by Terry Lovell
In moving out of Watkins Glen, Ecclestone began looking for somewhere like Long Beach, California, where since 1976 he had also been staging the USA West Grand Prix. He believed he had found the ideal venue in Nevada when he struck a deal with Clifford Perlman, the chairman of Desert Palace Inc., owners of Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas. Billy Weinberger, the president of the casino, believed the glamour of a Grand Prix would help pull in the gamblers, and he drove Ecclestone to a board meeting where the deal was agreed in record time. Ecclestone was escorted to a vault-like soundproof room deep below ground level where he was introduced to members of the board.
‘This is Bernie Ecclestone,’ Perlman announced. ‘We want to have a Grand Prix here at Caesar’s Palace and this is the guy who is going to fix it. Are you in favour?’ A voice to Perlman’s right broke the silence with a solitary yes. ‘Congratulations, gentlemen. Done.’ A Las Vegas Grand Prix was staged in 1981 and 1982 in the casino’s huge car park, but both events proved financial disasters. They failed to attract the crowds or the interest of the major television companies on which their success had essentially depended. They heralded, in fact, the beginning of a series of similar disasters.
In the same year that Las Vegas was hosting its second and last Grand Prix, Ecclestone had moved east to stage a Grand Prix in the streets of Detroit – an unusual choice for someone keen on an image more glamorous than Watkins Glen – which, with Long Beach, meant that during 1982 there were three Grands Prix in America, a number which Ecclestone believed the size of the country could support. The deal that he cut with the organisers – four years and three on option – was a confident one. The length of the contract could be guaranteed, he said, because, rather than a flat fee, the teams would be taking a percentage of the race earnings. It was structured to give the FOCA the first $500,000, with the next $1.2 million going to the organisers and the next $500,000 to the FOCA; after that, the receipts would be split down the middle.
However, long before the contract had expired, his relationship with the organisers of the Detroit Renaissance Grand Prix, so named because the street circuit looped round the city’s huge Renaissance Center, had turned sour. Ecclestone claimed the organisers had failed to provide the standard of facilities necessary to maintain a successful Grand Prix, including adequate garage facilities for the teams, media and sporting control centres, and on-track medical units, while the organisers reportedly claimed that Ecclestone made so many last-minute financial demands to increase his share of profits that budgeting became a nightmare.
By the time the Grand Prix in Detroit was in its second year, the USA West Grand Prix was bringing the shutters down for good due to the financial demands made by Ecclestone of organiser and promoter Chris Pook, a Somerset-born businessmen who had arrived on the Pacific coast in 1963. Ten years later Pook began discussions with the City of Long Beach to permit a Grand Prix street race, which led, in 1976, to the first of eight Grands Prix. However, despite every effort by Pook – not averse to rolling his sleeves up, as witnessed at the 1977 Grand Prix, when, with the installation of safety fencing behind schedule, he assisted crews in its construction, and, during the second practice session, manned one of the pit access gates to check credentials – the event became so unprofitable that he was forced to drop Formula One for the more popular Championship Auto Racing Teams (CART) series.
He said: ‘We were running this huge race every year and only making $80–100,000 profit, and if we had a bad, rainy weekend our company would have been upside down. We could not see the light at the end of the tunnel to be able to build our company, and that is why we had to change.’ It was brought about, he said, by the size of the prize money expected by Ecclestone and the cost of the teams’ transportation. Advertising and hospitality rights had also been a factor. ‘F1 was growing in a certain direction and wishing to maintain control over certain assets that it saw [for] itself, and, quite candidly, in the US the market is so fierce for similar assets that F1 wanted … that those of us who were promoting it [Formula One] couldn’t see a way through the maze.’
Coverage of the last Long Beach Grand Prix, produced by Grand Prix Teleproductions, was syndicated through cable television. Network television companies, in a country where Formula One attracts a quarter of the television audience of IndyCar racing and up to eight times fewer than NASCAR (North American Sports Car Racing), argued that viewing figures simply didn’t justify Ecclestone’s financial terms. For Pook, as with others, it meant only one recourse – to hike up ticket prices, which did nothing to improve the prospects of Formula One’s success. Said Pook: ‘There is huge competition [in the USA] for the leisure dollar, and if you start to charge $150–200 for a ticket, your market diminishes very, very fast. It wasn’t that Americans didn’t embrace Formula One. It was a commercial issue.’
Lest he should appear too critical of Ecclestone, Pook, who, like many others in Formula One, has a healthy respect for his power and favour, later insisted that his comments should include reference to Ecclestone’s ‘incredible negotiating ability, his brilliance, his quickness and [that his] word is his bond’. He failed to mention, though, that Ecclestone’s recall of detail apparently falls somewhat short of his. The demise of Formula One at Long Beach, according to Ecclestone, had nothing whatsoever to do with any commercial factors, but ‘because we were told by Chris Pook that there was going to be major developments in the city which would necessitate the shortening of the circuit, which would not thereafter comply with the FISA regulations’.4 Following the departure of the teams, Pook nevertheless continued to use the appeal of Formula One to pull in the crowds, said Ecclestone. ‘We built up Formula One and it was called the Toyota Long Beach Grand Prix. It never mentioned Formula One. When we left, and they went to CART cars, Chris still called it [Toyota Long Beach Grand Prix]. In fact, so many people complained to me that they had gone to see Formula One and it wasn’t Formula One.’
With the split at Long Beach, and Detroit falling short of expectations, Ecclestone attempted to strike oil in Texas. After much haggling in a deal brokered by Chris Pook, the financial terms were finally agreed with Dallas real-estate developer Donald R. Walker, who ran Dallas Motorsports Inc. from a plain, unmarked warehouse north of the city near LBJ Freeway and Interstate 35. The Dallas Grand Prix, which cost co-promoter Walker and his associates an estimated $6 million, proved to be one of the most short-lived US Grands Prix. Ecclestone’s negotiating tactics, according to Walker, caused an intensity of conflict that seriously threatened cancellation of the race. He complained that Ecclestone avoided agreeing specifics until he had had become committed to heavy investment. ‘Then, once he knows you’re committed and have a heavy investment, he’ll then use the leverage of cancelling your race to get the specifics the way he wants them.’5
It was a charge rejected by Ecclestone, who denied that Walker had invested heavily. ‘The only investment he had … it was a street circuit.’ He added: ‘The only complaint we ever had with him was that, firstly, he would have to respect FOCA passes, and, [secondly], the track broke up in the heat. All the drivers wanted to cancel the race. I pushed them to make the race go on.’ Italian Michele Alboreto, who drove for Ferrari, was particularly alarmed, said Ecclestone. ‘On the starting grid, he came to me and said, “I am going to die in this race, and you are going to be the one that’s murdered me.” I said, “Well, the easiest thing is don’t race, if that’s what you believe.”’ Tragically Alboreto, who spun off during the fifty-fourth lap, did die on the track – he was killed on 25 April 2002 at the Lausitz circuit, Germany, when his Audi test car had a puncture at 200mph, causing it to hit a crash barrier.
For all his criticism of Ecclestone, there were others who had cause to complain about Walker’s business methods. By the following March he was forced to file for bankruptcy proceedings following a $17-million tax dispute with the Internal Revenue Service, who claimed that between 1982 and 1984 he had understated tax liabilities to partners involved in real-esta
te developments totalling $165 million. He and his wife, Carol, were later charged with owing $85 million in taxes, interest and penalties dating back to 1981. In January 1988 Walker was jailed for seven years after pleading guilty to three counts of felony tax fraud related to three limited partnerships in 1982.
The 1984 Dallas Grand Prix, won by Keke Rosberg in a Williams-Honda car on his way to a World Championship title, proved to be the first and last. Attempts by other businessmen to fulfil the four-year contract with Ecclestone were thwarted by the sheer cost of the event and legal difficulties, including a lawsuit for damages by residents living near the Fair Park circuit against the City of Dallas and Walker. It was Chris Pook’s opinion that the Dallas Grand Prix would have proved to have been ‘an incredibly successful venue’ but for the downfall of Walker. But to seasoned sports reporter Gene Wojciechowski, with the Dallas Morning News at the time of the Grand Prix, ‘it was the wrong place and the wrong time. It was novelty, something different. Dallas considers itself world-class but it is very provincial. They don’t go to the sports pages looking for the results of Formula One. Bernie Ecclestone’s style didn’t go down too well, either. It was “my way or the highway”, and with so many other motor sports around that wasn’t the smartest approach with people who wanted to see Formula One succeed.’ Ecclestone’s attempts to establish a long-term Grand Prix venue in America proved no more successful when the Formula One big top rolled on to Phoenix, Arizona, several years later. In 1989 the city council members gave their 7–1 backing to the plan, along with a one-off $2.9-million grant towards the cost of building and maintaining a 2.2-mile, 13-turn street circuit, and an annual $1.6-million grant thereafter. But, three years later, the Phoenix Grand Prix was no more. The first race was staged in June, a time of blistering heat when the city attracts few visitors. It was a disaster, with no more than an estimated 13,000 spectators going through the gate. It proved particularly costly for Ecclestone, who, as the promoter, ended up with a bill totalling £12 million. He decided to stage the following year’s race in March, but, while the attendance figure marginally improved, the layout of the track was widely criticised by spectators who had paid more than $200 for grandstand seats and could see little more than the drivers’ helmets.
At the end of the race, a disgruntled spectator, intent on making his dissatisfaction known to the organisers, came across by chance a diminutive figure wearing an accreditation tag around his neck. Assuming him to be merely an official, and unaware that he was addressing the head honcho himself, he complained long and loud about the restricted view. Ecclestone waited until he had finished and then asked to see his ticket. Appearing to examine it, he replied poker-faced: ‘Yes, I can see the trouble. You bought a “listening” ticket. Next time you should buy a “watching” ticket.’ He then walked smartly away, leaving the complainant somewhat puzzled.
The third race, in 1991, proved no more popular. Won by Ayrton Senna, who dominated the race from start to finish to take his fifth US Grand Prix win, it turned out to be last Grand Prix to be held in America for the next nine years. Describing the Phoenix Grand Prix as ‘a debacle’, Chris Pook said that Ecclestone ‘really did himself some harm, or Formula One did themselves some harm, because it just didn’t work. The circuit wasn’t compatible, the spectators couldn’t see. It was a non-event. Unfortunately, Bernard received some very bad advice, very bad advice. The dilemma was that Formula One came to be seen as an anchor around the neck [of promoters] … trying to swim.’
Ecclestone attempted that year to set up his own Grand Prix base in America by making a $4-million offer for the 12-turn, 2.52-mile Road Atlanta track in Georgia, which had hit financial difficulties. He said he agreed its purchase on a handshake, but when another interested party offered $100,000 more, he was invited to top it. ‘The guy came back to me and said, “Do you want to give another $500,000?” I said no. You can’t sell it twice. You’d be put in prison for that.’ Twelve months later the owners filed for bankruptcy. Ecclestone and a New Hampshire businessman bid $2.6 million against bids of $3.2 million from a tyre corporation and an Atlanta-based group of companies. Ecclestone’s bid was unsuccessful; the track was sold but reportedly failed to reach its investment potential.
By February 1996, its new owner, multi-millionaire Don Panoz, who had made a fortune in pharmaceutical research, was talking to Ecclestone about hosting a Formula One Grand Prix. Widely considered to be one of the best tracks in America, Panoz, the kind of businessman who established a successful vineyard in Georgia when the experts said it couldn’t be done, spent $30 million improving the circuit to Formula One standards and facilities. But it all came to nothing. Although Panoz had committed $30 million to bringing Formula One to Georgia, he was not prepared to back down over the financial terms. Ecclestone insists the issue was safety, not money. ‘There was a bridge with concrete on either side of the track, and when I agreed to buy it, I agreed to knock it down. It was dangerous. There was no way we would race there.’
Ecclestone became so desperate to break into the American market that he was willing to do so on the back of the hugely popular Indy 500 series. He supported an FISA proposal, mooted by Max Mosley in 1993, that oval races of up to 500 miles be allowed into the Formula One World Championship series, with slightly modified Formula One cars competing against IndyCars. As the United States Auto Club, the then organisers of the Indy, is sanctioned by the FIA, it was theoretically possible. But, across the Atlantic, it was rejected out of hand. The technical differences between the two cars apart – the lighter, nimble Formula One cars with their carbon brakes would have had an overwhelming advantage over the heavier, turbocharged IndyCars and their steel brakes – it made no sense for the owners of the top-class ovals, strongly committed to the IndyCar and the NASCAR series, to threaten that profitable relationship by getting involved with a formula that had little following. The proposal, criticised by the American motor sport media as ‘silly and irrelevant’, was dismissed as a headline-grabbing stunt to raise the profile of Formula One in America. More crucially, the teams themselves were far from keen.
A few months later similar judgement was accorded a challenge Ecclestone issued to IndyCar team owners: a £5-million showdown between Formula One cars and IndyCars on the streets of Adelaide the week before the Australian Grand Prix. Probably to his surprise, the challenge was accepted. Roger Penske, owner of Marlboro Team Penske, and the Michigan International Speedway, which accepted on behalf of another team owner, and between them they agreed to supply eight IndyCars to race against four Williams and four McLarens in a road race one day and on an oval circuit the next. Fine, responded Ecclestone. The race was on. But there was a qualification. The Formula One cars, he insisted, would race only on an FIA-approved track – and when one was built in Europe. Ecclestone had grabbed the headlines, and his £5 million was safe.
He had consistently refused to have a US Grand Prix as a separate event on an IndyCars programme. It was either a head-to-head, he insisted, or nothing, otherwise the television rights would be devalued, along with the level of his profits. ‘Television coverage would be confused,’ he said. ‘No mileage in that for anyone.’ It had probably proved the stumbling block when Ecclestone and Tony George had talks at the last US Grand Prix at Phoenix in 1991. But that was then, in the days when Ecclestone probably still believed that America was there for the taking. Now, after several years of varying degrees of failure trying to replicate the long-term success of Watkins Glen, he was ready to meet again with George – after talks, which involved Chris Pook, with Willie Brown, the controversial mayor of San Francisco, to stage a street race similar to Long Beach floundered.
During the weekend of 13–14 September 1997, George, accompanied by his executive vice-president, Leo Mehl, flew to London to discuss once more the obvious synergy of a commercial alliance at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. George, from one of the richest families in the USA, said to be worth more than $9 billion, guaranteed a level of professionali
sm to ensure a stable Grand Prix home for Formula One. A further three meetings took place during 1998 to see a conclusion to the negotiations that had stalled seven years earlier in Phoenix. On 2 December it was announced that a $30-million multi-year contract had been agreed to stage a US Grand Prix beginning in 2000 at the speedway.
It took place on a 2.606-mile circuit combining an infield loop with a milelong section of the storeyed oval and before a record crowd of more than 250,000. The US Grand Prix, won by Ferrari’s Michael Schumacher, had, in a sense, returned home after a 40-year absence. Until 1960, the Indy 500 had been included in the Formula One calendar to justify the World Championship series title. The Indianapolis circuit had been bought by George’s grandfather, Tony Hulman, as a derelict speedway in 1945 for $500,000 to save it from housing development, and now George described the return of Formula One to the venue as ‘the realisation of my dream’. After nine years in the American wilderness, it was probably no less a dream come true for Ecclestone.
During the next four years, the US Grand Prix became a popular fixture on the American motorsports calendar, with the 2001 show going on less than three weeks after the terrorists’ attack on New York’s Twin Towers on 11 September. Some drivers varied their air routes from Europe, through Philadelphia and Chicago, to minimise the risk, while many of the teams displayed US tributes on their cars. The grand prix also marked the retirement from television commentary of 78-year-old Murray Walker, noted for his hilarious verbal blunders (‘That Williams is unique, except for the car in front, which is identical!’). Tony George presented him with an original brick from The Brickyard, an honour usually accorded only to the winning driver of a major race at the venue.