The Mechanic’s Tale

by Steve Matchett

  It was a tremendous win for us under the circumstances, made even more rewarding by the fact it was achieved in Paul’s car – at last, all those years of dedication and thousands of hours of meticulous car preparation work had paid off. He was lifted shoulder high and carried around the garage to rapturous applause, Joan and Ross showering him with champagne.

  We were on a roll now, with each successful pit-stop the points kept growing, and every chequered flag brought the season closer to its end. Hockenheim saw another Schumacher win; Spa, another – this time Michael won the race from a disastrous sixteenth place on the grid. I was holding the Benetton on the rear jack during a Spa pit-stop when Irvine’s Jordan burst into flame just a few garages away from our own. From my vantage point at the back of the car I could see what the rest of the Benetton crew couldn’t. ‘The Jordan’s gone up!’ I shouted, I don’t know why, no one at Benetton could have helped, just an instinctive reaction, I suppose. My eyes took the image of the fire in: the white flash of the initial explosion, the plume of black smoke lingering in the steady drizzle long after the flames had been extinguished; I remember thinking how terrified their mechanics must have been. I wondered if there had been any injuries, but I refused to be unnerved by what had happened. My warning cry must have been a bellow, for even over the wail of our Renault engine, Joan heard me call out from where he sat on the pit-wall.

  The Italian Grand Prix, Monza: another victory, another ten points. The B195 was running superbly and was now a beautifully reliable car (it didn’t have a completely unblemished record but it wasn’t far off). Monza saw another racing collision between Damon Hill and Michael but, nevertheless, even with our reigning World Champion out of contention for the race win, the performance of the Benetton/Renault partnership was now in a class of its own; all Herbert had to do was stay on the track, stay out of trouble and tour home to collect the points. Just as in Britain, the Italian race result was a superb team effort, with our second driver doing a commendable job of picking up the pieces. More races and more pit-stops followed. In with the jacks, pray, tyres, fuel, out. Again. Again. Again. It must be now, surely it must come this year!

  It did. In the two races of the Japanese double-header, with only the Adelaide Grand Prix to follow, our place in the record books was sealed. In Aida, Michael won his second Drivers’ Championship, while in Suzuka, with a grand total of eleven race victories and a now unsurpassable score, we finally took possession of international motor-sport’s most coveted and prestigious trophy. Benetton Formula was crowned and became the 1995 FIA Formula One Constructors’ World Champions. The scores looked like this:

  Benetton:

  137

  Williams:

  112

  Ferrari:

  73

  McLaren:

  30

  Ligier:

  24

  Jordan:

  21

  Sauber:

  18

  Footwork:

  5

  Tyrrell:

  5

  Minardi:

  1

  One, two! One, two! And through and through

  The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

  He left it dead, and with its head

  He went galumphing back.

  ‘And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

  Come to my arms my beamish boy!

  O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’

  He chortled in his joy.

  1996 – Chapter Nine

  Going Bananas – I write my first article – The Melbourne

  Grand Prix – Excessive hours in Estoril – ‘Turn out the lights,

  the party’s over’ – Time to go home – A flash of inspiration –

  A meeting with Tony Dodgins – A clear decision

  The bar was only marginally better lit than the restaurant, which, save for the meagre glow of flickering candles and a collection of near meaningless lamps, was itself in almost total darkness. Standing in the doorway of the entrance it was impossible to make out where the back of the restaurant was; small, huddled groups of people seemed to extend one after another until they eventually disappeared into total blackness, I guessed on about twenty tables, a mixture of round and square, most large enough to seat about six people – but there could easily have been double that number – all were full; the low, constant noise of table conversation was just audible above the sound of Mozart’s Requiem Mass, a somewhat unexpected choice for restaurant background music.

  While Bat and Kenny confirmed our booking with the pretty girl sitting behind the reception desk, I looked around and took in the rich fragrance drifting from the kitchen. It was a good smell, and a glance through the menu helped to identify some of the aromas: honeydew melons and fresh coconuts; roast duck; grilled fish and giant prawns; thick-cut steaks; spiced lamb cooked with garlic, coriander, cumin and garam masala. I wasn’t feeling particularly hungry ten minutes ago, now I was ravenous. The menu also included the chance to meet the ‘bugs’ of Moreton Bay. These are a local speciality, a crustacean unique to north-eastern Australia and a creature which must rate as one of God’s most revolting-looking creations. Little bigger than a child’s hand, the thing resembles the body of a deformed crab grafted on to a lobster’s tail. Purely from an aesthetic point of view, it’s a terribly unfortunate mixture, a real slip of evolution, but thankfully looks aren’t everything, for when cooked the flesh of the Moreton Bay bug becomes soft, succulent and gorgeous. Of course, looking at life through a bug’s two black and beady eyes, it’s a crying shame it has to be hunted, caught, plunged into boiling water, ripped to pieces and eaten, before the world can truly appreciate its real beauty.

  We ambled along the front tables and settled ourselves at the bar; the table was booked for nine o’clock, leaving us plenty of time for a cold beer or two before dinner. There was an ambience which immediately appealed, it felt relaxed and inviting, there was a make-yourself-comfortable-you’re-in-good-company-here sort of feeling. The beers arrived dripping with condensation, the bottles pulled straight from a huge ice-bucket behind the bar. ‘Here you go,’ offered the barman, ‘see how you get on with these!’

  The end of another season, and for Benetton it had been the best year in the team’s history – eleven race victories and both Championships – it doesn’t get much better than that. To celebrate the occasion a few of us had decided to holiday, and a couple of days after the race we flew out of Adelaide, back once more to Port Douglas, Queensland. Because of the immense amount of nothing which makes up most of Australia, the majority of its people live on the coast. There’s little point in going far inland – it’s just sand and snakes and one very big rock. The huge distances which separate their coastal communities mean that Australians use planes as most of the world use buses, and Qantas has a series of daily shuttles flying between all the major cities; if you miss one you just wait and catch the next, no hassle. We jumped on the air-bus in the morning and hopped round the coast: Adelaide to Melbourne (morning coffee), Melbourne to Sydney (time for lunch), and Sydney to Cairns (afternoon tea); thousands of miles of polite, efficient service and all with far less trouble than trying to drive the seventy miles from Oxford to London.

  I love Port Douglas, I love everything about Port Douglas: the remoteness, the sun, the brilliantly clear nights where the stars are so big you can reach out and touch them; the Great Barrier Reef with its miles of vivid coral, crystal waters and paintbox fish; Four Mile Beach with its acres of white, burning sand and a trillion burrowing crabs; the rain-forest; the overwhelming sense of calm. Everything about this tiny corner of the world is perfect (well, except for the monsoons and the mosquitoes, killer spiders, snakes, jellyfish and sharks, of course).

  While in Port Douglas we stayed in the tranquil, opulent Sheraton Mirage, which must be one of the most sumptuous hotels in the world. Slightly away from the main building we had rented one of their beautiful private villas, a self-contained piece of paradise: exquisitely manicured
lawns, pool, eighteen-hole golf course and staff who were both charming and discreet. It cost a fortune too, but it’s not every day one wins the Formula One World Championship and I revelled in every minute of our time there. I knew I would never experience such unashamed luxury ever again.

  It’s a great art but I’ve never fully mastered the knack of switching off and doing nothing. I can sit for fifteen minutes, half an hour even, but longer than that and I become restless. I needed something to keep me occupied. Over the next few days while my friends were perfectly content to gently roast and recharge their batteries in the sun, I sat in the air-conditioned bliss of our villa and read, drank cold wine, listened to music, ate too many Pringles and generally pondered life. All of which was perfectly fine but I still felt that I should do something. I reflected on the season we had just finished, Michael’s last with Benetton, and his parting gift was to leave us as the new reigning Formula One World Champions. Who could ask for a better memento than that?

  So after four and a half seasons, our star driver had finally made another move. It had to happen sometime, but it was a sad moment indeed when we shook hands for the last time as team-mates. I wished him every success with his new job and he the same with my writing. Then he was gone. I had been fortunate enough to see Michael develop and mature from a Grand Prix novice to become an outstanding champion during his career with us. What is it that makes one man shine out from all the rest and in such a dramatic style? What is it that produces a Fangio, a Prost, a Senna or a Schumacher?

  I realized that something to do was staring straight at me, so I collected a few sheets of writing paper from the hotel’s reception and began to jot down a few thoughts and observations…

  With a total of 307 points, nineteen Grand Prix victories and two Drivers’ World Championships, Michael’s association with Benetton came to an end at 14:39 on 12 November 1995, when he flicked the ignition-kill switch and retired his car from the Australian Grand Prix. The premature finish was due to a collision with Alesi’s Ferrari – a fairly minor shunt but still big enough to damage the Benetton’s suspension. For some reason, the top-rear wishbones on the 1995 car seemed particularly susceptible to damage from extraordinary loads and as they were also enclosed within carbon aerodynamically shaped shrouds, it wasn’t always apparent what the problem was until the shroud was removed. Such was the case with Schumacher’s car in Adelaide. It was a great shame and a disappointing end to his relationship with us, but accidents happen. The very next morning Schumacher’s marriage to Benetton was declared officially over and after exchanging his blue overalls for a pair of bright scarlet, he was free to enjoy his honeymoon and look to the future with his new racing partner, the highly distinguished motor-racing magnate, Scuderia Ferrari.

  His future at Ferrari is secure for as long as he wishes to stay but it was at Benetton that he honed his great skills to such perfection. His great skills. Aside from the obvious talent one sees on TV when he is behind the wheel and his excellent health and fitness, what exactly are his great skills? What does the camera miss? Well, prior to any Grand Prix, when the team was busy testing and developing cars, Michael always wanted to be there whenever possible. During his time with us his commitment to constantly try to improve the car was so intense and his feedback so useful to any development work that the engineers were just as keen to have him there too. In fact his input was so beneficial that it finally became pointless for the team to offer a third driver a permanent testing contract.

  Schumacher has the ability to memorize the handling of his chassis through the entry, the apex and the exit of each corner of every lap. He can recall each detail of the car’s behaviour, however minute or insignificant it might have appeared at the time. He complemented this ability with a sound mechanical understanding of the car, and was aware of exactly what needed attention in order to cure any problems. In discussion with his engineers, when his comments on the handling of the chassis and any changes that had been made to the car were cross-referenced with the telemetry data, it was possible for the team to make very quick and accurate progress.

  Schumacher possesses a deep, multi-layered character and his abilities in a car are a result of an exotic compound of many different skills. The fact that his character is so complex makes it nigh on impossible to pinpoint one particular aspect and say, ‘That’s it, that’s it right there. That is what makes him so bloody good. Copy that trait and you can beat him.’ Unfortunately, and all his Benetton partners will agree, his talent just isn’t that straightforward or easily defined. Certainly a lot of his strength is drawn from his natural confidence (some say arrogance, but they would be wrong) and his remarkable attention to detail. Attention to detail in all things. For example, many drivers are capable of delivering impressive lap-times – Frentzen or Irvine for instance; some are gifted with exceptional speed – Alesi or Coultard; some have good race craft (the ability to look after their cars, take care of their tyres and pace their race) – Martin Brundle is a master of this. Occasionally a few drivers possess more than one of these essential attributes – Coultard, Hakkinen, Berger, Hill. A very, very few drivers display all of these attributes and many more. Providing they are fortunate enough to be in the right team at the right time (and enjoying a long passionate affair with Lady Luck) it is these chosen few who are destined to be crowned Formula One World Champion and enter the annals of history as a motor-racing legend – Fangio, Lauda, Piquet, Prost, Senna and now Schumacher.

  Michael’s crusade isn’t stimulated in the same way that Senna’s was. Ayrton felt he was driven to win, that he must win, and that nothing else would suffice. He was, of course, absolutely thrilled when he did finish first, but as he waved to the crowd, one could sense in Ayrton’s eyes that he thought the only possible true, honourable result had just occurred. Michael’s motivation is slightly different: he has a deep, concentrated passion to win every motor race he enters, it’s as simple as that. He recognizes that to consistently win is a very demanding challenge, but he loves to win; he lives to win and as a consequence he willingly gives 110 percent to ensure that he does so.

  However, just like Ayrton, when the race is over and the work is done he is, quite visibly, delighted with the achievement of it all.

  Michael has a unique driving style too; he likes the car to be built with a very stiff suspension, a set-up which reduces chassis roll to the absolute minimum. This is fine providing the driver is capable of handling the car in such a knife-edge condition; the problem is that reducing the roll produces a car which is constantly trying to break free and slide across the tarmac as the tyres lose adhesion with the track. Forever playing with the steering wheel to catch and correct the oversteer, and constantly feathering the throttle to persuade the near-on eight hundred horsepower to relent for a split second and allow the tyres to grip the track again is physically very demanding and requires great strength of mind. Nevertheless, that is how Michael chose to drive and in his hands at least, the results of such a set-up speak for themselves.

  Successful for Michael, perhaps, but it is certainly not the case that all drivers like this ultra-stiff, almost cart-like reaction of their car’s suspension. Thoughout the 1995 season, Johnny Herbert frequently complained about the handling and general performance of the Benetton (and, to be fair, so did several of his predecessors too). It is sad to say that in 1995 there were even dark mutterings that the equipment Michael’s partner was given just wasn’t the same as the other man’s and that the team’s technical back-up was biased towards Michael. But such things I simply cannot believe. When you stop to consider what a race team is actually doing, then such an argument seems to defy logic or reason. As a Grand Prix team, Benetton Formula exist to win as many races and score as many Championship points as possible (as do all race teams, of course). It follows that it would prove quite illogical for the team to give inferior equipment to one driver or another. By doing so it would offer an instant and most welcome advantage to the opposition.

&nb
sp; Throughout my career with Benetton I worked with Schumacher and with each of his subsequent team-mates; I have also worked with every one of the Benetton mechanics and with all the team’s engineers and it has been my experience that the quality of commitment and standard of workmanship that was available to one Benetton driver was available to the other. I’m sure that the problems that Johnny experienced in competing alongside Schumacher were caused by two things: first, driving a car which was designed around the preferences of the team’s reigning World Champion, and second, the different levels of expertise and skill between the two drivers.

  Johnny’s comments and general disenchantment with Benetton make me feel both uncomfortable and a little confused, and more than a little sad too. True, he may not have had the perfect season, he certaily didn’t win all seventeen races, nor did he win the Drivers’ Championship, and perhaps there are a hundred reasons why he didn’t achieve either of these feats, but it was certainly not through any lack of effort by Benetton Formula. Out of all the Grands Prix throughout 1995, we only had one reliability fault with Johnny’s B195. Compare that record of dependability with Williams, Ferrari, or McLaren and the figures speak for themselves. Benetton gave Johnny the most outstanding and successful season of his entire Formula One career; two Grand Prix wins (of which his maiden victory was his home race), forty-five points – a rather impressive 250 percent increase over his whole career total, fourth place in the Drivers’ Championship and his team-mates won both World Championships. Realistically, how much better could it have been? To me, Johnny’s 1995 achievements describe a year of which to be very, very proud, and I am convinced that they illustrate a Grand Prix season which he will find quite impossible to surpass throughout the remainder of his time in the sport.