The Mechanic’s Tale

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The Mechanic’s Tale Page 23

by Steve Matchett


  I walked back to the garage – very gently – each step bringing a fresh jar to my back. I sat on a ‘packhorse’ drinking strong espresso that Luigi, our Italian chef, had made for me. Greg Field (remember him from my Onyx interview?), Benetton’s race team co-ordinator, asked how I was and on hearing me yelp when he prodded my back he quickly disappeared to try and find me a lift back to the hotel (surely Greg must have known that my back was sore before he squeezed it). As I sat there sipping coffee and feeling sorry for myself, Tony Dodgins walked past the front of the garage; Tony has been around the Formula One pit-lanes for aeons as a journalist who had worked with Autosport for years, both as a writer and as its Grand Prix editor. He had recently switched jobs, moving offices within the same building to help set up a new Formula One magazine for Haymarket (Autosport’s parents) called F1 Racing. Before the publication of Life in the Fast Lane we had occasionally chatted, but after the book had been released we had discovered a common ground other than just motor-racing and had talked more frequently. Tony saw me sitting on the packhorse. ‘Steve,’ he exclaimed, with a wry smile, ‘what happened to you this morning, what have you done?’

  ‘Hello Tony; I’ve hurt my back in the pit-stop practice, first thing; I’ve been down the medical centre for most of the morning. I can hardly walk.’ For a second or so Tony looked slightly puzzled by this news,

  ‘No, no,’ he corrected, ‘I mean what’s happened to your cars, they’ve been storming ahead! What have you changed that’s made such a difference?’ Typical! There I was injured and in need of a few sympathetic words, and all Dodgins wants to know is how come the bloody cars are so quick all of a sudden! Never let a mechanic’s woes get in the way of a good story!

  I got a lift back to the hotel with Murray Walker, Jonathan Palmer and one of the BBC production staff, who fortunately happened to be staying at the same place as me. The condition of the São Paulo road surfaces leaves a lot to be desired at the best of times but, suffering as I was, that car ride will always stay with me as being the most painful journey of my life. Not the fault of our driver, by any means; in fact we were chauffeured with the utmost care and caution, but no amount of diligent driving can compensate for half-a-million Brazilian motorists, all keen to get home on the Friday afternoon of a Grand Prix weekend. Scores of condemned trucks with canvas tyres would pitch and slew their way ahead of us, gracefully sliding along, all wheels locked, flitting from one lane to another. Children bolted across the road like newly released greyhounds; enormous potholes, blaring horns, stinking fumes, on and on it went. At one point I noticed a dining table sitting in the road, presumably waiting to be laid for supper; cars braked and swerved to avoid it, causing a mélée of squealing tyres and blue smoke behind them. The problem was eventually resolved when a truck drove straight over the table, sending a sprawl of matchwood splinters cascading along the road. And all the while both Jonathan and Murray seemed almost oblivious to these conditions, sitting in the back calmly discussing a TV programme featuring Rowan Atkinson and an account of the years Tim Birkin had spent as one of W.O. Bentley’s drivers in the late 1920s.

  It was a sight for sore eyes when the Morrumbi Novotel appeared over the crest and we finally turned off the road and into the underground car park. Jonathan dug into his bag and discovered some strong painkillers. ‘Here Steve, take two of these,’ he said, ‘and save a couple for the flight home, you’ll need them!’ Murray took charge of my briefcase and carried it upstairs for me; two simple acts of kindness I won’t forget.

  My back pain eased slightly overnight and Greg had changed my flight to allow me to leave for England on Saturday evening. The plane landed at Heathrow early on Sunday morning, 31 March, where I was met and chauffeured to Chipping Norton. I bought a copy of the Sunday Times at the airport and was pleased to see that they’d printed another article I’d written in Port Douglas, this time discussing tyre changing, pit-stop procedures and how the quality of the work in the pit-lane affects the result of a race.

  On reaching home I hobbled round and eventually managed to light a fire to warm the cottage, and gently lowered myself on to the carpet. Switching on the TV I was just in time to see the mechanics fussing over the cars as they gathered on the grid prior to the start of the Grand Prix I’d just left behind. It was an odd sensation listening to Murray and Jonathan talking about the impending race from their commentary box: they seemed a million miles away from me now, another world. It was as if our recent car ride together could never have happened, that the memory of it was merely a snippet of colour from an otherwise forgotten dream. It was pouring with rain in São Paulo, rivers of water ran across the track, drivers sheltered in cars, mechanics hid beneath anoraks and hoods (and all looked totally pissed off). Despite my present discomfort I was so relieved not to be there. I eased a little more wood on to the fire and settled back to watch the race on the telly.

  The team was staying in South America after the Brazilian race since the next Grand Prix, in Buenos Aires, was only seven days later. It was another frantic time for everyone. Clean, wrap and load everything into the ‘packhorses’, fly down to Argentina, unload, set the garage up, rebuild the cars, and get everything ready to run for the following Friday morning. Push, push, push.

  With the team out of England I stayed at home resting; it was pointless to go to the factory since there would be nothing to do. I’d been to see a back injury specialist in Oxford – at the sports clinic in Headington – and he’d confirmed the Brazilian doctor’s findings: no permanent damage, which was very welcome news. Over the next week I gently stretched and worked my muscles and bit by bit the stiffness subsided. Eventually I felt as strong as before, though I knew it would be foolish and/or impossible to try and lift the car in a pit-stop again (and to be honest I had no desire to do so either).

  It was time to go, I knew that for sure now, and I took my back injury to be a gentle reminder not to change my mind. The question was: go where? This had been a big enough problem when I was working with Ferrari; then the only way forward had been to break into Formula One – and then to try to win the World Championship – but with both of those ambitions fulfilled, where to now? There was no great rush, and whatever I decided to try, I wouldn’t leave Benetton until the end of the season, by which time the new World Champions would have won their crown.

  A total change of direction. I liked the idea of writing for a living, but was it possible to earn a living from writing? Well, people do, of course; a few established authors make millions from their books; the problem was that I wasn’t established, nor had I written a series of celebrated novels (nice idea, though). So far I’d written one book and two articles; okay, all three had been published (which was jolly good) but they didn’t provide a living wage. The journalists who cover Formula One presumably must make a living out of their writing; perhaps I should talk to a few of them and make a few tentative enquiries.

  What to write about, that was the next question. Grand Prix racing is something I know a little about but to try and compete with the scores of Formula One journos would be silly. There are more than enough people trying to make a living by reporting the races and interviewing drivers and team owners without my trying to take work away from them. There was plenty of food for thought and I’d have to mull things over. I liked writing, I could see the possibility, I just needed inspiration. That inspiration came halfway through watching the next race on TV. I began scribbling and before I knew I had the basis for another article…

  On lap twenty-nine of the 1996 Argentine Grand Prix, car number 10, the Ligier of Pedro Diniz, screamed out of the pit-lane after being serviced by the team’s race mechanics. On lap thirty the car began spraying its replenished cargo of volatile fuel out of the onboard valve which had failed to seal after the fuel-rig nozzle had been disengaged during the pit-stop. The gushing fuel drenched the rear tyres, removing the car’s grip and causing it to spin out of control. A split second later the fuel discovered the intense heat of the e
xhaust system and the carbon brake discs; the resulting explosion of fire engulfed the Ligier, its driver lost from view when the car finally came to rest in the gravel trap. Thankfully, Diniz wasted no time in evacuating, and with his helmet and gloves still ablaze he sprinted to safety, leaving the fire marshals to their work. The world had just witnessed another terrifying accident, but I’m sure all the Formula One mechanics breathed a huge sigh of relief at its conclusion – there was only one casualty, Diniz, and he had escaped with only minor burns. Grand Prix racing had, once again, been very, very lucky.

  What would have been the result if fuel had flooded out as the car sped down the pit-lane? What would have happened if the Ligier had lost grip as it passed another pit, slewing into the mechanics trying to refuel their own car? What would have been the outcome if the burning car, sliding on its own fuel and now quite out of control, had slammed into one of the garages, hitting the personnel inside and spraying the injured mechanics with burning fuel? How many severe injuries would there have been then? How many dead?

  Every year since the unnecessary act of mid-race refuelling managed to worm its way back into the regulations we have seen a major accident caused as a direct result of it. Less than eight months before the Ligier accident a similar incident happened to Jordan during the 1995 Belgian Grand Prix when Irvine’s car burst into flame during a pit-stop, caused by fuel blowing back from the valve before it had sealed. I saw the resulting fireball burst into the air as we refuelled Schumacher’s Benetton further up the pit-lane. I remember holding the rear of the B195 as steady as was possible on the jack, so as not to disturb the refuelling process, but after witnessing the Jordan fire, and feeling my legs burning with the searing heat of the revving engine’s exhaust gases, I’ll freely admit to being both scared and very sad. I had been amongst the victims of the most documented fire since the reintroduction of this idiocy, when Verstappen’s B194 had exploded in Hockenheim. After pulling my smouldering overalls off, and seeing six of my team-mates being flown to hospital by helicopter, I genuinely thought (obviously naively) that this would be the end of the matter. It wasn’t, of course. In Hungary, the very next race, with media attention firmly focused on Benetton’s alleged responsibility for the fire, Intertechnique – the fuel rig manufacturers – carried out modifications to all of the nozzles that had been issued to the Formula One teams and the FIA informed the press that the practice of mid-race refuelling would continue.

  On the grounds of safety, the regulation which allows for refuelling had previously been banned ten years before and it should never have been pulled back out of Pandora’s box. However, now that it has been, we should move to ensure its swift entrapment again, this time once and for all. The regulations could be altered tomorrow morning in time to banish it for the start of the 1997 season. I know of not one team who is in favour of its retention; Ferrari initially warmed to the idea due to the high thirst of their VI2 engines but they too have now rejected any further interest. It is not an impossible task; all it takes is the right people to be brave, to stand tall and proudly say ‘No’. And best to do it now before it’s too late.

  After the Argentine race, when everyone had returned to England, I called Tony Dodgins to see if I could meet him for a beer and to chat about his job as a writer. He proved to be a real star and we met soon afterwards at the Compleat Angler, a rather grand old hotel-restaurant on the banks of the Thames in Marlow. The quaint spelling of the hotel’s name is borrowed from Izaak Walton’s book: The Compleat Angler or the Contemplative Man’s Recreation, which was first published in 1653 (presumably the hotel thought the full title was just a tad too long to roll off the tongue every time the phone rang). Tony also introduced me to Mike Heard, the then editor of F1 Racing. It was a very worthwhile evening (for me at least); they explained a little of their work, they liked the article I’d written and were quite happy to help me if and when I left Benetton. They were both incredibly supportive and our meeting really perked me up.

  The next day I reworked my rough notes and showed a version of my refuelling article to our marketing manager, saying that F1 Racing was interested in using the finished piece in a future edition of the magazine. I told him that I’d just like him to approve what I’d written before anything was published – something I had done with everything I had written in the past. He read it and refused permission. I asked why. He said he didn’t want Benetton to get into any more conflict with the FIA, that the piece was definitely a strongly worded anti-refuelling piece and that publication of such an article would reflect poorly on the team. I said it was strongly worded because it was an issue I felt strongly about (bursting into flames does that sort of thing for you). ‘No,’ he said. A stand off. I backed down and agreed to leave it at that; we parted amicably enough, but underneath I was seething. All the trouble and conflict that Benetton had gone through with the FIA in order to prove our innocence in connection with the Hockenheim fire, and now the management wouldn’t allow me to comment on the very aspect of the sport which had given us so much unnecessary pain.

  I had no personal disagreement with the marketing manager and given his role within the company I could understand his decision, that of keeping the waters as calm as possible, but it was an opinion I could never agree with. However, our conversation was constructive in so much as it clearly defined the decision I now faced. If I wanted the freedom to write what I considered to be just and to be able to speak my own mind, then I had to leave Benetton, otherwise I would be in danger of compromising my own integrity and be capable of writing nothing more than a series of sanitized press releases. I felt like walking off there and then, but I had to be realistic, I simply couldn’t afford to do that. I needed to think things out, and it was definitely time to formulate a plan of escape.

  1997 – Chapter Ten

  Shooting stars – A tactical withdrawal – A test of endurance –

  Ross Brawn and Rory Byrne join Ferrari –

  Patrizia Spinelli leaves – Berger and Alesi out,

  Wurz and Fisichella in – A rainy night in Monza –

  Breakfast with Dirk Bogarde

  Benetton’s brilliant run of success proved very short-lived; we were but a shooting star in the Formula One heavens: a bright and colourful display, destined to shine briefly then cough, splutter and fizzle out. Whoosh-whiz-bang-clonk. After winning eight races and the Drivers’ Championship in 1994, eleven Grands Prix and both World Championships in 1995, we finished the 1996 season without so much as a single race victory, not a sausage – a new experience for me and the first time Benetton had failed to win at least one Grand Prix a year since 1988. Regardless of how it was dressed up – a rebuild year, a new start, a season of reassessment – call it what you will, 1996 could only be viewed as a total disaster. All that we had worked for, all that we had slowly built up over the previous years, was all gone in a matter of a few months. Eight races and one Championship. Eleven races and two Championships. No races and no Championships. It was dismal and it didn’t bode at all well.

  Once my back had healed I stopped working with the race team and swapped roles with one of the test team mechanics, and I was more than happy to do so. I’d tired of a life constantly pounding the globe; five o’clock alarm calls, a twenty-four-hour flight here, a fifteen-hour flight there; quick! change chassis; push, push, bloody push all the damn time. Enough! Let some other poor sod have a go in the trenches.

  Testing work can be tedious and the hours at the circuit can be much longer than when actually racing the cars, but the pressure is less intense and the atmosphere is infinitely more relaxed; more constant plod than constant push. At one time the tests used to be fairly infrequent – one a month, sometimes less – but as with every other aspect of the sport (every other business), demand always increases and now there is usually a test immediately following every Grand Prix: race, test, race, test, all season long. If the test was out of England – normally Monza, Barcelona, Jerez, Magny Cours – we would fly out on t
he Sunday afternoon, about five-ish, which was far more sociable than five in the morning, and depending on what we were testing (and on track availability), we would normally fly home again on the following Thursday or Friday morning.

  As far as the mechanics are concerned, the biggest frustration with testing is the increased hours it offers the engineers to run the car on the track. At a Grand Prix, the times when the cars are allowed on to the circuit are rigorously controlled: practice, qualifying, warm-up, race; that’s it, not a single second longer. But at a test the cars can run as soon as the circuit opens for business: nine-thirty or ten in the morning, and they can continue to run non-stop until the circuit closes in the evening. Good old Silverstone is one of the few circuits which insist on closing for an hour’s lunch break; most others are more than happy to let the teams keep running (which is jolly team-spirited and unselfish of them). Then there is the dreaded ‘extension’. If one of the teams needs to do a teeny-weeny bit more running at the end of the day – because ten solid hours of banging half a million laps in just hasn’t been enough for the engineers to get themselves organized – the test team manager will approach the circuit officials and plead to be allowed just half an hour longer, please! Silverstone is the only circuit I know of where the answer to this question is always an emphatic ‘No!’; everywhere else will normally say yes and if one team is granted an extension then all the other teams are at liberty to run as well.

  Eventually, however, even the sun decides it’s had enough and with the track now plunged into darkness the engineers have no choice but to call it a day. Well, as far as actually running the cars on the circuit is concerned that is, but there is still all the rebuild work to do before the day’s work is really done. There is exactly the same amount of work to do (often more) on a test car as there is on a race car before it takes to the circuit the following morning: engine change, gearbox rebuild, new brakes, development components etc., etc.; the only difference is that at a Grand Prix the mechanics can start on their job-lists at two in the afternoon, straight after qualifying, but at a test the car doesn’t stop running until, well, who knows when? To finish a day’s testing and be back at the hotel before midnight is almost unheard of.

 

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