The mark of a man

I don’t know about you, but I’m rather tired of Sebastian Vettel changing his helmet design every five minutes. I wouldn’t mind if the pattern had some deep significance but the addition of more glitter and swirls or the switch on a whim to a completely different colour just doesn’t do it for me.

Call me old fashioned but a racing driver’s crash helmet ought to be his signature on the move. When a car comes into view, there should be no doubt about the identity of the person at the wheel. That is particularly pertinent these days when, thanks to competition numbers being the size of a postage stamp, a crash helmet is the only distinctive feature that determines one driver from another.

It’s true that the camera colour atop the car eventually distinguishes team-mates but that’s like having footballers play in balaclavas with only their shirt numbers as evidence of who they are. (Some might argue such an idea should be encouraged to prevent spitting and snarling on the pitch, but we won’t go into that here.)

Monaco appears to prompt drivers to dress up as if they’re attending a carnival or going to a formal occasion that requires a special smart helmet in case they get to meet Monegasque royalty at the close of play on Sunday afternoon. The one exception last year was Kimi Räikkönen carrying the colours of James Hunt (a move I thought entirely appropriate because, if there’s one current driver of whom James would approve, it would surely be the Couldn’t-give-a-F*** Finn).

This weekend, I’m intrigued to see Jean-Eric Vergne’s tasteful decision to have his crash hat replicate the colours of François Cevert. I understand there is no personal link or hero worship here. It’s merely in respect of a fellow Frenchman who had charisma and speed by the bucketful and was poised to step into Jackie Stewart’s driving boots at Tyrrell when the Scot retired at the end of 1973. Tragically, that never came to pass after Cevert was killed at Watkins Glen during practice for the last race of the season.

Cevert’s sister, Jacqueline, is married to Jean-Pierre Beltoise (winner at Monaco in 1972) and knows Vergne. It’s no coincidence that Mme Beltoise is co-author with Johnny Rives, the highly respected former F1 correspondent for L’Equipe, of a book on her brother.

That aside, JEV’s choice is apposite because, 40 years ago, Cevert drove a stonking race in what would be his final appearance at Monaco.

Stewart had qualified on pole but Cevert made a daring start from the second row to force his way into the lead at Ste Devote. With Ronnie Peterson holding second place in his Lotus, there was no question of Cevert needing to think about his team leader. It was every man for himself but Cevert blew it on the second lap when he snagged a kerb and punctured the right-front tyre.

Pit stops in 1973 had the urgency of a motorway service area visit compared to today, Cevert rejoining 25th – and last. Truly fired up, Cevert seemed oblivious to the notion that overtaking is difficult at Monaco as he carved through the backmarkers.

Progress began to slow when he reached 14th and the faster and more obstinate guys – by which time he was about to be lapped by Stewart, who was leading. On lap 33, Cevert dutifully moved aside. And then his race really came alive as the pair of blue Tyrrells began to work beautifully in tandem.

I was seated in the grandstand on the approach to Ste Devote. More than once, I involuntarily held my breath as Cevert sat inches from Stewart’s gearbox at 160mph and squeezed past midfield runners under braking as they responded to waved blue flags for the leader. Stewart couldn’t mess about because the Lotus of Emerson Fittipaldi was not far behind; pressure which Cevert scarcely seemed to notice as he received the driving lesson of his life from a master of Monaco.

By lap 47, Cevert was fifth, the hapless opposition unable to do anything about this eight-wheel Tyrrell steaming through. The retirement of Wilson Fittipaldi’s Brabham with seven laps to go eventually moved Cevert into fourth. He had made up 21 places.

Even if Vergne fails to produce a similar stunning drive this weekend, you’ll know who he is. JEV is the driver with the distinctive helmet design that still means a great deal 40 years on.

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Flying the flag of common sense

Good on ya’, Daniel Ricciardo. One of the first tweets I saw on the morning after the Spanish Grand Prix came from the Toro Rosso driver. Obviously still in good form following another impressive race, Ricciardo had this to say:

Glad to see Alonso not get penalised for picking up his home flag. Would have been pathetic if he was. Cant believe it was even contemplated

— Daniel Ricciardo (@danielricciardo) May 13, 2013

Spoken like a true Aussie. Which is significant because Alan Jones was the ex-driver steward on duty in Barcelona and I’ll bet a Pound to a pinch of kangaroo poo that Jonesey had a hand in kicking this nonsense into touch.

Yes, yes, I know Alonso had contravened Articles (Loose), Section 3, Paragraph 96A ‘Handbags and Gloveboxes’, stating that a driver must not speak to strangers and, if a foreign object is picked up, it must either be handed to the Customs Officer stationed at the entrance to Parc Fermé or, if possessing a financial value, it must be rushed by armed guard direct to the office of Mr Ecclestone, who will divide the proceeds 98 per cent to CVC Capital Partners and 2 per cent (less FOM tax) to the teams.

And, yes, I know the rule is to prevent a driver picking up a slab of ballast disguised as a bar of chocolate and slipping it into his pocket before stepping onto the post-race scales. But, please! In a sport systematically stripped of character over time, why on earth can a local winner not lift his supporters with a flutter of national pride, particularly in a country that hasn’t had much to shout about in recent years?

Ayrton Senna developed this into a patriotic art. On his slowing down lap, he would seek out anyone willing to let him have the green and yellow symbol of a country that meant so much to the proud Brazilian and his grateful followers. Not only would Senna brandish the flag from the cockpit, he would take it with him to the podium. This was before they brought in a procedure that just falls short of sniffer dogs, an x-ray scan and body search before celebrations can officially begin.

Jones must have had a wry smile when the subject of Alonso’s shocking act of insubordination came up. His mind will have gone back to the 1980 French Grand Prix at Paul Ricard, a race Jones won for Williams and, in the process, ‘stuffed the bloody French’.

F1 was in the middle of a power struggle between FISA (the sporting arm of the FIA) and the aforementioned Mr Ecclestone’s nascent FOCA organisation representing the British teams. Jones had won the Spanish Grand Prix, only to lose the victory at a stroke when FISA outlawed the race. And the signs were that Williams were in for a hammering in France when Ligier drivers Jacques Laffite and Didier Pironi qualified first and third, the blue cars split by Rene Arnoux’s Renault. But Williams and Jones had a trick or two up their sleeves.

Recognising that tyre wear would be crucial (sound familiar?), Williams spent practice focusing solely on the 54-lap race by trying different rim sizes and Goodyear compounds. Come Sunday afternoon, the three French cars took off like scalded cats but, in searing heat, the 170-mph Courbe de Signes began to take its toll on the left-front. Jones, biding his time and running larger front wheels than those on the Ligiers, gradually moved forward. By lap 35, he was in the lead. And there was nothing the Ligiers could do about it (Arnoux having retired early on).

The pièce de résistance was provided by Ian Anderson when the Williams crew chief thrust a large Union Jack into his driver’s willing hand. With the other, Jones raised a finger briefly at the FISA dignitaries watching unhappily from the side.

There were no recriminations. And not a single complaint about Goodyear’s tyres. Ligier were deeply unhappy. But Williams had got it right on the day.

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Name, Rank and Race Number

Have you heard of grand prix driver Paul England? No? Neither had I. But the man from Melbourne raced in the 1957 German Grand Prix at Nürburgring, so you’d think we really ought to have an inkling.

In fact, this was Mr England’s only F1 race – ever. Perhaps that’s understandable when you’ve tried to race a Cooper on the fearsome Nordschleife and probably scared yourself silly. The statistic is typical of more relaxed times before Superlicences and silly money. It’s also one of the hundreds of remarkable facts that come to light when you dip into ‘Grand Prix Who’s Who’.

This 832-page tome by Steve Small is exactly what it says on the slipcover. On page 244, you learn that Paul England was a young engineer who built his own sports car, wrecked it in a race on Philip Island and then decided to come to the UK. As Antipodeans tended to do in those days, England went straight to the Cooper workshops in Surbiton and, before he knew it, money had changed hands and he was racing a 1.5 Cooper T41 in the F2 section of the German GP. Just like that!

He dropped out with distributor trouble after what must have seemed four very long laps. Then he went back to Australia to compete successfully in hill climbs and run a highly specialised engineering business. But, whatever way you look at it, Paul England made his mark in the register thanks to starting a grand prix.

This is a moot point. In recent weeks there has been much discussion over whether or not Fernando Alonso and Mark Webber started their 200th Grand Prix in Bahrain. Confusion arises because neither driver actually started the infamous 2005 US Grand Prix when all of the Michelin runners pulled out. The argument on the other side is that they took part in practice, qualifying and the parade lap before peeling into the pits; enough, it is said, to have that race count.

I don’t agree. And neither does Steve Small. Our view is that if you don’t physically sit on the grid (or at the pit lane exit) waiting for the red lights to go out, you haven’t started the race. I know that upsets the likes of Jacques Laffite, not credited under this criteria with starting the 1986 British Grand Prix because, ironically, the original aborted start had been caused by, among other things, poor Jacques being extracted from his Ligier with legs broken badly enough to end his grand prix career. The race started afresh and Laffite was not in it. So the 1986 British Grand Prix should not count as a Race Start on his CV. That may seem unfair, but the line has to be drawn somewhere.

Such debate should not detract from the immense detail in Small’s reference book. I’m particularly intrigued by the fact that he has gone to the trouble of seeking out each driver’s competition number. That may sound simple given that, these days, drivers are allocated their numbers for the entire season. But it wasn’t always so.

Up to 1974, not only would race numbers be issued at the whim of organisers, but, in some instances, those numbers would be changed from one day of practice to the next in order to foil producers of pirate race programmes. Small has traced the numbers, which can be a boon if you are trying to place a photo of a driver and his car in a particular race.

Speaking of photos, Small has somehow managed to locate a picture of every driver, either thanks to rooting through memorabilia stands at places such as the Goodwood Festival of Speed or as the result of a note asking for help in the first edition of the book in 1994. This was before the Internet and Small was extremely grateful – as are we - for photographs sent, in many cases, from family archives.

By the time of the third edition, the list of missing faces had shrunk to less than 20. And that’s when he heard from the family of Paul England with another gem to add to this fourth edition of a truly fascinating treasure trove of F1 facts.

‘Grand Prix Who’s Who’ by Steve Small (Icon Publishing Limited).

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Seeing is not believing

I’ve spent the past week in a confused state. Not because of an extended St Patrick’s Day celebration. And not because I had been listening to Eddie Jordan trying to talk himself up to speed on BBC TV’s China GP coverage after six months blathering to himself on his boat, cut off from racing society.

The bewilderment was caused by watching the Shanghai race and not knowing what to make of it. I found it disturbing when, about half way through, I quietly said to myself: ‘I’m not enjoying this.’ Okay, it was fairly early in the morning for a pensioner and I’d had a lively Saturday night, daring to stay away from bed until after 10pm. But, prior to the Chinese GP, I would have thought admitting an F1 race was not to my taste was as unlikely as walking away from a pint of Guinness before I’d drained the glass.

Yes, I knew there were bound to be different strategies because of the tyres but, even so, the whole thing quickly descended into what I imagine it must be like attempting to play two games of poker at the same time.

‘So, lemme see; he’s on the Medium tyre and he has yet to run the Soft, so he’s basically in the same race as that Force India, which is not as quick and, anyway, they’re challenging that Ferrari which is on the same tyre but he stopped three laps earlier which means, if you add the number you first thought of, subtract Charlie Whiting’s age, apply multi-21, bear in mind it’s front-limited (the buzz word for commentators this year), then it’s as Christian Horner rightly says with such authority: ‘Com’on Seb; this is silly’.

On Monday, still searching for clarity, I listen to the BBC Radio 5 Live post-race podcast. I’m quite shocked when my old mate Gary Anderson offers the robust opinion that ‘anyone who couldn’t see that was a good race needs to visit an optician.’

Gary, rather than doing the voice-over for a ‘Should have gone to Specsavers’ ad, is making a judgement based on his vastly superior technical understanding and a love of running a race from the pit wall. He has been talking to the teams beforehand, got himself fully briefed on the possible scenarios and gone through the race thoroughly enjoying every strategic nuance.

But most of us sitting at home don’t have either that knowledge or, dare it be said, the wish to see the 56 laps as a game of high-speed chess. We would quite like to witness a race.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying a grand prix should be like a Formula Ford race on a club circuit somewhere near you. I do believe there should be an element of endurance; a need to see the long game and make sure tyres and machinery last the distance while going as fast as you can.

But, for me, the Chinese Grand Prix went too far the other way, particularly when DRS made overtaking childishly simple and Fernando Alonso – with typical racing intelligence – was able to get close to a competitor in the detection zone, pass him through the corner and then open the DRS to pull away on the following straight. Please don’t tell me that’s racing.

Suitably admonished by Anderson, I spent the week in, as I said, a state of sad confusion. Then, over lunch today, I caught up with some reading, including a report by Mark Hughes in Autosport. Mark wrote: ‘The real race was a cerebral one, being contested on the pit counter, the drivers just speed monkeys expressing the performance of their package, being instructed on the most efficient way to run their race.’

Thank God for that. I’ve just cancelled my appointment with Specsavers.

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Not so fast, Mr Senna

Twenty-five years ago this week, I flew to Rio de Janeiro for the first round of the 1988 F1 world championship. Stowed in the hold of our Varig 747 was a McLaren MP4/4. This chassis, due to be the team’s spare car, had been completed that very morning. Two days later, Alain Prost would drive it for the first time during qualifying at Jacarepaguá, put the red and white car on the second row - and go on to win the race 24 hours later.

Such a frantic birth was not related to the spare chassis being one of the last items on the lengthy pre-season job list. McLaren had already been flat-out. The MP4/4 was totally new thanks to swapping the ageing TAG-turbo to the first in a long line of successful engines from Honda; not a straightforward switch by any means.

Honda and McLaren had entered their new liaison facing a choice: they could either run the latest version of Honda’s existing V6 turbo or they could take a long-term view and try the next generation normally aspirated Honda V10 knowing turbos would be banned in 1989. Honda’s sums indicated that the turbo had the most potential; the complication of changing engines yet again was something they would have to deal with on another day.

Either way, the workload was massive, the first MP4/4 not having put rubber on a race track until a test at Imola a couple of weeks before. Then, on the first day of practice, Prost spun off and hit the crash barrier.

Seeing Alain Prost make such a mistake tended to take you by surprise. It was like the television camera catching the Queen with her feet up on a seat with a fag and a gin and tonic minutes before her Christmas broadcast to the nation.

Prost, in fact, had been having difficulty with the more reclined driving position of the MP4/4. And you could tell the car was new when a fundamental weakness was discovered in the mounting points for the nose cone. When we asked Prost what the problem was, I remember having to bite my tongue when the nasal Frenchman said he was “…’aving trouble wiz my nuse.”

Fortunately (in the days before Resource Restriction Agreements, curfews and so on) McLaren had brought extra pairs of hands to help out. Even so, they worked until 2am on the Friday morning, 3am on Saturday and 5.30am on race day, the mechanics having just enough time to return to the hotel, shower, change into fresh uniforms and get back to the track for the warm-up at 8.30am.

There were other pressures, not least this being Ayrton Senna’s first race with McLaren. The Brazilian, yet to win a championship, had pleased the home crowd no end by taking pole. But he did not endear himself to his normally-aspirated rivals on race day by completing a very slow parade lap in the heat and humidity and then throwing his arms in the air as he returned to pole position.

In the rush to get things done, the gear linkage had not been properly connected, Senna evacuating the cockpit and running to the McLaren garage for the back-up car (Prost’s repaired chassis).

In the meantime, Nigel Mansell had long since taken off for another lap in order to prevent his normally aspirated Williams-Judd from overheating. In the absence of a rule preventing it, Mansell then threaded his way through the grid to resume his place on the outside of the front row.

Senna would start from the pit lane, a move that seemed quite legal until the officials took 26 laps to decide otherwise. During this time, Senna had the fans on their feet as he stormed his way to second place. The response can be imagined when he was black-flagged for having changed cars beyond the permitted period. Apparently, the start had been delayed rather than abandoned, which meant the cars were still under starter’s orders at the time Ayrton made the switch. Not so fast, Mr Senna.

It was then brought to the stewards’ attention that Ivan Capelli had also swapped cars and started his March from the pit lane. Team manager Ian Phillips was called to the stewards’ office forthwith.

Had his driver changed cars after the field had come under starter’s orders? Yes, he had. Did Phillips not realise that this was illegal? Yes, he did. Springing to the ‘phone, the elated official (no longer working for the FIA, by the way) bellowed instructions to black-flag car 16 (Capelli) immediately.

Phillips waited until the man had completed his grand gesture before quietly informing him that car 16 had, in fact, retired six laps earlier.

Not so fast, Mr Race Steward.

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Life with a limp

Martin Donnelly's Lotus was torn apart in his crash at Jerez © Getty Images

Considering a Lotus almost killed him, Martin Donnelly is happy to proudly wear the iconic yellow and green insignia in his lapel. You could say that’s because Donnelly earns part of his living as an ambassador for the motor manufacturer but such a cynical judgement completely misrepresents one of the most equitable F1 drivers I’ve ever met.

Martin has every right to feel aggrieved. I may be biased given that we’re from the same part of the world but Donnelly had massive prospects as an F1 driver until they were snuffed out so dramatically during qualifying for the 1990 Spanish Grand Prix. If you’ve seen the film ‘Senna’, you will recall that graphic image as Donnelly lay like a crumpled yellow rag doll in the middle of the Jerez track, the seat torn from the chassis but still attached to his back.

The left-front suspension had failed just as Donnelly flicked his Lotus-Lamborghini into a fast right-hander. With no steering, the car had ploughed straight on and disintegrated against a metal crash barrier mounted close to the edge of the track.

The irony was that the fragmenting chassis allowed Donnelly a means of escape as his body was flung sideways, free of a cockpit that seconds before had fitted him like a glove. The violence of the impact tore the bulkhead, to which the upper seat belt mounting points were attached, clean away from the car, exposing the fuel bag-tanks. The absence of a fire was one miracle. The other was that Donnelly was still alive. But only just.

This being near the end of the lap, it took the medical car the best part of two minutes 30 seconds to reach a scene of devastation so bad that Professor Sid Watkins could not identify the car. In any case, his priority was the inert form lying in a foetal position with the left leg hideously bent. Looking inside the visor, Prof Watkins could see Martin’s face was blue and clearly short of oxygen. With his accompanying Spanish anaesthetist, Watkins put a suction tube down one nostril and an oxygen tube in the other.

The next job was to remove the helmet; never easy to do in the conventional manner when a driver is unconscious. Using a special pair of scissors with a blunt end of one blade to allow access beneath the helmet strap but without penetrating the flesh, Prof sawed his way through the strap, removed the helmet and realised Donnelly was choking on his tongue. Running a finger around Donnelly’s tightly clamped teeth, Prof found a gap that allowed him to pull the tongue forward. The first moment of extreme difficulty had passed.

More would follow as Donnelly suffered kidney failure not long after reaching the London Hospital and, just as threatening four weeks later, a burst artery in his left thigh. The latter came close to forcing amputation. The leg, on the Prof’s insistence, may have been saved but the incident would have a long-term affect when dried blood, coupled with a lengthy period of inactivity, caused Martin’s upper thigh muscle to stick to the bone. While everything else would eventually cure itself to remarkably good effect (a miracle in itself considering, as Prof Watkins told me, ‘we nearly lost him on several occasions’), that snared muscle would cause Donnelly more frustration than anything he had ever known.

Martin’s stock had been rising throughout that debut season in 1990. Split times during the fateful lap showed that, had he completed it, the Ulsterman would have qualified on the third row; his best grid position that year.

He had every intention of making a comeback. But evacuating the cockpit in the required five seconds was made impossible by that recalcitrant thigh muscle.

I was reminded of it on Wednesday as Donnelly expertly manoeuvred the ramrod-straight left leg into the cockpit of a Lotus Evora. We were about to take a run up the hill at the Goodwood Festival of Speed press day. This was a full-house racing version of the Evora and Martin was intent on making good use of it. ‘Understeers a bit through the first right-hander on cold tyres,’ he grinned. ‘So we’ll have to use a fair bit of grass at the apex of the next one.’ Which he did.

We later took a wander among the typically stunning collection of racing machinery, which included a beautiful example of a Lotus 49 in its original green and yellow team colours. Here was a car that achieved great things in F1. Donnelly could easily have made his mark too, but there is not a hint of bitterness when you suggest what might have been. ‘I’m just lucky to be here,’ he simply says in that rasping Belfast accent.

Martin will be back for the Festival of Speed on July 12 -14. You’ll recognise him. He’s the one with the mischievous grin, the Lotus lapel badge and the limp.

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Minding his peas and counting the days

The trick at this stage was to make sure there was at least one glass of fine red left in the bottle for Patrick; not that he needed any encouragement when it came to irreverent remarks, the majority of which, sadly, were never suitable for printing.

Continue reading "Minding his peas and counting the days"

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Flying on the ground

Is there a measurement for the passage of air across a racing car? I'm looking for a simple term along the lines of miles-per-hour or revs-per-minute; something we non-techie folk can understand. If you're going to come back at me with equations and theories, I will be forced to quote the Limerick:

There was a young mathematician named Paul
Who had a hexagonal ball
He said the cube of its weight
Plus two-thirds minus eight
Was equal to three-quarters of five-eighths of sod all.

Continue reading "Flying on the ground"

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One for the road

Clean, clear and under control: The modern car launch © Getty Images

Go to a Formula One car launch these days, and you're branded on arrival. Coloured wristbands determine whether you're Corporate or Media. One wristband is for those with money, or the potential to generate it, and the other goes to those who haven't a bean but can affect the lives of those who have. Whether that's in a positive or negative way can be the substance of a PR person's worst nightmare.

The media relations men and women wearing smiles and smart suits shouldn't worry because car launches are generally positive affairs. The journalists and broadcasters are happy to see each other after the winter break and the teams are bursting with fresh-faced confidence. I've yet to hear a driver/designer/team principal stand up at a launch and say the car before them is the biggest pile of crap they've ever produced.

Well, maybe with one exception. Having stepped into the ailing Honda concern at the end of 2007 and been presented with a dog of a car, Ross Brawn politely talked more about 2009 than the coming season - and with good cause, as it turned out. You had the impression he'd prefer to discuss the merits of the maggot as fishing bait rather than the collection of parts someone, in a moment of enthusiasm, referred to as a racing car.

Mind you, I've even been to launches where the car was hardly mentioned at all. That, as you might guess, could only happen in Ireland.

On Wednesday February 25, 1981, a bunch of us flew to Dublin to see the unveiling of a black March 811 to be driven in F1 by Derek Daly. The Irish connection was cemented - if that's the right word - by sponsorship from Guinness, the car being unveiled in the famous St James's Gate brewery, within staggering distance of the city centre.

Word soon got out and any Sean, Seamus or Harry worth his salt knew that a function inside the hallowed premises would involve the need to sample the sponsor's product. Tough, I know, but sometimes you have to do these things from the goodness of your heart.

I can recall to this day walking into the reception room and seeing the bar completely black with pints of Guinness; massed ranks of the stuff, poured and ready. I thought I'd died and gone to Heaven. And half of Dublin clearly seemed to think the same.

The expression 'And the drink was flying' took on new meaning as the lads distributed pints around the room with noticeably accomplished speed. One 'journalist' proudly showed me his pen - no notebook, mind, just a pen. If another had said he'd heard about the occasion through his mother, who walked the greyhound belonging to the sports editor of the Sunday Post, I wouldn't have been in the least surprised.

The place was buzzing, so much so that the hapless organisers of the launch struggled to persuade guests to leave the bar and view the car, waiting just beyond a glazed partition barely 10 metres away. I did get to see Daly smiling nervously as the audience eventually spilled - and that is the right word in every sense - into the room. One man, draining what was clearly not his first pint, confided in me: "That's a fine car young Declan Daly has there, so it is." Then he returned next door with what I thought was indecent haste.

Perhaps wisely, March had chosen not to put us up for the night, preferring to book the small British contingent onto the last flight home. I recall sadly downing a final pint of Guinness (yes, it really does taste different in Ireland) in the airport bar only to discover to our delight there was actually a little refreshment hatch - serving you-know-what - right by the departure gate. Well, it would have been rude not to.

The only other memory I have of The Best Feckin Car Launch in the Whole Feckin World is one of our number falling down the steps of the Aer Lingus 737 just after we had landed at Heathrow. Quite a shocking display, I thought. Some of us didn't know who we were, never mind where we were. That's what happens when you don't have wristbands at a car launch.

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