Nigel Mansell Autobiography

by Nigel Mansell

  Several hours later he came up to me in the pit lane, rather sheepishly, and said, ‘Nigel, can I have a word, please?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Murray. Always, for you.’

  ‘You know that interview we did today?’

  ‘You mean the one that you said was fantastic and was easily one of, if not the best we have ever done together?’

  ‘That’s the one, yes.’

  ‘What about it, Murray?’

  ‘The microphone wasn’t switched on.’

  Another one of Murray’s moments.

  In the second half of the 1987 season I was unhappy with my engines and called meetings with Frank and Honda to discuss why I often felt I was down on power. Despite my misgivings about the power issues, and me saying I would leave the team if it was felt to be in the best interests of all parties, Frank backed me by saying he wanted me to stay on for 1988, which was excellent, but I felt that Honda were not giving me their very best. It was a difficult time behind the scenes. A low point was probably in Mexico. I was coming round the last corner and across the start/finish line 2–3mph faster than Nelson, but then at the end of the straight I was something like 15mph slower, even though I was carrying less wing. So I should’ve been at least the same or faster.

  I was terribly unhappy and down on overall lap time, so I kept telling the team, ‘Look, we are both going for the World Championship – this needs to be resolved.’ A chip was changed in my engine and magically I was 10mph faster. I know this sounds like stating the obvious, but it was so incredibly crucial to get the right engine. The engine is the donkey that pushes you along. Once you have got an engine that is working relatively well then you are also looking for that power unit to be consistent and reliable. You want as much punch out of the corners and as much power down the straights as you can get, and you want that performance reliably. It is no good flying around the first 30 laps, only to break down halfway round the race. The settings of your engine can make or break a race. In my era, drivers were closely involved with picking the engines. I would not want it any other way. The same went for gearboxes. If I found a gearbox that for whatever reason felt silky smooth, I’d earmark that one or even identify the man who built it, and I’d want that specific box as often as possible.

  Unfortunately, despite having been in contention for the title again, my season ended early when I had a big smash in first qualifying at Suzuka, in Japan. That brilliant circuit has incredibly fast sweeping corners, but if you step one inch out of line on a corner and touch the curb when you are on full lean then the car will swap ends on you. Not just at Suzuka, at all circuits. Sometimes the margin for error is less than an inch.

  At Suzuka that day I was pushing hard in qualifying and that’s what happened, causing an accident on a corner where there was nowhere to go. I was thrown into the wall at 160mph, went airborne about 12 feet in the air, spun 360 degrees and landed badly. This is where you have ‘lucky’ accidents and ‘unlucky’ accidents: my car landed with its wheels either side of the kerb, so the seat area of the car landed directly on the kerb itself. Therefore, no wheels touched the circuit first to dissipate any energy, and the entire force went up through my seat and into my back. I was later told they calculated the impact force up my spine to be in the region of 75G. This crushed some of my vertebrae. The pain was horrible and I was having trouble breathing, which I later found out was due to fractured ribs.

  They rushed me to hospital where I was kept for some time, and it was not a nice experience. The first couple of nights I was in intensive care, and I witnessed some horrific things, including two people dying close by my own bed.

  I never really had the success I feel I should have had in Japan, because I love the circuit. I think Suzuka is a fantastic driver’s track and the people were wonderful. However, it never really panned out for me there. I used to stop off in Hong Kong to dilute the time-zone issues, but I always struggled. In my heyday, the British Army gave me a Gurkha bodyguard, who used to follow me round Hong Kong and help me organise everything. I got very friendly with the Gurkhas and the military – what a great body of people and so much fun. I can’t thank them enough for their friendship and time spent looking after me.

  However, in 1987 I did not have such a good time. I was flown home, seriously injured and facing another spell of recuperation. As a result of this injury, and my previous back and neck injuries, I got even shorter, so I am now three-quarters of an inch shorter than I was aged 21.

  Eventually, Piquet would win the 1987 title, and he then moved to Lotus. In 1986 I had won five races; in 1987 I’d enjoyed six wins. Yet my title hopes were over for a second year running. A week after I returned home from Japan, our third child, Greg – about whom we had worried so much – was born. After all the concerns, we were blessed with a healthy baby.

  After the big smash in Japan saw me missing out on the world title for the second year in a row, a few people questioned whether I’d still have the hunger, but that was never going to be an issue. I trained hard in my recovery, even going to a clinic in Austria to attain peak fitness. I was ready for the new season. In 1988, however, I was not so competitive and, like the rest of the grid, was beaten comprehensively by the all-powerful McLaren-Honda of Senna and Alain Prost, which pulverised all opposition. Honda and Williams had parted company and the manufacturer had moved to McLaren, where that partnership would enjoy record-breaking success, winning 15 grands prix out of 16 races. Our normally aspirated Williams was no match for the turbo engines and it was an uphill battle all year. Patrick Head and his team had created a beautifully designed and incredibly complex FW12 car, but, until turbos were outlawed at the end of the season, we were always going to struggle. Reliability was an issue and ultimately we just didn’t have the same grunt as the turbo cars.

  Part of the FW12’s potential was the active suspension. However, it was unpredictable at first and could be a real handful. Active suspension was another technological development that, like ground effect, could be pretty frightening at first. To hugely simplify a very complex system, the active suspension constantly monitored load from one wheel to another, the idea being to keep the ride height as controlled and level as possible (initially it had been devised to help control the skirts used in ground-effect cars).

  Early active suspension was very dangerous because when the computer and control system failed, it could throw you off the circuit or down the straight or round a corner at any time. Both my team-mate at Williams, Riccardo Patrese, and I had umpteen experiences of that, which doesn’t exactly build confidence in a driver! The most famous example was when Riccardo and I got really cross with one particular engineer at the same time. He’d put the data on his computer and said, ‘It looks all right to me,’ but after the car had tried to kill us a couple of times that’s not what we wanted to hear. So we voiced our opinion quite strongly!

  The system was devastatingly scary at the beginning, but in the end we got everything working quite well. We still had some failures, but when they happened we managed to go into failure mode, as opposed to what I used to call killing mode. A failure mode wasn’t very comfortable, it wasn’t very pleasant, but at least you had a chance of stopping the car and not running into a wall or being smashed up.

  That 1988 active suspension system was obviously very advanced for the time, but compared to the modern-day systems it was completely primitive. The suspensions they are using in F1 in the modern era are so sophisticated; they are astonishing pieces of engineering. Someone once said to me that there are the equivalent of about 15 laptops of processing power and computer tech on a modern F1 car. In the early 1980s, I don’t think there were that many laptops in the entire pit lane . . .

  The Williams team worked extremely hard that year. They even somehow managed to convert a car to passive, old-school suspension for me at Silverstone, after my active suspension had failed three times. They did an amazing job and I was able to bring the car home in a wet race in second place behind Senn
a. There was to be no repeat of my 1987 heroics, but it was a great result for the whole team, as we had all worked so hard against the odds. However, aside from a few highlights, 1988 was largely a season of disappointment, rendering me with just 12 points and no wins. There was disillusionment, I am not going to lie. Having come so close in 1986 and ’87, to trail so far behind in 1988 was obviously frustrating.

  Then, for 1989, I signed to race for arguably the most famous and historical Formula 1 marque of them all: Ferrari.

  CHAPTER 11

  AMAZING TIMES AT FERRARI

  Driving for Ferrari is a very special experience. The cars and their track record speak for themselves, but it is not just that – the whole culture around the team is mesmerising. Just meeting Enzo himself was an absolute honour and I am extremely proud to be able to say I was the last driver that he personally picked before his sad passing in August 1988. I’d had conversations with Ferrari previously, in the mid-1980s, about joining the team, but here I was, finally driving for this famous F1 marque. Like Colin Chapman, Enzo Ferrari commanded the utmost respect and I feel privileged to have raced for them both. Enzo told me he thought I was one of the finest drivers he had ever signed. To know that I was following in the footsteps of other Englishmen who’d driven for Ferrari, such as Peter Collins, John Surtees and Mike Hawthorn, only added to the honour. I was so proud.

  Previously I have spoken about an incident with Enzo at a restaurant, but the anecdote bears retelling because it really shows the charisma and power of the man. One night I was invited to a very lavish dinner with him and various members of the Ferrari team, and it was fascinating, the people-watching was brilliant. The Italians around the table were all talking at a thousand miles an hour; there was jovial, excited chatter going on all around. Then, suddenly, from where he was sitting at the head of the table, Enzo just lifted up his thumb and index finger and in an instant the entire table fell silent. The first time he did this I was stunned. He said something to the gathered guests, then the moment he finished the chatter started up again. Later on, though, he did it once more – fingers went up, again all the chat around the table stopped instantly, but this time he was just grabbing the salt. The power of the man and the respect he commanded were legendary – all I could think was, Wow!

  Another time, I’d been testing the geometry for them on a new road car, the Testarossa. I did my work and commented what a beautiful machine it was; I really loved this Ferrari. A week later, a shiny new Testarossa turned up outside my home. The same happened with a beautiful red Ducati motorbike I’d mentioned I loved, which soon appeared outside my home. Then one time we were going down to Estoril for testing and I piloted Enzo in his magnificent Falcon 900 private jet. It really was the bee’s knees – what a plane! I mentioned several times how I thought this was the best plane I had flown for a long time, what a marvellous piece of engineering it was. I really made it clear I loved it as much as I had the Testarossa and the Ducati.

  I’m still waiting for the plane . . .

  My two seasons at Ferrari saw mixed fortunes. I was honoured that they gave me the number 27, which Gilles had used when he drove for them previously. I was excited about the possibilities for the season ahead. With turbos banned, Ferrari had come up with a highly complex and ingenious new car for the 1989 season, so I was expecting a year of development, which was fine.

  One notable element was the semi-automatic paddle-shift gearbox, which at the time was revolutionary, but for me it meant almost relearning how to drive in certain instances. I enjoyed finding out how to wring the best from this new system, though, and certainly the lack of physicality involved in changing gear was a huge bonus. The theory was wonderful – being able to keep your foot down on the throttle and change gear, even around corners. At that point, you still had to synchronise the shifts down and the wheel sensors weren’t bulletproof. If you called for a gear at the wrong time, you could mechanically over-rev the engine. If you did that then the pistons would hit the valves, basically breaking the pistons, blowing the engine up a few laps later! So in those early cars you still had to be very mindful of your correct moment to change gear, even with the semi-automatic box.

  However, it was the beginning of a revolution. It was wonderful, I have to say, to be able to keep your hands on the steering wheel all the time, because we were still without power steering, so that was a huge help. I was actually a big fan of the old-school manual gearbox. I enjoyed having to manage the engine so precisely; I enjoyed the physicality of changing gear and understanding when the revs were just right, that was a great skill. However, I totally loved the emergence of the semi-automatic box. Nowadays it is so sophisticated that in theory it is impossible to change down at the wrong time, to select the wrong gear. Maybe that’s going too far, I don’t know.

  Anyway, back at Maranello in 1989, I was concerned in pre-season testing about a lack of power. The complex gearbox was always a worry and proved to be prolifically unreliable, but I remained optimistic. However, we got off to the most incredible start at the first race of the season in Rio.

  That race was more than a fairy-tale script; it was a miracle. People use the word ‘miracle’ flippantly, but what is a miracle? For me, a miracle is something that is so out of the ordinary and against everything that you think could possibly happen, yet somehow it happens. In my life, I have been on the edge of several miracles unfolding before my eyes. One of these was winning my first ever race in a Ferrari in Rio in 1989.

  People often ask me how I won that race. The honest answer: I haven’t got a clue! We were testing all through the winter, but the Ferraris were so unreliable that my new team-mate, Gerhard Berger, and I couldn’t complete more than five laps before the things broke down. Potentially, we knew the car was quite good, but the semi-automatic gearbox failed all the time.

  At Rio, my Ferrari broke down in three out of four practice sessions. It got worse. We used to have warm-ups before each race to check the cars out, and therefore give you a chance to fix any problems. In Rio, for the season opener, I went out in the pit lane on my warm-up and I didn’t even make half a lap. It broke down within a few corners. This was my first race for Ferrari and here I was, sitting on the corner of the track at Rio, with all the stands full of fans towering over me and they were cheering and throwing stuff at me. They were obviously supporting Nelson and Ayrton, I understood that, but that atmosphere was pretty intense! I was waving and smiling back, trying to keep calm, all the time thinking, I hope they don’t start throwing bricks. Joking aside, I was disconsolate – really quite down but trying to put a brave face on it. I just felt I was doomed to failure before I started; I had no chance.

  Well, we went into the race and I have to say that Rio that year was, in terms of feelings, probably the most unique race I have ever had in my life. Despite my very low expectations, after a few laps I found myself going along okay. It won’t be long, the car will break down soon, I said to myself.

  I started overtaking a few cars and found myself in third place. However, I was actually really annoyed because I was thinking, Don’t you dare let me get up into third place and then blow up! But the car kept going and going, and a few more laps went by and then I was up into second place. Now I was going to be really annoyed when it finally blew up. Every lap I was waiting for the car to break down, but then a few more laps went by and I overtook to get into first place. I was in the lead! You are supposed to be happy in the lead, but I wasn’t, because I was so angry with the car, fearing it was going to blow up and I’d have to retire while leading. I tell you what, I have never driven a car so gently and so perfectly as that day in Rio.

  I actually started talking to the car out loud. ‘Come on, keep going, don’t you give up on me now, keep going, pleeeease . . .’ Lap after lap, I urged this car not to fail. It was like some mantra of desperation: ‘Please don’t break down, please don’t break down, please don’t break down.’

  Then on lap 40 my steering wheel came loose.
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  The steering-wheel bolts came loose and the thing almost came off in my hands (something that had happened to me once in a Formula 2 race). I couldn’t believe it. All this time I’d been praying – literally – that the semi-automatic gearbox wouldn’t give up on me and now the steering wheel had almost fallen off. So I shouted in the radio, ‘The steering wheel’s coming loose, the steering wheel’s coming loose!’ It was bordering on the comical. Again, I don’t remember laughing at the time.

  I slammed into the pits and they had a spare wheel ready. I threw the old one off, the mechanic pushed the new one into place then, with an urgency that would come to cause him considerable pain, he smacked the steering wheel into the column really powerfully . . . promptly stabbing himself in the palm with the long, thin, sharp-edged team radio switch that I’d had fitted (because I had trouble holding a button down around corners).

  I dashed out of the pits with a new set of boots and a new steering wheel and I was just thinking, What is going to happen next? Then I started panicking about the gearbox and the conversation started again: ‘Oh no, please don’t blow up’ – back to my old routine, I was begging the car not to fail. Then I got back in the lead and . . . oh, I don’t know . . . I haven’t got a clue what happened that day . . . but we won the race. It was probably the single most unlikely win of my entire career.