The jobs I was allowed to undertake in return for these huge wages started small but grew steadily, and as my education progressed so did my desire to learn and find out more. These classic formative years of training were essential in providing the grounding in the basic common sense that would prove, not merely useful, but imperative throughout the duration of my chosen career. One learns to understand the feel of the work, whether something is either right or wrong. It’s almost a sixth sense, a sort of inner knowledge that tells you that the work you have done is finished and that the car is safe to leave your hands. It is the knowledge that a nut and bolt are tight, and not merely cross-threaded; it is understanding the feeling, transmitted through the spanner to the hand, that the threads you are working are of the same type, not a mismatch of metric and imperial sizes. The awareness that a bolt is tightened just right – neither loose nor so tight that the thread is stretching, the material yielding to the point that it appears to be freeing again. An understanding of the difference, felt through the fingers, that a crankshaft is turning freely or that the bearings are fractionally too tight. A difficult concept to put into words, but knowledge of vital importance. A craftsman from any trade will tell the same story. Like the maturation of a fine wine, it is a proficiency that has to be nurtured slowly and with great care. There are no shortcuts.
In the case of Formula One, possessing this natural aptitude marks a clear line between being a trusted mechanic and a walking (stumbling) liability. It is knowing that when he has fitted a front suspension bolt into the chassis bracket, he has also thought to check that the bolt has passed through the wishbone bearing too, for if it hasn’t and the car is allowed to leave the garage, the wishbone will work free and fall off! It is thinking to pump the brake pedal after changing the discs and pads; failure to do so will result in the car shunting into the gravel-trap at the first corner as the startled driver presses the pedal straight to the floor. It is being mature enough to listen to sound advice – and being sensible enough to remember it. It is being able to look at and study something logically and have the basic mechanical appreciation to understand why something such as an exhaust coupling has been designed to have a certain amount of free movement, and that to over-tighten it will, quite obviously, cause it to fail on the circuit.
You might think that all of these terribly basic – and, of course, potentially highly dangerous – examples are quite incredible and fall far below the exacting standards expected of any Grand Prix team employee (and I would wholeheartedly agree with you!) but I have witnessed or heard of every single one of them happening. It is a sad fact of life, but just occasionally someone, loaded with go-kart enthusiasm, will be small enough to wriggle through the sieving effect of the interview net and plunge himself into the grown-ups’ end of the engineering pool, only to find that he is completely out of his depth and floundering for direction while all the time the driver’s life is dependent on his very next action. Quite, quite frightening!
All this constant talk of a ‘sixth sense’, and a ‘natural aptitude’ for a certain way of life, sounds a bit Yoda-esque – let the feel be with you – but it is most certainly the case that lessons learnt in the early years of mastering a profession are almost impossible to pick up in later life. It boils down to this: either you’ve got it or you haven’t. And for the sake of the others around you, if you haven’t got it you shouldn’t get involved.
As an apprentice at Howlett’s I grew to love the work of a mechanic and the excitement of working on more and more complex machinery spurred me on. I left Howlett’s in 1985, a few years after my training was over, and advanced from the routine servicing of Mazda and Vauxhall family saloons to the more accomplished challenges on offer via the lush engineering of the multi-cylinder engines of Ferrari and the advanced electronics of BMW. I was sad to leave Terry – feeling, in a way, that I was deserting him – but he understood my desires and, in fact, he seemed keen for me to go. I like to think that this was because he was seeing the fruits of his years of devotion finally grow up and mature; more likely it was simply because I had been a complete pain for the past six years and he was delighted to see the back of me.
In 1986 I joined Graypaul Motors, the Ferrari dealer for central England, and without doubt, the time I spent there was great fun. One major advantage of working with such a luxurious marque is that the owners are loaded. This meant that, within reason, we could spend as much time as we liked working on their cars, ensuring that the preparation and finished detail was perfect. For example, on a long restoration project all the nuts and bolts would be sent away to be re-plated; the jubilee clips on the radiator hoses would all face the same direction; the wiring harnesses would be secured with the neatness of a work of art; no expense spared. After all, some of these cars – the 250 GTOs and the Le Mans cars of the 1960s – were valued in millions of dollars, and by the time we had completed the job, their value had risen well above the price that the dealership charged its customer for any work.
By working with a Ferrari dealership my own financial worth had increased too, with my offer-of-employment letter stating: ‘Your starting hourly rate will be £3.50 for the first three months, rising to £3.70 and finally to £3.96 after a total of six months’ service, plus overtime and bonus if applicable.’
Some mechanics would find the detailed work tedious and unnecessary, but I revelled in the chance to delve into the complex engines and work on a multitude of intricate components. I wasn’t the quickest of the workforce – I would hate to rush something – but I would never refuse a challenge, and would always volunteer to tackle the more long-winded jobs. This was not out of some crazed obsession, but merely because I saw it all as a great adventure, a playground where the toys were amongst the most desirable in the world and I’d been given permission to play with them for as long as I wanted. I loved the heady, fresh leather interiors of the new 328s and Testarossas. I delighted in the sense of achievement of finely manipulating the four carburettors of a pre-injection 308 to work in unison – at idle, the tiny spits of fuel and the gentle burble from each choke giving lie to the engine’s sumptuous reserves of power. To me, the later fuel-injected cars never had the same appeal. Too reliable.
But even after saying that, it was to be a fuel-injected car that finally won my heart. One bright, sunny morning, Martin Keefe, the service manager, announced that we were expecting a 288 GTO to arrive. If I gave it a quick check-over – tyre pressures, oil level etc. – we would, as a favour to the sales department, take it on to the A6 and carry out a full mechanical appraisal of the car’s worth by giving it a thorough, comprehensive road test.
Now, rumour has it that when the 288 GTO was launched from Maranello, Italy, in 1984, and was driven through the villages surrounding Modena, the locals lined the streets waving and cheering as this great red beast roared past. The release of this first car – production finally stopped at a grand total of thirty-two – was cause for a whole string of major celebrations. The all-conquering GTO of the 1960s had been reborn and its reincarnation was even more beautiful than the original. The Pininfarina-styled body was based – though much improved – on the slender lines they had pencilled seven years earlier for the 308 GTB, and when painted in bright rossa corsa, the new car’s looks were, quite simply, gorgeous. Underneath the slatted rear cover lay the 2.8-litre V8 engine. Hence the name: 288. Power supply was assisted by two turbochargers – I’m sure that one would have been more than enough – the car capable of producing around four hundred horsepower, was equally capable of being driven through congested city streets at a stately 30mph too. Everything about the 288 reeked of perfection, and neither before nor after that bright day in the early autumn of 1987, as we drove along the A6 putting the car through its paces (just as a favour), have I ever been so besotted by a piece of mechanical engineering.
I had many enjoyable days such as that, but I finally reached the point where I knew the time was right to look for something more. Of course, after wor
king for Ferrari, moving on wasn’t easy; but there was one industry that did appeal. I never really had much interest in Formula One before working with Ferrari. Like everyone, I had watched the occasional race on TV and listened to Murray’s commentary – with James Hunt, the knowledgeable ex-driver and master of satire, constantly interrupting and correcting him – but I had never really followed it. But then something happened which completely altered my perception of the sport.
Throughout 1988 McLaren International had totally dominated the season, winning fifteen of the sixteen races, with the team’s great rivals, Prost and Senna, in a class of their own all year. No other drivers or team seemed able to touch their spectacular form. The only race they lost that year was Monza – and even there Senna was leading until being punted out of the race in a bizarre incident with one of the trailing Williams cars. McLaren was using the powerful and ultra-reliable Honda engine at the time, and all year the team suffered only one engine failure – Prost’s car in Monza. With the two McLarens taken out of contention, the way was clear for the Ferraris of Berger and Alboreto to score an unbelievable one-two victory for Ferrari in front of the team’s home crowd. The tifosi were ecstatic, not merely because of a home win – although that is always cause for celebration in Italy – but mainly because Enzo Ferrari himself had died only days before the event. It was sensational, an unbelievable result. On the face of it, it appeared as if God had arranged for this victory in the Ferrari cathedral of Monza, in honour of the life-long great work of this legend of both competition and road-going sports cars. Throughout the time I worked for his organization I never met Enzo Ferrari, I don’t think we even made so much as eye contact, but it pleases me to think that I worked for his company during a period of his life. In its own way that alone is a pleasing memory to hold.
Genuinely moved by what happened that day in Monza, I was left with the thought that if Grand Prix racing is important enough to be subject to divine intervention, then there must be more to this sport than I had given it credit for. I began to take a much wider interest. I bought several books on the subject, I now watched all the races on TV, and by reading the weekly Grand Prix news and features in Autosport I gradually became more and more fascinated.
1989 – Chapter Two
A move to BMW – Ferrari and Mansell race in Imola –
Letters in the post – Not a sausage – A trip to the coast –
Confusion in Estoril – In praise of Oxford –
A Benetton history lesson – A phone call to Onyx –
Benetton’s win in Japan
At the end of 1988 I took the decision to leave Ferrari, and moved to a main BMW dealership, still working as a mechanic. I wanted to increase my understanding of the latest, state-of-the-art electronics, and while my time with Ferrari had greatly enhanced my knowledge of elegant machinery, it was BMW, in the late eighties, which led the field as far as modern electronics was concerned.
Ferrari may have been using sophisticated multi-valve, four-cam, alloy-cast V8 engines, even in its entry-level equipment, but for its ignition the company seemed happy, for many years, to use a fairly basic system, consisting of one or two sets of points (with the inevitable problems of cracking distributor caps, corroded rotor arms and ever-changing dwell angles, which are associated with such a system no matter which marque they are fitted to). BMW, however, seemed to be pioneers of any electrical advancement, switching from a mechanically controlled ignition to transistorized electronic ignition, and onwards to a full onboard management system as soon as the next advancement was proven.
Porsche, like BMW, was on a similar electrical crusade, and I could have considered a move there but I instantly liked the calm, friendly atmosphere of the BMW dealership I visited; it was close to home, too. A move to Porsche would have meant travelling further. Besides, after working for Ferrari, switching to Porsche would have been too much of a change of allegiance for me to be happy since these two famous marques have been great rivals for many years. I’m aware that in business, people do switch their professional allegiances all the time – the movement of Formula One staff between the different teams is sometimes difficult to keep track of – and I don’t state my reluctance to do the same through any form of holier-than-thou piousness; if people feel they can advance themselves by working with a former rival, then all my best wishes go with them. I would just prefer not to do it myself, although I must admit to coming very close to it once, when Stewart Grand Prix was forming, but that comes years after the period I am discussing here.
In January 1989 I started work for Cooper-BMW at their dealership in Rothley near Loughborough, and my initial impressions of the place proved right: it was as calm and friendly a place to work as is possible to imagine. No rush, no panic. Work, chat, have a coffee, have another coffee, finish your conversation and start work again. The cars arrived, the repairs were carried out efficiently, the cars left again. No one complained, no one had reason to; everyone was just happy to be there and every lunch break we had time to drive to the leisure centre and play squash. One afternoon, as we watched the dealership manager gracefully practising his golf swing as he strolled past us, Chris, one of the mechanics, summed it up perfectly: ‘You see, Steve, in these workshops every day is the same, every day is like Christmas Eve. Every single day.’ He was right too.
The job also came with the added attraction of another pay rise, and for the first time I was paid a real ‘salary’ and even asked to sign a proper contract of employment. I’m still not entirely sure what the differences between a wage and a salary are, but when I read through their covering letter and the particulars of the contract I do remember thinking that being paid a salary sounded very grown-up: ‘We wish to confirm our offer of employment with this company, as a service technician, at a salary of £9000 per annum, payable monthly in arrears. In addition an anticipated bonus of £2000 p.a.’
In April another significant Grand Prix event occurred which finally made me decide that working in Formula One would be my next goal. Just into lap four of the 1989 San Marino Grand Prix in Imola, Gerhard Berger – as a result of a front wing failure – crashed the team’s Ferrari 640 at Tamburello (the now infamous flat-out and sweeping left-hander, which was to claim Ayrton Senna five years later). The car, full to the brim with fuel, slammed headlong into the wall, and after the car had finally stopped spinning, its ruptured tank burst into flame. Like millions of others around the globe, I was watching the race coverage at home, staring in bewilderment at the pictures of the car on fire with Berger still strapped inside. It was fourteen seconds before the marshals managed to get to the car, and close to half a minute before the flames were put out. The race was stopped to allow the marshals to extract Berger from the wreckage and to move him into the ambulance. Berger, thankfully, received relatively superficial injuries, but the replay of the accident had made it clear that it could have been much worse. The initial speed of impact had been close to 180mph and the resulting colossal shunt had seen most of the car torn to pieces around him.
Nigel Mansell was driving Ferrari’s other 640, and as the cameras focused on him walking back down the pit-lane, it was clear that he was terribly concerned about what had happened. Before the race was restarted, it was suggested by some commentators that Mansell would be foolish to continue driving an identical car, and that Ferrari should withdraw from the race. After all, the team had just experienced a most dramatic front wing failure. But as the cameras showed the re-formed grid, Mansell was back in the car, ready to go. James Hunt commented that this was unwise and that, surely, he couldn’t be in any mood to race. However, he and Ferrari did race, and two decisive thoughts occurred to me about that. First, Mansell is nobody’s fool; occasionally he may be a touch theatrical and, certainly, he is a showman, but he is no clown. However, he is, I thought, definitely a man of brave heart. If he is sitting in the car, then that is his decision, and he must be utterly committed to his position within the team. Second, the Ferrari management
must have complete confidence in the safety of their car’s design and total faith in their mechanics’ workmanship. The commitment and confidence shown by both parties was impressive; that they were prepared to restart and race their other 640, not yielding to the enormous pressure put on them by the fact that if another wing failure did occur, it would be in full, public view of the world’s watching millions, leaving both Ferrari and Mansell subject to all kinds of criticism. I believed then – and I still believe – that the decisions taken that day were a most impressive demonstration of team effort under very difficult conditions. Of course, if Mansell’s wing had failed, their decision to restart the race would have been very difficult to defend. But happily it didn’t. I seem to remember that the box gave up after about thirty-odd laps instead.
By now I had really been bitten by Grand Prix motor racing. Thinking back, I suppose the one thing that I thought would appeal to me most about working for a Formula One team was that there seemed to be no budget restrictions at all. We all know that Formula One cars are the most exotic automotive machinery in the world, built to the highest standards and specifications. The job seemed to be the perfect next step forward, with even cleaner, more pristine surroundings than a Ferrari or BMW dealership could offer. There would be a multitude of complex assemblies to strip and to build and to understand, with components machined out of the most expensive materials in the world. I would be surrounded by a team of dedicated people, people used to working to the highest standards, people who enjoyed such detailed work too. I would be in my element. Combined with all that, if I ever managed to get on to a race team I would be flown around the world for free, able to attend the races for free; indeed, I would even be paid for the privilege of doing so! That wouldn’t be a job, it would be a dream, a permanent round-the-world cruise. All I had to do was to get in on the act and it is at this point, I believe, that the story really begins.
The Mechanic’s Tale Page 2