Motor racing is dangerous still. But it used to be dangerous in the extreme, when its cars and equipment paid little heed to safety, and the majority of its circuits were comprised of public roads, with all the natural and man-made hazards that entailed. Fatal accidents were common yet fell within bounds deemed acceptable by a public emerging from global conflict. It was the price paid for freedom.

And it was central to the thrill that Moss felt. As those less talented hesitated between the claustrophobic earth banks of Ulster’s Dundrod, or peered aghast over the vertiginous drops of Sicily’s Targa Florio, or stared incredulously down the long and narrow and cambered straights of Pescara – scene of a world championship grand prix, for heaven’s sake – he pressed home his superiority. Relentlessly. He did not lack for imagination – although it took some badgering/blackmailing by his father for him to don a ‘sissy’ crash helmet (of layered linen strips soaked in resin and lined with cork) – and certainly he suffered the pain of broken bones that went with the pleasure. But this was where, when and how ‘The Boy’ separated himself most obviously from the men.

And that was before it rained – surefooted Moss is a strong contender for being the all time greatest in the wet – and before mention is made of the Mille Miglia. His 1955 victory in this 1000-mile tear-up of Italy is perhaps the most famous in all of racing. Guided by Motor Sport’s stoic continental correspondent Denis Jenkinson and his ‘bog roll’ of route/pace notes, Moss averaged 99mph for more than 10 hours. He brushed a hay bale or three, launched over a fifth-gear brow of underestimated severity, and escaped from a ditch on the Radicofani Pass, but pressed on unabatedly – as brilliant 25-year-olds tend to – because at no stage did he feel sure of victory. He won by more than 30 minutes. Runner-up Fangio was delayed by fuel injection bothers, but it had been highly unlikely that he was going to beat his younger (by almost 18 years) team-mate that day; he knew it, even if Moss didn’t. The Argentinian, a hardened veteran of his continent’s crazy cross-country enduros, was beginning to parcel out his performances: he did not enjoy the Mille Miglia; he had not prepared as thoroughly as had Moss; and he was, if necessary, willing to concede to the fit-as-a-flea Englishman in two-seaters as long as their status in Formula 1 remained unchanged.