Jim Clark was one of the finest racing drivers that has lived. At the time of his death in 1968 he had two world championships, 25 Grand Prix wins and 33 pole positions – the last two both records.
But he raced and died in black and white and his car roared in crackling mono. That's the problem with looking back, the races and games, matches and Tests are grey muted affairs. And I miss the colour.
There is a place you can go, though. A throwback to days when cars' screams echoed from the walls around you; where the brilliant greens, reds and yellows of the cigar tubes that carried drivers into history sting the eyes again; and better still, you get to dress up.
Dressed in a natty tweed jacket, hair Brylcreamed to within an inch of its life, and with a crimson handkerchief proudly protruding from my pocket I headed to the Goodwood Revival this year. It was a shock. I've always admired Clark, Fangio, Ascari and the others. But reading about their deeds and watching newsreel footage tells you nothing about who they were.
Standing among men and women stepping out in full 1950s regalia, you could smell their world. Not imagine it, not re-live it through film and paper, actually be there again.
Watching cars sweep towards you from trackside, you could see just how small they were, how fragile. You could hear them again, see them in colour and smell the exhausts as these grand old machines were allowed to race again, to do what they were made to 50 years after others overtook them with newer technology.
On the track, Stirling Moss four-wheel drifted a vintage Jaguar 60 years after he won the first Goodwood meeting as an 18 year old, and then the spell was broken.
Four cars were fighting for the lead, following closer than a modern racer with its need for clean air can, and two clipped wheels. As machinery lovingly cared for and restored to former glory ripped itself apart against tarmac and concrete I saw the danger that came with the glory.
Jim Clark died on the track so did Alberto Ascari, they were not alone. As well as a window onto a lost world, Goodwood taught me something else: nostalgia is fine, but for all the glory that was – some things are better left in the past.