by Terry Lovell
Designers such as Brabham’s Gordon Murray and Williams’s Patrick Head claimed that to remove the ‘skirts’ from a car would adversely affect its centre of balance, which would mean a completely new design. Besides, others added, the removal of the ‘skirts’ would not slow down the speed of cars: new bodywork and aerodynamics, and the discovery of a comparable ‘ground effect’ system, would soon achieve similar speeds. It was an argument of clear logic. In an intensely competitive world such as Formula One, it was impossible to ‘uninvent’ something. And car designers were rather like successful tax accountants – constantly looking for ways around new laws. Once one loophole had been blocked, they simply worked to find another.
However, in the manufacturers’ corner, the potential of the Renault turbo – following its success at the French Grand Prix, the RS01 scored six pole positions to the Cosworth’s seven – was now considered a major contender for the 1980 World Championship (if, that is, technical director François Castaing and his team could cure the engine’s occasional proneness to unreliability) and had prompted Ferrari to begin working on its own, a turbo engine to produce 600bhp, which compared with the Cosworth’s 485bhp. Maserati and Ligier, following the latter’s takeover by the French manufacturer Talbot, began similar development work, and the international high profile being enjoyed by Renault led to BMW announcing plans to return to Formula One with its own turbocharged cars, which took place in 1982 after an absence of 29 years.
The FOCA, which continued to oppose vigorously any attempt by the FISA to ban ‘skirts’, predicted fatal consequences for the constructors if it were to do otherwise. Said an angry Ecclestone: ‘If … FISA or anyone else wants to ruin racing, let them get on with it. Why should I spend so much time trying to make racing stronger and more competitive when we go and get a rule like this? What will happen is that my sponsor will come to me at the end of the season and ask what it takes to win races. I’ll tell him “skirts” have been banned, and that we need another £4 million to develop a new turbocharged engine. And my sponsor, like a lot of others, will walk clean out of racing.’
Enzo Ferrari, though, was not impressed by this doom-filled prediction. In fact, the man who had not long earlier stated how ‘by hook or by crook’ he had to believe in the FOCA, had shifted his ground considerably. He was now fulminating that Formula One had ‘deteriorated’ because of the FOCA’s ‘machinations’, adding that his company might well pull out of Grand Prix racing and transfer its money and resources to the revival of a world manufacturers’ championship for sports cars.4 It was considered more of a political statement than a genuine threat, and Ferrari himself was suspected of some Machiavellian intrigue when the Grand Prix Drivers’ Association (GPDA), whose president, Jody Scheckter, drove for Ferrari, issued a statement claiming that its members were concerned about the cornering speeds of ‘skirt’ cars. The constructors were infuriated to see their drivers associated with such a statement. But how many had actually voted in its favour was uncertain. According to Williams driver Alan Jones, a senior member of the GPDA’s safety committee, who would become the 1980 world champion, he had not given his support to ‘anything that remotely resembled’ a ‘skirts’ ban. It led to the resignation of several drivers from the GPDA, including Jones and Nélson Piquet, Ecclestone’s lead driver.
Ferrari insisted that the constructors had been permitted to use ‘skirts’ because ‘of the weakness of the FISA. They were illegal from the start.’ He was, in fact, referring to a decision three years earlier by the Commission Sportive Internationale (CSI) under Pierre Ugueux following protests that the cornering speeds of Chapman’s Lotus 78 introduced new safety hazards. Its critics, principally Renault and Ferrari, were supported by a technical report issued by the Automobile Club d’Italia which, based on corner timing at a Fiorano test session, projected increases in cornering speeds as high as 40 per cent. But when Ecclestone successfully argued that the constructors were making huge investments in the new technology and that a ban would threaten the future of Formula One, Ugueux agreed to postpone a ‘final decision’ and, in the meantime, requested ‘further information’. It had been the kind of vacillation that hastened Ugueux’s departure from the presidency of the CSI. Shortly after his election, Balestre had made it clear that he would not be so obliging. ‘If I have not done the job [of imposing a ban] in 12 months, then I will resign.’5
The report by the FISA’s Technical Commission had been no less unwelcome with tyre manufacturers Goodyear and Michelin. It proposed that tyre and rim widths should be reduced from 21 inches to 18 inches. The two companies had earlier agreed with Balestre at a meeting in South Africa that tyre widths would not be reduced unless engine power and aerodynamic downforce were also reduced. Goodyear’s racing division manager, Paul Lauritzen, alarmed by the increased dangers to drivers, described the proposal as ‘lunacy’ and warned that his company would pull out of Formula One if the proposals were adopted by the FISA. But Balestre, in full battle cry, paid no heed. Clearly he intended to use the divisive issue of ‘skirts’ versus turbo as a wedge to drive between the constructors and the manufacturers in a ‘divide and conquer’ strategy.
To provoke the constructors, he continued to pile on more aggravation. He decreed that they would no longer have the freedom to name their cars after sponsors, as with Lotus’s ‘John Player Special’ or Williams’s ‘Saudi Leyland’, a practice he denounced as excessive commercial exploitation. He also announced that drivers who failed to show up at pre-race briefings would be fined $2000 for the first offence and $5000 for the second. The briefings were generally considered by the constructors to be a waste of time and Balestre’s insistence on their attendance seemed to be no more than yet another pretext to exercise his authority to their inconvenience. However, this seemingly petty edict would shortly bring about a major confrontation with the FISA and the manufacturers, and hasten an all-out war to threaten the future of Formula One itself.
At the end of February 1980 Balestre confirmed that, in the absence of the FOCA’s acceptance of the proposed new regulations, a ban on ‘skirts’ would come into effect by 1 January 1981, a deadline which, as it had yet to be approved at the FISA’s plenary spring congress due to take place little more than two months later, would fall considerably short of the two years’ notice that the FISA was legally required to give. Balestre turned a deaf ear to the FOCA’s vociferous protests, arguing that, as the ban was being imposed on the grounds of safety, the FISA was not compelled to give the statutory period of notice. It raised the ire of the constructors to a new level. They claimed that the FISA had no evidence that ‘skirts’ cars threatened acceptable standards of safety and that Balestre had deliberately misinterpreted the rule book to the advantage of the manufacturers.
At the FIA’s plenary spring congress in Rio de Janeiro, where, predictably, delegates representing politically supportive motoring organisations, voted in favour of a ban on ‘skirts’, Balestre proceeded with the business of eviscerating the FOCA. After declaring that he intended to ‘restore motor sport to its rightful place’ – the headquarters of the FIA in Place de la Concorde – he sought, and received, the support of congress empowering him to draw up ‘a list of measures … so that in 1981 the FISA exerts full control over the World Championships belonging to it and which, at the present moment, are the object of a takeover by certain private associations [FOCA] foreign to the FISA’.6 Those measures would ‘guarantee’ that each country’s national sporting authority would hold ‘absolute control of the entire sporting aspect of the Grand Prix’, with the terms between the organisers and the FOCA fixed by a standard contract to be approved by the FISA. This was the very objective that Grand Prix International and World Championship Racing had signally failed to achieve. It was immediately rejected by the FOCA as being unworkable – a standard contract, it was pointed out, could not possibly meet the widely varying needs and requirements of the 18 or more organisers.
To what extent Balestre had the neces
sary support of the FISA’s executive committee was a highly moot point. On the evidence of Basil Tye, the then chief executive of Britain’s Royal Automobile Club, which as the FIA’s national sporting authority and organiser of the British Grand Prix, represented the motoring organisation on its executive committee, it had been far from unanimous. Indeed, he revealed that other matters which had received the approval of the plenary congress had either not been agreed by the executive committee or not discussed at all. Balestre’s premature announcement of a ban on ‘skirts’, which the plenary congress endorsed, had, for example, been a direct reversal of the recommendations of the FISA’s executive committee.
Tye’s account was confirmed by Max Mosley, who, as Ecclestone’s deputy, was entitled to attend meetings of the committee. The pair argued forcefully, and successfully, in favour of ‘skirts’ being retained. There was, in Mosley’s words, ‘a tremendous confrontation’ with Balestre, who was livid to see the vote go against him, a rare event indeed. Despite his defeat, he claimed at the plenary congress the next day to have the support of the executive committee. As Mosley did not represent a club, he was not able to address the august gathering to inform them otherwise. Sir Clive Bossom, president of the RAC’s Motor Sports Association and an FIA vice-president, was able to, and did. But, because he was widely viewed as an opponent of the FIA establishment, his words failed to bring about the defeat of the executive committee’s so-called recommendation to ban ‘skirts’.
According to Tye, Balestre neglected to consult the executive committee on another recommendation, which posed a direct threat to the very future of the South African Grand Prix. It followed an incident at the South African Grand Prix two months earlier, where Balestre claimed he had been ‘the target of physical violence’. The ‘violence’ had apparently been no more physical than his unseemly elbowing off the overcrowded winners’ podium. It was construed by Balestre, though, as an unpardonable offence to the dignity of his office. And it was compounded by another incident, which, this time, offended his national pride: the organisers had failed to arrange the playing of the French national anthem, La Marseillaise.
Balestre, who had instructed the FISA’s lawyers to pursue legal redress for damages against the organisers, received the support of congress in demanding an inquiry ‘aimed at establishing the responsibilities of the Grand Prix organisers’. It was agreed that, because of the ‘seriousness of the matter and the legal action taken’, the South African Grand Prix should be removed from the following season’s calendar until the inquiry had been concluded. The legal action went no further, but the following year’s South African Grand Prix, in 1981, did not take place as a World Championship race, although for reasons unconnected with this incident.
What Balestre, to this day, does not know is that his ejection from the podium was caused by a few mischievous words that Max Mosley had with the track’s head of security. He was warned by Mosley before the race that Balestre would insist on getting on to the podium although he was not supposed to. ‘Mr Mosley,’ replied the burly no-nonsense official firmly, ‘if Mr Balestre tries to get past me he will not succeed.’ Mosley was in the nearby Kyalami Ranch Hotel, where the teams and officials stayed during the Grand Prix, having a cup of tea, when Balestre, unaware of Mosley’s part in it all, stormed in, purple with rage, and, in between a stream of French curses, made known to one and all the terrible humiliation he had just suffered.
Twenty years later a senior FIA delegate spoke of Balestre’s backroom manipulation of delegates to achieve his ends. ‘[Balestre] was a masterful politician. Before a vote came up, he would say, “Now we’re all together in this, and if we stick together we’re going to elect everybody just the way we say.” He [would] say, “We must agree completely, right in this room, that we will all vote as we say we will.” We represented maybe 25 per cent of the votes in there. It wasn’t total control. You had to depend on the law of averages taking care of the rest of it, but he had it figured.’
In the early months of 1980 the constructors decided to take the battle to Balestre. A few weeks before the Belgian Grand Prix at Zolder in May, it was discovered that the supplementary regulations to the race did not oblige the drivers to attend the pre-race briefing, which presented the constructors with a tactical opportunity to defy a ruling introduced by Balestre not long after his appointment. It led to the drivers, acting on instructions, boycotting the briefing while those employed by the manufacturers – Ferrari, Renault and Alfa Romeo – turned up. For the first time, the teams were being forced to publicly nail their colours to the mast of either the FOCA or the FISA.
Balestre interpreted the boycott for what indeed it was intended to be – a slap in the face by the constructors. His response was to impose fines of $2000 on the drivers or face having their licences revoked. To no one’s great surprise, his edict was roundly ignored. In this impasse the constructors, in combative mood, arrived two weeks later at Jarama in Spain for the Spanish Grand Prix, the deadline for the payment of the fines. Ecclestone called a meeting of constructors in the paddock. The only item on the agenda was the restoration of their drivers’ licences. It ended with an ultimatum: unless the drivers’ licences were restored immediately, the constructors would not take part in the race. The fact that the constructors had waited until then to issue such an ultimatum made it clear that Ecclestone and his colleagues were looking for a highly public fight. Balestre, who refused to back down, was ready to play his part.
With just two days to go before the race, and with no hope of a suspension of hostilities, high-level political discussions led to the personal involvement of King Juan Carlos, who, alarmed by the international embarrassment to Spanish pride and prestige that would be caused by the race’s cancellation, issued an order to the organisers, Real Automóvil Club de España (RACE) – its president was Fernando Falco, Marqués de Cubas, a cousin of the king – that the race must take place. That it was issued to RACE rather than the FIA’s national sporting authority in Spain, the Federación Española de Automovilismo, was in itself a snub to Balestre and the FIA’s authority. Senior RACE officials held meetings with both sides through the night, with Ecclestone and Mosley, as usual, representing the constructors.
It was agreed that Ecclestone and Mosley would meet Balestre and senior FISA officials at seven o’clock in the morning in the slender hope of finding a solution to the deadlock. As the meeting proceeded Ecclestone and Mosley noticed that Balestre had placed on the table, among other papers, a list of his allies within the FIA. It was information that Ecclestone was very keen to have. He turned to Mosley, and said sotto voce: ‘If you can knock the table over, I’ll get the list.’ A moment or two later Mosley duly obliged – Balestre’s papers went flying as Mosley clumsily got to his feet and stumbled, sending the table on its side. Ecclestone moved quickly to help Balestre retrieve his documents from the floor, at the same time pocketing the small piece of paper containing the list of names. A few minutes later, with order restored, Balestre became greatly agitated when he suddenly noticed its absence. ‘Vair,’ he demanded, ‘ees may leest?’ Ecclestone and Mosley appeared suitably mystified. It was not the best of times for Balestre. During the night, at Balestre’s request, Marco Piccinini, Ferrari’s sporting director, visited his bedroom. Engrossed in their talks, Balestre forgot that shortly before Piccinini’s arrival he had begun to run a bath – until he saw the water seeping under the bathroom door.
The early-morning talks between the two sides ended, as expected, without solution. The RACE announced that the Spanish Grand Prix would be held. Their contract, it was pointed out, and as Ecclestone and Mosley had reminded them, was with the FOCA, and the FOCA was ready to honour it. Balestre, furious that the authority of the FISA had been overruled, retaliated by announcing that a race involving drivers not licensed to compete could not be a legal round of the World Championship series. It was shortly followed by the remarkable scene of FISA officials being marched from the circuit at gunpoint by Guardia
Civil police officers on the orders of the organisers. Among them was Gérard ‘Jabby’ Crombac, who, as an FISA observer, had attempted to gain entry to Ecclestone’s motor home, where he was having a meeting. Ecclestone, about the same size as Crombac, physically manhandled him off the premises to the protests of journalists that he was an FISA observer. ‘Fine,’ said Mosley, who was guarding the door, ‘he can observe from out there.’
The events of the previous 24 hours had caused such disruption that the final practice session was put back by the FOCA from 10 a.m. to 11.30 am, a decision that Ferrari, Renault, Alfa Romeo and Osella chose to ignore. Their practice session duly began at 10 am, but within 30 minutes was brought to an abrupt end by a red flag, which caused the Ferrari team to declare that its ‘arbitrary use’ had made the race illegal. Joined by the other manufacturers, Ferrari expressed public support for the FISA by insisting that unless the fines of the drivers were paid, they would not compete in the race.