For five glorious seasons, Scuderia Ferrari and Michael Schumacher were imperious in their domination of Formula 1. But like all empires, rise is inevitably followed by decline….

Within a few hours of arriving at Maranello in 1973, Niki Lauda was asking himself why the hell Ferrari didn’t win every grand prix, so superior were its facilities and resources. Four years later, his question more than answered, he got the hell out immediately after securing his second world title.

Michael Schumacher, in contrast, was ushered out of Ferrari against his will at the end of the 2006 season – despite seeming to win every race.

Or perhaps because…

Luca di Montezemolo is the link. As a languid young man with Enzo Ferrari’s ear, but a mind of his own, for two seasons he insulated Lauda against poisonous politics. Although that bubble didn’t burst when he was reassigned within the controlling Fiat Group in 1976 – it deflated.

The Scuderia was a spent force upon his return as its suave CEO in 1991. Maranello had stagnated while its cars were designed in leafy Surrey, in jolly old England, and was no longer fit for purpose when outsourced designer Barnard switched to Benetton for 1990.

Although di Montezemolo realized that expertise would have to be brought in – he even turned to Barnard for help – he determined to breathe life back into Maranello. This bubble would be stronger.

So strong that eventually he felt compelled to stick a knife into it.

As Schumacher crossed the line at Monza 2006 to score his 71st and penultimate victory for Ferrari, and so keep his bid for a sixth title in seven years alive, a release was circulated confirming his retirement at the season’s end. In truth, the man himself neither knew when to go nor what to do after, but the content and outcome of his scheduled press conference to that effect had been guaranteed by di Montezemolo’s pre-emptive strike.

But then, Schumacher’s Ferrari had always been strictly business. He imbued it with a need to overachieve. His struggles upon joining the Prancing Horse in 1996, title near misses in ’97 and ’98, and broken leg in ’99 only made him stronger. And in 2000 he wore down McLaren’s Mika Hakkinen, the only rival he respected, to earn Ferrari’s first drivers’ title in 21 years.

Not everyone appreciated Schumacher’s ruthless, self-serving reinterpretation of Stewart’s safety legacy – his on-track “stunts” caused F1’s governing body, the FIA, to draw up a Code of Conduct – but his loyal lieutenants never flinched. Consummate politician Jean Todt, the first non-Italian to lead the Scuderia, would shrug. Unassuming head of design Rory Byrne would keep his nose to the drawing board. Owlish technical director and master strategist Ross Brawn could play dumb. And whip-cracking chief mechanic Nigel Stepney would corral the more skittish.

Byrne, Brawn and Stepney – a South African and two Englishman – had been with Schumacher at controversial, tight-knit Benetton. Yet, as Ferrari, the world’s favorite Formula 1 team, became increasingly multinational, the more it retreated to within Maranello. Divisive isolation had become unifying integration. Being able to design and build one’s own engine and gearbox had always been beneficial. The difference now was that Ferrari was sufficiently stable for long enough to capitalize on this.

The empty vessel that had made so much noise was now brimful of all it needed.

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