Everyone was over the moon. If you look at the stats, it took Gerhard and me a hatful of grands prix before we even managed to finish another race because the car was so unreliable. I’d even changed my flight home to an earlier one because I was so convinced that I’d be out of the race really early. As it was, I missed my flight but secured Ferrari one of their most improbable race wins for a very long time. That victory was actually the longest distance the car had ever covered.
At Imola, my Ferrari team-mate Gerhard Berger had a huge crash when he smashed into the same fateful corner that five years later would tragically take Ayrton Senna’s life. The car actually exploded into flames and Gerhard was burnt in the ensuing fire. It was a very serious incident. They stopped the race and all the drivers were back in the pits waiting for updates about Gerhard and what would happen next. I went to see Gerhard because thankfully he was conscious and said he was okay. Remarkably, he even had a bit of a laugh with me. What a fantastic driver. I said that I needed to know what had happened, as there had been talk of the front wing failing.
To the layman with no knowledge of F1, a front wing breaking or snapping looks like a relatively minor fault in relation to the rest of the car’s size. Far from it. When that happens, you lose all the front end of the car and almost invariably you end up having an accident where you are just a passenger, a missile going into the wall or the barriers. So after Gerhard’s nasty crash there was conjecture that it was down to a front wing, but because the car was in a million burnt pieces, verifying that was impossible in the circumstances.
When I returned to the pits, everyone was very worried about Gerhard and emotions were running high. James Hunt came up to me looking quite intense and said, ‘Nigel, unless you know exactly what has happened to Gerhard’s car, you should not go back out if the race restarts. You would be taking your life into your own hands if you go back out there without knowing what has gone wrong.’ He was really quite forceful.
He was adamant and we talked about it at some length. I am a big fan of James and was very flattered that he was worried in that way. I think his concern that day reflects a very admirable side of James; he was a passionate and caring individual. He was also a former world champion, so I took his opinion very seriously indeed. After he’d left, I went to the Ferrari team and explained his viewpoint. Ferrari were very sympathetic and said, ‘Look, the call is yours, we will put the responsibility on you. If you are not comfortable and want to withdraw, we will withdraw the car and back your decision completely; if you want to race, we will race.’
In the pits we did everything we could to figure out the problem that had caused Gerhard’s crash. We were jumping up and down on the front wings – we’d actually had a new front wing that weekend, so they had already been beefed up. It wasn’t totally confirmed that it was the front wing that failed, not least because, as I said, there was nothing left of Gerhard’s car to see. Without forensically examining the wreckage for metal fatigue and crack detection and all the clever ultraviolet testing they can do, it wasn’t possible to be certain. Besides, even if it had been possible technically, there simply wasn’t enough time, as they only stopped the race for a short while. Eventually, I decided to race. James respected that decision but he still held his own position and I admire him for that.
Just to finish off that story: when I say I raced at the restart, I did so with considerable trepidation – it wasn’t any kind of caricature of ‘Nigel Mansell the Aggressor’ flying around the circuit, laughing in the face of death. Not at all. I was very wary indeed. My decision was made because of what I explained earlier about being a fatalist. When there is a massive accident like that and your team-mate has been burnt and seriously injured, lucky to walk away with his life, in fact, if you then decide to jump into an identical car and go racing again, then first you have some very serious questions to ask yourself. Common sense dictates that until the team knows what is wrong, you shouldn’t drive the car. My view was, without being gung ho, that if it was going to happen it was going to happen. I got back in the car but after 23 laps a gearbox failure put me out of the race. As much as I love to compete and win, I can’t say I wasn’t relieved. It later transpired it had been the front wing and a similar failure happened to me in Monaco going into Casino Square.
The other highlight of the 1989 season for me was my second win for Ferrari, at the Hungaroring. After qualifying in 12th, I jumped four cars at the start and then gradually picked my way through the field towards the front, until I was behind only Senna with just over 20 laps left.
People often ask me what I consider my best overtaking manoeuvre to be. It’s not a simple one-choice answer. I certainly feel that the most spontaneous overtake I have ever had the pleasure of doing was passing Senna that day at the Hungaroring in my Ferrari, a move that enabled me to win the race. I boxed him in with the backmarker Stefan Johansson as we came around a right-hander. It was a split-second move and James Hunt quite rightly commented at the time that I didn’t have very long to make the call. I had to get round Senna as well as Johansson, but thankfully it all worked out well and I went on to win the grand prix. Actually, I have to be honest: although I say it was spontaneous, I had thought about the possibility of using backmarkers many laps before, when the race was panning out and it was clear that slower cars were possibly going to come into play. So I did think about the possibility of such a move, but not the exact location and moment, and when we came around that corner, I seized the opportunity and went for it.
Of course, that move would not happen in the modern day because backmarkers have to move out of the way. In that era, backmarkers would often get out of the way, of course, but they weren’t bound to do so; they were allowed to race if they chose to. So it was a risk, because Stefan’s car was a third element that might cause a problem. Thankfully, I was able to manipulate the move so that Stefan’s car effectively boxed Ayrton in. Many people have cited that as one of my greatest ever wins, which is always nice to hear.
There is a great saying in motorsport that if you have to think about something on track then it is already too late, and if it’s not too late you are too slow. Either way, you are no good. Overtaking manoeuvres like that one are totally instinctive. If you are a world-class driver operating at the very top of your game, you adapt instantly to whatever is thrown at you. It is true that you never know exactly what will happen until the precise sequence of events unfolds, and that is when your racing instinct comes into its own.
The 1989 season was somewhat littered with retirements, six through reliability, plus I was black-flagged twice and suspended for one race. If I look back at the races I did finish, we did well. Two wins, four more podiums and two fastest laps. Set against a backdrop of McLaren-Honda dominance, it was a strong season for the team if you take the new car and severe competition into account. It felt a little more modest for me, finishing fourth on 38 points, but even though I hadn’t won the title, driving for the Tifosi was always going to be special, even so.
To be nicknamed ‘Il Leone’ – the Lion – by the fans in a country where Formula 1 and motor racing means so much was incredibly special. It’s a bit like receiving accolades from the Queen or your government – a ‘money can’t buy’ achievement. The Italian racing fans even made me a one-off bronze statue of a lion and later awarded me the Golden Helmet, a very prestigious accolade voted for by the public. At times they made me feel like they were my home fans. At the end of 1990, they even sent me a trophy inscribed with the words, ‘Our World Champion in 1990’. Wonderful.
To drive for Ferrari means you are godlike in Italy. In that country, if you are four or 104, you know who drives for Ferrari. I had heard about this special treatment before, of course, but experiencing it first-hand is really fun. It’s like a passport to everything for free and the most amazing times. They literally won’t let you pay for anything. From that point of view, Ferrari was, for me, without any question the best team to drive for in Formula 1. They took
care of everything – your own doctors at the circuit, your own masseuse, your own chef, anything and everything was done for you. Nothing was too much trouble. They were among the most wonderful years of my life and I would have loved to have been at that team a lot longer. Even today, in my sixties and long-since retired, I travel the world and Ferrari fans come up to chat to me. They still call me Il Leone and treat me with the greatest respect.
I have for many years been a special constable in the UK, and also worked with the Australian and American police forces. I will come to this in more detail later, but with regard to Ferrari there was one incident I absolutely loved that really shows you how Ferrari F1 drivers are seen as demigods. I had been testing at Maranello and working at the factory, and was on a quick lunch break. I needed to pop to the shops to get a teddy bear for my boy Leo, who was only a toddler. I didn’t have much time, so I left my racing overalls on and jumped in my Ferrari Testarossa, then zoomed off towards the shops.
There was a lot of traffic, so I was blasting around the outside, overtaking everyone, ‘utilising my professional skills as a racing driver’, shall we say. As I hammered down this one particular straight, I got to the end and was pulling back in when I suddenly saw some police cars. For some reason two soldiers were also standing by these vehicles, complete with submachine guns and pistols, looking extremely unhappy with me as I screeched to a halt.
I was pulled over by the three policemen and I have to say I was pretty nervous. They were so armed up, I thought I might be looking at a long time in a very harsh Italian jail. That wouldn’t do much for my F1 career at Ferrari.
They came marching over, looking really stern, machine guns at the ready. Crikey! I thought to myself as they approached my car, I’m in trouble here! As they got to within about six feet of the Testarossa, I wound down the window and that’s when they saw my face, my moustache and my bright-red Ferrari racing overalls.
They stopped instantly in their tracks, absolutely dead on the spot. Two of the police immediately walked out into the road and stopped all the traffic, while the remaining officer and the two soldiers waved me back and onwards along the now empty road ahead. As I drove past, bemused, smiling, relieved and stunned, they all stood to attention and crisply saluted me.
By the way, Leo loved the teddy bear and it now sits in his daughter’s nursery.
CHAPTER 12
THE 1990 SEASON: A ‘RETIREMENT’ YEAR
In my era of Formula 1 you had to – quite literally – look at yourself in the mirror each morning and ask yourself if you had what it took to hang it all out there on track. Could you go into a corner that had previously taken someone’s life? Could you push that new part of the car to the limit even if failure could throw you off the circuit and into a wall? Could you fly down a straight with concrete barriers either side? You had to answer these questions all the time, in testing, qualifying, racing. One way I did this, and all other drivers will have their own version of this ritual too, was by having a very strict race-weekend routine.
Every top driver will have a regime and a safety net of certain people around them who know how things need to work on race day. My routine would depend on the race we were going to: is it a European or transatlantic journey? How long is the flight? What is the time zone you are in? For example, if it was in Australia I would need a minimum of three days before driving to acclimatise. Japan was another tricky one. For Europe, you might have your own plane but you’d still go there a minimum of the day before.
When I got to the track, I’d go through all the engineering reports and check my car. I had my own personal checklist to make sure the engineer and the mechanics had done any tasks that had been carried over on a work list from the previous test or race. We would have a briefing about what the weekend was potentially going to be like, discuss the car’s settings – we didn’t have the data-logging technology, of course, so we did everything ourselves with engineers and the team.
Depending on the circuit, specifically whether I knew it well or not, I would walk it, run it or ride it, maybe even drive it if I could get hold of a car. I actually preferred to walk the circuit because you would see more, and it was also a bit of exercise. I always tried to make sure that I was mentally comfortable and happy, and if there was something bothering me, I would discharge that frustration or concern to my engineer or to a team member who could make a difference. I would always try to do that the day before the race, because then you offload your anxiety rather than take it to bed with you, which might affect your psyche and your disposition on the grid. Most importantly, if the worry was something I could not affect myself, then I would hand over to the right people to make sure the issue was dealt with properly. Then, the next day, I would make sure that the task had been carried out.
The night before a race I would always go out clubbing, usually drink a minimum of ten pints of high-strength beer and a few tequila slammers, and then, on the way back to the hotel in the early hours of the morning, maybe get a burger and fries, or sometimes a kebab. Well, actually, that’s not strictly true. On a few occasions I had half a pint, but normally I’d be teetotal, maybe have a relaxing meal with friends or family, then get an early night, around 9pm, sometimes earlier. I just felt it was more restful in a quiet hotel than if I was out in the open where people might want to chat or take photographs. Sometimes well-meaning people might say something that unsettled or annoyed me, so it was just easier to be in the hotel. I might sit in bed making some notes, ruminating over a few ideas, then lights out, ready for the next day.
On race morning I would normally get up quite early to beat all the traffic into the circuit, as early as 5am or more often 6am. You see, Colin, fudge factor. I had a code with Rosanne when I was racing: depending on how I got up in the morning, I would be able to tell her that ‘today was not a good day’. So if there was anything she wanted to have a go at me about – kids, dogs, damp coming in through the roof, maybe our family car tyres needed changing – unless it was an emergency, she knew to leave me alone. I love you but it’s not a good day today. I will be hot to trot tomorrow. If you are not careful, your nearest and dearest can get the brunt of your edginess.
I had such a great relationship with my engineers – David Brown at Williams and Maurizio Nardon at Ferrari – that I would trust them totally with my life. If they said to me that everything was okay and they had something covered, then I was relaxed. If an issue wasn’t resolved, they would work very hard with me to get the best result that they possibly could.
I would have some breakfast then we would have a warm-up. I would then eat specific foods before the race that I knew were good for me. After that, I would make out that I needed to go for a little nap, but this was really just so that I wouldn’t be bothered. I would sit in the motorhome trying to keep my energy to myself so that I could concentrate on doing the job. Then they’d call me for the race.
This was how I personally prepared for a race, but each driver will have their own very strict approach and discipline, a set routine, and nobody must disrupt that unless it is for a very important reason, a genuine emergency. All their energy needs to be focused on the race and nothing else; no nervous energy needs to be lost by having anxiety or distraction. That is why I used to say to Rosanne all the time I was racing that unless there was something really serious going on with the family back home, any news could wait until I’d finished the race. That sounds harsh, but it is a necessity of driving at world level. If something very sad has happened, then the people around the driver have to make a judgement call. Will telling them before a race make any difference? It will certainly affect their race. It might even put them at risk if that driver is not able to deal with the bad news and they have an accident, because they weren’t focused enough in a potentially dangerous environment.
I can remember one specific example of this with my own family. I always phoned Rosanne before a race. Just before I got into my race overalls and headed for the grid I would phone h
er; that was a part of my routine. This was in the days before mobile phones, but I would always find a way to get through to her. On this particular race day, just before I called, unbeknown to me, Chloe – who was about five at the time – had run into the bathroom at home, tripped on a rug and smashed her head on a marble top. She’d opened up a big gash in her forehead and was obviously really shaken up and upset. Chloe was sent off to the hospital and some close friends (who are sadly no longer with us) helped out Rosanne. Some weeks later, Sid Watkins took the stitches out for Chloe at Silverstone!
Anyway, back on that race day, I phoned Rosanne as usual and, although she said everything was absolutely great – ‘The kids are fine’, all that – I could just tell in her voice she was hiding something; my instinct told me that something was wrong. She insisted but her tone of voice told me different. Sixth sense, intuition, call it what you will. I really pushed her, asking, ‘Something is wrong, isn’t it?’ but she wouldn’t have it; she stood her ground, there was nothing for me to worry about. She knew that telling me would not change anything. I couldn’t help Chloe; I was thousands of miles away. All she would do by telling me would be to distract me, which in a 1980s F1 car at 200mph could be a very dangerous thing to do. Rosanne knew the score.
I do think motorsport is different from most sports in this sense. If a golfer is distracted by some family news from home before he tees off, then the worst that can happen is he will have a really bad round. He might not make the cut. If that distraction happens to a racing driver or Superbike racer, he could get killed. To extend this further, I think it means that racing drivers are able to hone and narrow their focus so intensely compared to almost any other sportspeople (with a few obvious exceptions in dangerous sports, such as boxers and Superbike racers). In the majority of sports, you don’t go to work and consider you may get seriously hurt in a way that will change your life, or that you could possibly be killed. With motorsport there is always that chance, even with all the safety standards that are now in place.
Nigel Mansell Autobiography Page 16