variable that mattered. Reutemann absorbed this ethos into his very DNA. He became known for a style that was aggressive yet calculated, smooth, and mechanically sympathetic. He learned from Fangio that a race is not won in the first corner, but in the preservation of the machine. Yet, the admiration came with a cost: the crushing pressure to emulate a god, a burden that perhaps made Reutemann’s helmet feel heavier than any other driver’s on the grid.

2. Niki Lauda: The Brutal Lesson in Politics

If Fangio was the dream, Niki Lauda was the cold splash of reality. In 1977, Reutemann found himself partnered with Lauda at Ferrari. The Austrian had just returned from his fiery near-death crash at the Nürburgring, and the dynamic was electric. Reutemann, hungry and fast, initially took the fight to Lauda, winning the Brazilian Grand Prix in a drive he considered his finest. For a fleeting moment, it seemed the torch had been passed.

But Lauda was not just a driver; he was a “computer on wheels.” At Monaco that year, the pit board flashed a command that would define Reutemann’s standing in the team: “LET NIKI THROUGH.” Reutemann obeyed. It was a humiliating public submission, but it taught him a vital lesson. Lauda dominated not just through lap times, but through sheer political and mental force. He worked obsessively with engineers, curating the car to his exact needs, and ensured the team revolved around him.

From Lauda, Reutemann learned that talent is not enough. To be a champion, one must be a strategist in the garage and a politician in the briefing room. Lauda’s three championships were proof that mental fortitude often outweighs physical courage. It was a lesson Reutemann understood intellectually, but emotionally, he struggled to implement the ruthlessness required to crush a teammate’s spirit.

3. Ronnie Peterson: The Impossible Ideal

In 1971, the Formula 2 championship became a duel between Reutemann and a wild-haired Swede named Ronnie Peterson. They graduated to F1 together, but their approaches could not have been more different. Reutemann was the thinker, the worrier, the man who analyzed every vibration. Peterson was the “Super Swede”—a creature of pure instinct who drove with zero calculation and absolute commitment.

Reutemann admired Peterson because the Swede possessed the one thing Carlos desperately wanted: total lack of doubt. When Peterson threw a car into a corner, he didn’t wonder if the grip was there; he made it be there. He could take a broken, aging Lotus and drag it to victory through sheer will.

Despite his blinding speed, Peterson remained humble, famously playing the loyal number two to Mario Andretti in 1978. His death at Monza that same year devastated Reutemann, who finished third in the championship just behind his fallen friend. Peterson represented the joy of racing—fast, fearless, and unburdened by the heavy thoughts that often plagued Reutemann. He was the “natural” that the “intellectual” Reutemann wished he could be.

4. Jackie Stewart: The Blueprint of the Professional

Reutemann’s F1 debut in Argentina in 1972 was the stuff of legend. He took pole position in his very first race—a feat only achieved by Mario Andretti and Jacques Villeneuve. The crowd was ecstatic. But when the flag dropped, it was Jackie Stewart, the reigning champion, who muscled past to win.

Reutemann finished seventh, but the impression Stewart left was permanent. Stewart was the prototype of the modern professional driver. He was fast, yes, but he was also a safety crusader, a media darling, and a businessman. While others mocked Stewart for his focus on safety barriers and medical facilities, Reutemann saw a man who valued precision and preparation above all else.

Stewart showed that a driver’s intelligence extended beyond the cockpit. He retired at the top of his game, transitioning seamlessly into business and advocacy. Later in life, when Reutemann traded his racing suit for a suit and tie to become the governor and senator of Santa Fe, one could see the echoes of Stewart’s influence. Both men understood that their platform could be used for something greater than just trophies.

5. Alain Prost: The Mirror Image

Perhaps the most poignant entry on this list is Alain Prost. If Reutemann had looked in a mirror and seen a version of himself with four world titles, he would have seen “The Professor.” Their driving styles were uncannily similar: smooth, economical, and obsessed with tire management. Both men preferred to win “as slowly as possible,” preserving the car rather than chasing glory laps.

But Prost possessed the “killer instinct” that Reutemann agonizingly lacked. The 1981 season is the defining tragedy of Reutemann’s career. Leading the championship into the final race at Las Vegas, he qualified on pole, seemingly destined for glory. But on race day, he faded inexplicably to eighth, plagued by gearbox issues and, many suspect, a crumbling mindset. Nelson Piquet snatched the title by a single point.

In a similar situation, Prost would have closed the door. Prost knew how to play the internal game, how to demand the best equipment, and how to deliver under suffocating pressure. He was the completed version of the Reutemann prototype—the intelligence and smoothness, backed by an unbreakable self-belief. Reutemann admired Prost because he was the proof that their shared philosophy could win championships, provided the driver had the steel to seize the moment.

Legacy of a Gentleman

Carlos Reutemann may never have lifted the World Championship trophy, but his legacy is woven into the fabric of the sport. He was a driver who raced with his head and his heart, often letting the latter weigh down the former. The five drivers he admired—Fangio, Lauda, Peterson, Stewart, and Prost—formed the roadmap of his career. They were the dream, the lesson, the ideal, the professional, and the mirror.

In the end, Reutemann remains a beloved figure not just for his wins, but for his humanity. He showed us that even at the pinnacle of motorsport, doubt and brilliance can coexist. He was a genius who felt the world too deeply, and in the high-stakes, ruthless world of Formula 1, that was both his greatest beauty and his ultimate tragedy.