Chapter 2 Still At The Beginning
Saturday 7th August 1982 Germany
Ribbons of gentle zzzzs dance in the thick air and twist together, in harmony with the underlying bass notes of the big diesel engine. Weak light frosts the steamy window two inches from my nose. Meh. I’m not asleep and I’m not in a receptive mood for pretty stuff because it’s my birthday and I have been in this seat all my life. My bum knows no other shape: it knows nothing of softness and comfort and a time without vibration. This box is a tardis. Outside a hundred hours may pass for every second in here.
Outside, dawn is impersonating the sad glow from a particularly crap energy saving bulb. These drenched tall pine forests closing in on either side of the wet autobahn owe less to the Black Forest and more to Mordor.
It seemed like a good idea when I pledged my pennies to Page & Moy in return for a fun-filled weekend at the German Grand Prix - my second ever race. I’m travelling alone. Richard isn’t enough of a friend for a whole weekend together and I know no one else interested in F1. It doesn’t worry me; as an only child from a Forces family, I’m used to being independent.
After the traffic jams in and out of Brands Hatch, it’s a surprise when the coach slows and turns off the autobahn straight into the Hockenheim car park. It’s very early and I’m not ready to leave this motorised womb, but there’s no choice and as I flump, muttering, into the soggy air, I realise I have failed to factor rain into my travel plans. I’m in a lightweight jacket, summer skirt and sandals. I’m chilly and, in a very short time, I am wet.
I have to be honest - over the years, most of this miserable wet Saturday has faded from memory. Only little pinhole images remain. Spending quite a lot of money for a grandstand seat for Sunday; trudging round trying to protect my head with a newspaper that slowly morphs into papier mache; struggling to get a view of the track and then seeing grey mist hanging solidly between the trees and dim shapes of cars with huge plumes of spray.
But I vividly remember the eerie silence left hanging when something ends suddenly and before its allotted time; the whispers, the shocked faces and the news spreading that something terrible has happened. Shortly after claiming pole for the race, Pironi has crashed and is dreadfully injured.
It’s a relief to leave. The coach becomes a haven for me and my equally damp and subdued fellow travellers. Dinner is a sandwich and chocolate and after a short solo stumble around pretty Heidelberg, I crawl gratefully into my hotel bed, wondering if this is my worst birthday ever.
Sunday 8th August 1982 Germany
Mood can be vastly improved by sleep and sunlight. As we board the bus, the group is bonding over the morning papers. The true horror of Pironi’s accident has been graphically revealed. The front of the car is missing and his legs splay out on the tarmac, grotesquely twisted, mis-shapen and wrong. Even more shocking, his helmet is missing and his formerly handsome face is horribly disfigured by bruising, swelling and agony. It feels wrong to look, but you can’t look away. I saw that photo in a German newspaper for maybe 30 seconds, 30 years ago - but I can still see every detail.
Being warm and dry has made Hockenheim a much nicer place to be, but I still wonder why I’m here. I climb the weird office block stairs leading to the top of the startline grandstand and stop dead in wonder. Here in 1982 the pits are still low with no major hospitality suites to block the view of the great arena behind, where the track curves sinuously round after its long trek through the forests. This full fat race track makes the verdant Brands Hatch look like F1 light. Staring round I find that if I tilt my head this way, the arched and vaulted back walls of the lower grandstands remind me of a slice of the Collosseum. But tilt it the other way and brutalist 30’s architecture springs into focus like a faintly sinister optical illusion, nagging at a hidden memory in grainy black and white.
I blink hard.
Hurrah. The grandstands are packed, the sun is shining, engines are screaming and pulsing in the pits, there’s a perfume of hot engine and warm dusty tarmac and ... yes, sausage. And I finally remember why I’m here.
Back in the 80s they certainly knew how to do race day entertainment! Having marveled at the parade of heavy vehicles ... fire engines, combine harvesters, armoured cars etc, I’m transfixed by the sight of frankly tubby gents in acid green and white one-piece leathers and white helmets, arranged in a wobbly pyramid, the base of which comprises an unfeasibly small number of police motorbikes - all fat BMWs (of course). My mounting amusement finally explodes when, after much to-ing and fro-ing from the bikes, about eight of the portly chaps upend themselves in creditably stable headstands and part their legs, while the riders force their mounts off ramps and through the air just above the more tender portions of their inverted colleagues' anatomies. After a glance at the disapproving stares aimed in my direction by some of the locals around me, I spent the rest of the display with my knuckles rammed in my mouth to keep my guffaws at a more discreet level.
With the 'entertainment' finally over, the support races now demand attention. Strange little cars are lining up on the tarmac in front of me. To eyes used to the sleek beauty of the FI starships, what squats before me now looks like the bastard love children of soap box derby entrants raped by a flock of locusts. Pole position is held by an unattractive two-tone effort in green and yellow, the only saving grace being the driver’s obvious attempt to accessorise the car with a yellow helmet banded in green and blue. The stadium announcer is whipping up the excitement to coma-pitch with a babble of German and equally incomprehensible English when, from the cacophony of loudspeakers and squealling engines, four words ring out ..."Ayrton Senna da Silva".
My mind focusses in and sends out a thought - 'That is a fantastic name!'
It seems to belong to the fashionista on pole and, intrigued by the exotic moniker, I pay full attention to his progress through the ensuing race. There are few distractions. The little yellow and green soap box leads from start to finish with never a wheel out of place.
I’m impressed - impressed enough to do a bit of research back in Blighty. Evidently my protege is doing rather well in both British and European Formula Ford Championships. Well, that’s if you consider 18 poles, 22 fastest laps and 22 wins out of 24 finishes in 28 races to be doing rather well. And taking the title in both, of course.
Back in Germany there is still the small matter of the Grand Prix. Patrick Tambay, now the lone Ferrari entrant, again turns the sentimental screw by winning in Gilles’ car; offering some small consolation to the shell-shocked Scuderia. Arnoux is second in the Renault and Rosberg takes third for Williams.
I head home, eyes still watering from the F1 dazzle dust. But underneath there is something new growing ... an awareness of something outside F1. There is a big space clamouring to be watched. So I shall watch it.
Saturday 18 February 2012
Wednesday 18 January 2012
My Life With Ayrton Senna
Love, obsession, infatuation ... whatever you call it it's an odd state of mind. When it's focused on an unwitting, oblivious victim it's even stranger. When it lasts for 30 years, 18 of which have been nurtured posthumously, I guess it falls into the category "Seriously Weird".
Ayrton Senna could do that to people. My experience is just one example and over the next few weeks or months I'm going to post my story in chapters. I hope you enjoy it.
START AT THE BEGINNING
Saturday May 8th 1982 10.00pm Bath.
I’m in the kitchen, making coffee for a couple of friends, when my latest ex bursts into the flat. “Gilles Villeneuve’s dead.” he gasps, “Put the news on.”
The words land like a punch. As I stand staring at the screen, someone changes the channel to bring up the News at 10. And it’s true. The flickering cathode ray shows the low red car connect with Jochen Mass’s white March and execute a graceful vertical take-off before cartwheeling across the track, shedding and spewing lumps of car, race helmet and a helmet-less human being, still strapped into the racing seat, flying almost too fast for the camera to register.
I watch dumbly, and through the shock, through the grief, anger is growing. Anger at Gilles for killing himself; anger at Didier Peroni for causing the rift between them at the previous race and especially fierce anger that I’d lost any chance to see the tiny, marvelous Canadian race for real instead of just through the tv screen.
Sunday July 18th 1982 Lunchtime Brands Hatch
My internal organs are vibrating, well out of synch with the rest of my body but perfectly in time with the tarmac under my feet. Along with everyone else in the pit lane, my head is thrown back, mouth hanging attractively open like a sleeping commuter but minus the drool. Not far above us and unimaginably beautiful, Concorde slides through the air. She’s so low I can almost count the rivets in the wings. Even the seen-it-all mechanics have stopped to watch and the combination of solid sound, gut-wrenching vibration, awe and pride has brought a lump to a lot of throats - including mine.
As the best thing ever to come out of any Anglo-French liaison heads for the horizon, ‘normal’ sounds come out of hiding. I’m watching several brawny fellows rolling an angular Williams down the crowded lane. It’s number 6, Keke Rosberg’s car, and it carries the revised Saudia logo, hastily introduced after the Saudis noticed that the original typeface produced the outline of the Christian cross between the letters ‘s’ and ‘a’.
I spend a few minutes tempting the wrath of the gods by musing on the foolishness of religion. Right on cue, a thunderbolt of pure, glowing, agonizing sound shatters the back of my skull. When the mist of pain clears I turn to find Nelson Piquet’s Parmalat Brabham spitting and burbling no more than two feet behind me, tended by a bunch of suspiciously innocent-looking blokes in white overalls. One appears to be trying to hide the business end of a compressed air starter hose behind his back. With a haughty flick of my hair and a last, sad look at the glowing, empty number 27 Ferrari, I head for the pit lane exit.
Lauda wins the race for McLaren and, emotionally, Peroni finishes second in the 28 Ferrari with Patrick Tambay taking third in Gilles’ car. It has been full of incident and I’m buzzing with all the sights, sounds and smells of my first Grand Prix. I'm completely hooked.
Back in the car park I meet up with my bemused companion for the day. It’s Richard and he is the manager of my local newsagents, back in Bath. We’d struck up a friendship after he commented on my unusual taste in magazines ... Autosport, Motoring News and the teeth-suckingly expensive Grand Prix International. Of course, he’d assumed I was collecting them for my boyfriend or husband and I had been perhaps a tad firm in my rebuttal. Still it seemed to make an impression on him.
Following Gilles’ death I resolved to get off my bum and really experience the sport that had meant so much to him. Transport had been the stumbling block. I’d written off my motorbike (a dark blue Honda 400/4, since you ask) a few months before so I needed wheels. And Richard had a car. He never stood a chance.
There was no planning or pre-ordering of tickets. We just turned up on the day and bought a ticket at the gate. I can’t remember the cost now but I do remember splashing out £5 for the pit lane walkabout and the programme cost £1.50.
To his great credit, Richard never complained at the two and a half hour wait to get out of the car park. He didn’t even sigh when we finally arrived back in Bath just after midnight - even though he had to get up for work at 5.30 the next morning.
It does me no credit that I can’t actually remember his surname and I have no idea what happened to him after he moved to another shop. But I DO still remember what he looked like ... so that’s something I guess.
Love, obsession, infatuation ... whatever you call it it's an odd state of mind. When it's focused on an unwitting, oblivious victim it's even stranger. When it lasts for 30 years, 18 of which have been nurtured posthumously, I guess it falls into the category "Seriously Weird".
Ayrton Senna could do that to people. My experience is just one example and over the next few weeks or months I'm going to post my story in chapters. I hope you enjoy it.
START AT THE BEGINNING
Saturday May 8th 1982 10.00pm Bath.
I’m in the kitchen, making coffee for a couple of friends, when my latest ex bursts into the flat. “Gilles Villeneuve’s dead.” he gasps, “Put the news on.”
The words land like a punch. As I stand staring at the screen, someone changes the channel to bring up the News at 10. And it’s true. The flickering cathode ray shows the low red car connect with Jochen Mass’s white March and execute a graceful vertical take-off before cartwheeling across the track, shedding and spewing lumps of car, race helmet and a helmet-less human being, still strapped into the racing seat, flying almost too fast for the camera to register.
I watch dumbly, and through the shock, through the grief, anger is growing. Anger at Gilles for killing himself; anger at Didier Peroni for causing the rift between them at the previous race and especially fierce anger that I’d lost any chance to see the tiny, marvelous Canadian race for real instead of just through the tv screen.
Sunday July 18th 1982 Lunchtime Brands Hatch
My internal organs are vibrating, well out of synch with the rest of my body but perfectly in time with the tarmac under my feet. Along with everyone else in the pit lane, my head is thrown back, mouth hanging attractively open like a sleeping commuter but minus the drool. Not far above us and unimaginably beautiful, Concorde slides through the air. She’s so low I can almost count the rivets in the wings. Even the seen-it-all mechanics have stopped to watch and the combination of solid sound, gut-wrenching vibration, awe and pride has brought a lump to a lot of throats - including mine.
As the best thing ever to come out of any Anglo-French liaison heads for the horizon, ‘normal’ sounds come out of hiding. I’m watching several brawny fellows rolling an angular Williams down the crowded lane. It’s number 6, Keke Rosberg’s car, and it carries the revised Saudia logo, hastily introduced after the Saudis noticed that the original typeface produced the outline of the Christian cross between the letters ‘s’ and ‘a’.
I spend a few minutes tempting the wrath of the gods by musing on the foolishness of religion. Right on cue, a thunderbolt of pure, glowing, agonizing sound shatters the back of my skull. When the mist of pain clears I turn to find Nelson Piquet’s Parmalat Brabham spitting and burbling no more than two feet behind me, tended by a bunch of suspiciously innocent-looking blokes in white overalls. One appears to be trying to hide the business end of a compressed air starter hose behind his back. With a haughty flick of my hair and a last, sad look at the glowing, empty number 27 Ferrari, I head for the pit lane exit.
Lauda wins the race for McLaren and, emotionally, Peroni finishes second in the 28 Ferrari with Patrick Tambay taking third in Gilles’ car. It has been full of incident and I’m buzzing with all the sights, sounds and smells of my first Grand Prix. I'm completely hooked.
Back in the car park I meet up with my bemused companion for the day. It’s Richard and he is the manager of my local newsagents, back in Bath. We’d struck up a friendship after he commented on my unusual taste in magazines ... Autosport, Motoring News and the teeth-suckingly expensive Grand Prix International. Of course, he’d assumed I was collecting them for my boyfriend or husband and I had been perhaps a tad firm in my rebuttal. Still it seemed to make an impression on him.
Following Gilles’ death I resolved to get off my bum and really experience the sport that had meant so much to him. Transport had been the stumbling block. I’d written off my motorbike (a dark blue Honda 400/4, since you ask) a few months before so I needed wheels. And Richard had a car. He never stood a chance.
There was no planning or pre-ordering of tickets. We just turned up on the day and bought a ticket at the gate. I can’t remember the cost now but I do remember splashing out £5 for the pit lane walkabout and the programme cost £1.50.
To his great credit, Richard never complained at the two and a half hour wait to get out of the car park. He didn’t even sigh when we finally arrived back in Bath just after midnight - even though he had to get up for work at 5.30 the next morning.
It does me no credit that I can’t actually remember his surname and I have no idea what happened to him after he moved to another shop. But I DO still remember what he looked like ... so that’s something I guess.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)