To many in the paddock Helmut Marko, now 82, was “that crotchety old guy at Red Bull who always says exactly what he’s thinking.” Some were wary of him. I wasn’t. I loved and respected him. You had to know his background to understand him — brought up tough, schooled in the hard knocks, a man who expected drivers to stand up for themselves.
He and Jochen Rindt were school friends — expulsions, mopeds (“wombats”) and wild youth around Graz, prepping them for the rough world of racing. Marko spun his father’s Chevrolet as a youngster, “borrowed” without permission, and learned to fend for himself. He was a very good driver: a top European two-litre sportscar racer, winner of Le Mans in 1971 in a Porsche 917K with Gijs van Lennep, and he first raced in F1 with BRM in 1971.
At Clermont-Ferrand in 1972 he qualified sixth in the P160B and was running well until a stone thrown up by another car penetrated his visor and struck his eye. The injury ended his driving career. He was in hospital for two months, blinded temporarily, stitched and shattered by the sudden loss of a life he loved. He later described the bitterness and the long process of coming to terms with it: one night he realised “it wouldn’t be the same as it was before… But life goes forward.”
Marko’s life after driving took strange turns. He ran a hotel, set up a Formula 3000 team, and remained a mentor to young drivers. He survived close calls of fate: had he not raced a hillclimb with a protégé, he would have been booked on Alitalia flight 112 that crashed into Mount Longa in 1972, killing all aboard. “If I hadn’t done that hillclimb I would have been on that flight,” he said quietly — a revelation he rarely told.
He also had to live with the deaths of drivers he knew: Jochen Rindt at Monza, Helmuth Koinigg at Watkins Glen in 1974, Markus Hottinger at Hockenheim in 1980. Marko accepted such cruelties with a dark pragmatism: “Both Helmuth and Markus gave something to racing… But life goes on.”
That practicality — often mistaken for harshness — defined his approach as a talent-spotter and adviser. He cultivated and sometimes ruthlessly culled drivers in Red Bull’s youth programme: names who didn’t make it as well as those who did. Tonio Liuzzi, Patrick Friesacher, Sebastian Bourdais, Scott Speed, Sébastien Buemi, Jaime Alguersuari, Lewis Williamson, Christian Klien, Pierre Gasly, Alexander Albon, Sergio Pérez, Liam Lawson, Yuki Tsunoda — and many others passed through squads he ran or guided. He looked for raw ability and the willingness to go further than rivals. He wasn’t there to comfort struggling racers; he picked those he believed could win.
He found champions: Sebastian Vettel first, and later Max Verstappen. He and Dietrich Mateschitz knew one another from Styria long before Red Bull’s motorsport project. He backed Christian Horner early — “I was the one who said Christian is our man, and I’m glad I did” — and played a central role in building the organisation that would challenge old powers.
Marko always claimed he didn’t run day-to-day operations — that was Horner’s job — but for big decisions his influence was decisive. Together with Mateschitz he helped shape a culture that prized performance over egos, and sought the best technical and human solutions. The results are obvious: as of now Red Bull Racing have won 130 Grands Prix, eight Drivers’ and six Constructors’ World Championships, toppling giants like Ferrari and Mercedes.
His methods were austere, his judgments blunt, and his forthright public remarks sometimes earned him the label of bully. Those who labelled him without knowing him missed what made him effective: a racer’s instinct formed by years on and off track, scars to prove it, humour, and a habit of saying what he thought. He could be merciless, but he was always honest about expectations.
Now he’s stepping back. Times change, and it’s natural that an era ends. For all the controversy that surrounded him — and the list of careers that didn’t pan out under Red Bull’s umbrella — Marko leaves a significant, often overlooked legacy: a talent-identification machine, a culture of ruthless professionalism, and an imprint on modern Formula 1 that few others can claim.
I will miss his presence in the paddock — the old-school racer with stories, scars and an uncompromising eye for winners.