Nigel Mansell Autobiography

by Nigel Mansell

  The power of the crowd at Silverstone is just incredible. I was so determined to win that race for them. As each lap clocked by, it was a case of executing finer and finer planning, little by little, just honing my idea and prepping the overtake. As I said, I knew I would have one chance and one chance only. It was so exciting. Rosanne was expecting Greg at the time and she later told me, ‘I thought I was going to have the baby there and then.’

  I knew on each lap where I was quicker; I knew I’d have to get past safely because I suspected that, if there was any opportunity for him to knock or force me off the circuit, he would. It is very difficult when you are trying to keep a rival behind you, because they are chasing your tail and hunting you down; they are always looking forward at the rear of your car and the track, yet you are constantly having to look in your mirrors, then back at the track, then the mirrors again. It was this unavoidable dilemma that I manipulated to overtake him.

  I knew how he would be feeling inside his cockpit. I also used to like to go off in the lead if I could control the race, of course, but being first can be very draining. When you are leading a race you have moments of sheer, absolute panic and anxiety. I think you are at your most sensitive ever when you are the lead car. You are listening and feeling for everything that could possibly go wrong; you’re micromanaging everything in that car, the tyres, the brakes, the suspension, the position on the circuit; you’re playing the percentage game. You give more room here, you go in tighter there so you have more room coming out on the exit; you brake a little bit earlier, you give yourself more time, a greater degree of recoverability. What you don’t want to do when you are in the lead is fly off the circuit and spin, or go in a trap and throw the race away. So the pressure of leading a race as opposed to chasing is completely different. I loved chasing people, hunting them down.

  If you are chasing somebody, then you can use them as a brake, you can see in the distance where they are braking and you can use them as a guide – you don’t have to keep looking at the side of the track to know where your brake points are. If they have a wobble in a corner, you are forewarned that maybe there is some oil or water there. So automatically your mind is being programmed by their car, just by watching them. And not only that, you can identify where their car is strong and where it is weak, so by the time you catch them, your mind is pre-programmed to know where your strengths and their weaknesses lie.

  In many ways it is far better if you are in second or third place, provided you are not losing contact and you know your car is just as quick if not quicker. Then you can follow the leader at a distance, to conserve your tyres and fuel; you are in their slipstream a little bit, which is fantastic (as long as it doesn’t hurt your car, because if you get too close it induces understeer, which means your tyre consumption on the front will increase). The whole thing is a balancing act. You have choices and, of course, those choices change from circuit to circuit. That’s when you plan your game of chess. I found that whole element of strategising between race leader and chasing car fascinating: hunted and hunter.

  You don’t realise when you are in the thick of your career how much information your brain is able to store. In fact, it has only really been through the process of writing this book, sitting down here quietly in my study recounting these stories from all those racing circuits so many years ago, that I really began to understand the level of skill and programming power our brains were displaying in those cars. Wow – it’s incredible what the human brain can do, when you think about it.

  Anyway, flitting back from my desk in Florida in 2015 to Silverstone in 1987, I was breathing down Nelson’s neck with two laps to go. The crowd was phenomenal; the energy they gave me was immense. Naturally, the British fans didn’t want him to win it. I am British; he is Brazilian. That’s understandable. The Mexican wave undulating around the circuit, lap after lap, was going almost as quickly as I was!

  As I approached, I knew he would try to block me and I didn’t want to zigzag behind him down the Hangar Straight, so I’d decided that I had to sell him a dummy. With only a few feet between his rear and my nose, I moved slightly to the right and sure enough he moved to block. Then I disappeared from his mirrors towards his left side and, as I suspected, he moved to his left to block me. What he didn’t realise was that I already had the closing speed and was in his slipstream, and so was primed ready to go back the other way. By the time he realised I wasn’t where he was expecting me to be, I was parallel with him and it was a fait accompli – he could do nothing. It was mighty close going into Stowe at very high speed, but I had the advantage and took him for the win. I don’t wish to sound cocky when I say this, but it was a brilliant execution of a dummy, and I think Piquet hates that fact to this day. The Daily Mail called it ‘one of the most memorable races in F1 history’.

  Of course, the context of the overtake made it all the more special. It was my home grand prix; the British crowd was always so fantastic to me, I just had to win. Then, on the slow-down lap, my car ran out of fuel. I’d had the turbo on full boost and, in fact, my fuel gauge was reading minus two litres, but there was no way I was going to stop! So when I did finally run out of fuel at Club Corner, I was swamped by hordes of fans – it was just the most amazing feeling, to be embraced by them. British fans are among the best anywhere in the world. As I mentioned earlier, some people called me the people’s champion, one of the proudest things in my whole career. I have got to echo the words of Ayrton: there’s nothing better than being cheered by your own fans and being applauded doing the best job you can for yourself and for them. That’s what I felt my job was: racing wasn’t just for myself; it was for them, too. That certainly applied on that special day at Silverstone in 1987.

  Silverstone has a very special place in my heart. Obviously, it was my home grand prix and I have some fantastic memories there, not least my four wins. Silverstone was a fantastic circuit for me on a number of levels. Firstly, the track itself. I’m talking about the old Silverstone in particular, which was just the most awesome circuit in the world. Wow, that was just so fast! It had a sequence of corners second to none; very fast, very demanding corners. When you came out of Becketts, well, straight in front of you there were concrete sleepers. David Purley went in there head-on once and it was estimated he was pulling in the region of 180G, which I believe is the highest G accident ever survived (he decelerated from 108mph to zero in 26 inches). You had to go through there as quickly as you possibly could then down the end of Hangar Straight at full pelt. With the right tyres you’d turn into Stowe in qualifying flat out at 200mph. In those days, you had six-inch catch-fencing poles with strands of wire wrapped around them, and if you went off you’d go straight into that mesh. Potentially, you could be hit on the head with a pole or even decapitated, which sadly did happen at some other non-F1 motorsports around the world, which is why they were rightly banned. You’d go into Club flat out, through Abbey flat out, and so on – it was just the most exhilarating lap. The fastest sequence of corners anywhere in the world. If you were good, you could go round there in about 1 minute 13 seconds. It was so quick, so dangerous but, boy, so, so exciting. I absolutely loved that circuit. Now, of course, there are run-offs and some of the corners have been altered in line with new safety regulations, which has clearly slowed down the cars. We all used to love the sheer speed you could enjoy at Silverstone. As I mentioned earlier, Keke Rosberg did the then fastest ever average qualifying speed in Formula 1, with an average speed of 160mph. I saw that happen and it was incredible. What a lap, Keke!

  Silverstone also has very fond memories for me and my family. There was an area renamed Mansell Village, which was designated for camping, but they used to rope off this little section for us and that’s where we’d park our motorhome (not a very salubrious motorhome, I might add, especially the year it leaked and we were in a foot of water). Our friends used to bring their caravans and trailer tents and we would create a big circle, like a wagon train, with barbecues in the mid
dle. The journalists used to come and join us, and we’d play football matches, too.

  We always had loads of friends and family come to Silverstone. Some years, I would end up buying as many as 250 tickets just to make sure everyone got in. They all congregated on Copse Corner, on that little mound, so I have to admit I would be speeding around the track in the race and quite often looking out for my friends and family. You could pick people out, faces that you knew and wanted to see. Sometimes I would even wave at my children. Over the years, I made some pretty bad exits out of Copse because I was looking for my children, exiting at about 170mph and shouting under my helmet, ‘Woo-hoo, Chloe! Leo! Greg! Hellooooooo!’ Just delightful.

  You’d think that with the sound of an old F1 engine you wouldn’t hear much of the crowd. Absolutely not the case. At Silverstone, sometimes the sound of the cheers was astonishing. If you needed a lift in the race, the crowd always seemed to know and they’d respond. I’m not sure if anyone has ever studied whether home support like that effectively cut a few tenths from your lap times, but I certainly felt like it did. Their support for me was christened ‘Mansell mania’ by some and, I have to say, I feel very blessed and privileged to have had such amazing fans championing me for so long.

  The fans used to come around our motorhome and camp nearby. There wasn’t the same level of security back then. The general public had incredible access; it was so much more relaxed. That actually applied to the pits as well, because for all the politics and rivalry, we would all just generally wander around. Sometimes drivers would pop into another driver’s motorhome for a chat; it was very laid-back. There was so much less of the paranoia about taking photographs of cars. Don’t get me wrong – there was plenty of looking at the back or front of the cars, getting a sneaky peek at designers’ ‘secrets’ or a new piece of technology, but there wasn’t the same level of security to prevent this. Of course, it’s not just Formula 1 that has changed in this way in the last 25 years; the world has too. It is through no fault of anybody’s; it is just the way of the modern world. You don’t really see drivers leaning on a fence having a bit of banter together as much now, which is a shame. These days, they have their own little worlds, these absolutely incredible motorhomes that are like beautiful apartments. I think some of the drivers probably spend more on their motorhomes than F1 was spending in the early eighties!

  In many ways, the Formula 1 fans were our security system; they were very protective of us. That seems quite strange to think of now, with the intense security around sports stars all over the world in the modern era. However, back then it wasn’t like that, and I have to say we were privileged to have had that intimacy with the supporters, who were just the best fans in the world. They had total access but they were respectful, and when it was time to eat or go to bed everyone gave us our space.

  I really related to the fans. They have paid money to come and see a show, to support their chosen driver or team, and what you need to do, regardless of how competitive you are, is the best job you can, not only for yourself but for them. Even if their team or driver is going through the doldrums and not winning, what they have to be able to take away is that their guy tried, he gave it his all; the car was crap but, boy, it was exciting!

  Every year at Silverstone we made it one big British Grand Prix party from start to finish. We didn’t even fly off or go home on the Sunday night after the race, partly because the traffic in the old Silverstone could leave you in a big, muddy jam for five hours, but also because we loved the experience so much. Win or lose, we would stay late. Silverstone was just the most wonderful circuit for me. Happy memories.

  As a quick aside, away from the races I did earn a label for not being that exciting at times because I never partied. Until I won the world title, I hadn’t achieved what I wanted to achieve, so for me there was always more work still to do. Now, when I look back at some of my race wins, I wish I’d hung around for a party after the race, like we used to at Silverstone. I did have a few great parties, though. Ferrari were always fabulous at celebrations and, of course, Colin too, but perhaps I should’ve gone to a few more. In 1994 I went to an incredible party that certain teams were at and I have to say it was probably one of the best parties I’ve ever been to in my life. I have never laughed so heartily from that day to this. It was just a crackerjack evening.

  Getting back to Silverstone, the BRDC (British Racing Drivers’ Club) are a great body of people and have made a fabulous modern circuit at Silverstone. Yes, I might say these corners are slower and so on, but that is a safety necessity and all part of the modern era. The actual facilities are now exceptionally good and they are constantly looking to improve, there is no resting on their laurels. In terms of what they have done with Silverstone, I take my hat off to them. What a fabulous achievement.

  I loved racing at Brands Hatch too. It was a great driver’s circuit but, from the point of view of the fans, it didn’t come close to Silverstone. For me, that Northamptonshire circuit is the pick of the bunch, the home of grand prix racing.

  As I write this, all these wonderful memories are flooding back of those great weekends at Silverstone. Happy times, lovely people, amazing races and very proud wins. It is actually quite astonishing sitting here reminiscing about it all; it feels like a lifetime away. I didn’t realise that you live several lives in a lifetime and everyone has a number of chances. Silverstone in 1987 and, indeed, every time I raced at that fabulous circuit were certainly fantastic moments in time for me. Extraordinary, very dear memories.

  I also hold incredibly fond memories of my wonderful friend, Murray Walker. It was in 1987 that he famously asked to see a bump on my head after the Austrian Grand Prix and then when I took off my cap he proceeded to accidentally poke the bump! It’s a very funny and famous clip. For me, Murray Walker is everyone’s dad, the father they never had. He is the most genuine, charismatic, beautiful male human being you could ever wish to meet. To this day, to my knowledge he has never properly fallen out with anyone or had a bad word to say about anybody. No doubt there are a few people he doesn’t actually like too much, but he is such an incredible gentleman and a consummate professional that he can be charmingly polite even to someone he’s had a run-in with, completely defusing any animosity. Even the strongest will can only bow to Murray. He has such a way about him – I put him in the class of Morecambe and Wise, I do honestly. I find Murray can be naturally very funny, just getting everything wrong, sincerely wrong, which is so appealing and endearing. Then you wait for him to gather his thoughts and correct himself and he does so with such style and grace. There is never any impatience or grumpiness. He is an absolute joy.

  I will never ever forget the interview he did in 1993 when he came to our home in America after I’d won the world title over there. We had a massive BBC satellite wagon crammed full of all this technology set out down the road, and they took a long time perfecting everything to get ready for the interview. Then it was time for action, at which point Murray started with his opening line, ‘So, Nigel Manson . . .’

  I just looked at him and said, ‘Did you just call me Nigel Manson? I’m not a mass murderer! It’s Man-sell, Murray,’ and he said, ‘Did I just say Manson?!’ We all broke into laughter. He is just a gem.

  Murray and James Hunt made for the most fabulous commentating team. I was really quite a fan of James Hunt. He was very flamboyant; he did a lot of things I wouldn’t do, granted, but his driving style really appealed to me and my sense of competitiveness. Of course, in yesteryear he was able to do many things that modern-day drivers would not, such as drinking, smoking and womanising. To paraphrase a famous motorsport quote, motor racing used to be dangerous and sex was safe, but now . . .

  Anyway, James was very good to me in the 1980s, very supportive. I appreciated his support and respected him for his talent and his achievements. He was not just some handsome playboy racer; he was the real deal. He was very direct; if he thought someone was a berk on the track or in the pits, he wou
ld say so. He had his moments when he criticised me, which was, of course, his prerogative. Obviously, that outspokenness wound up some people, but I always thought at least he was being honest. You might not like his opinion sometimes but he was always being straight with you. There were no doubt many fisticuffs behind closed doors as a result, but you could never say he was two-faced. He told you how it was.

  As for his driving style, I would say he was very cavalier. Was he as calculated as he might have been at times? Probably not, but that is what made him James Hunt and we should applaud him for that. The sport was hugely saddened when he died and he was a massive character to lose from the pit lane.

  On a lighter note, I would like to say that I think James’s relationship with Murray Walker in the BBC commentary box was just magical, arguably one of the best – if not the best – the sport has ever seen. They had many formidable years working together and it was a very sad day when that duo ended. Murray will say that James and he almost had physical punch-ups in the commentary box, fighting over the mike, because in the early days there was only one microphone. James would want to say something but Murray was already talking, and then other times Murray, in his unflappable way, would get a driver’s name wrong and James would be eager to correct him. Eventually, they both got their own mikes so that problem was resolved, but the dynamic between them was fantastic. What an iconic commentating team. I should say as well that, although I suggested Murray might occasionally get facts wrong and make me smile unintentionally, I must make it clear that in my – and many other people’s – opinion, he is the greatest motorsport commentator of all time.

  There are so many funny stories to do with Murray, but perhaps the most memorable interview I ever did with him – and there were hundreds, if not thousands, as well as the TV commercials we made together – was in Rio in the 1990s. He was in sublime form. It was one of those interviews where he didn’t put a foot wrong – every question was superb, he took the conversation off at fascinating tangents, the verbal sparring between us was so enjoyable and interesting, he was incredible. The ebb and flow of the interview was arguably the best TV piece I’d ever done, it was just fantastic. When we finished, Murray put the microphone down and said, ‘Nigel, you already know this but that was fantastic. Thank you for that, it was a really splendid interview.’ And off he walked.