How to Be an F1 Driver

by Jenson Button

  But then you crash the car one morning at practice, you need it ready for qualifying and it’s touch and go if they can get it ready in time. Maybe if you’re the guy who’s been out boozing with them, accepted the piss-take and admitted you were a dick then they’ll go that extra mile to get it done for qualifying. But if you’re not that person, and you’re not showing them love and letting them know how important they are to the team, then maybe they won’t have that extra 10 per cent in caring whether the car’s built for qualifying or not; maybe they’d be, like, ‘Oh, sorry, mate, it wasn’t quite ready.’

  So there’s that. There’s also the fact that as the driver you’re a kind of link between the garage, the engineers, management and the sponsors, and by the simple expedient of stopping off in the garage to wish everyone a good night you can help with that all-important sense of belonging and communal effort otherwise known as team spirit.

  And there’s the fact that ultimately everything you do is for the selfish reason that you want to be quicker come the race, and the more people you have on your side the more likely that is to happen (ahem, see number three).

  In brief: Go out for beers with your mechanic and engineers, get your round in and they’ll soon open up; they’ll tell you if and when you’re behaving like a dick and you’ll thank them for it later.

  6. The ability to work well with sponsors

  It’s Silverstone, Grand Prix weekend, and I’m stepping into a helicopter, interrupting what should be a weekend of laser-sharp racing focus in order to fly to a sponsor meeting. I’ve got my best ingratiating smile in my top pocket and I’m ready to go.

  Crucially, the McLaren marketing department haven’t told me what the meeting is about, and I haven’t asked because it isn’t that important to me what the meeting is about. The key thing is that I know what is required, which is to represent McLaren.

  I was a bit of sponsor-meeting monster when I was at McLaren. A sponsor-friendly driver has a lot to do with whether a sponsor stays at a team or goes and, thankfully, I was one of the most sponsor-friendly drivers in the paddock. It was one of the reasons they kept me on as a representative after my retirement. I remember it being an absolute wake-up call. Wait. So I’m in control of whether the sponsors stay or go? Mwah-ha-ha..

  Truth is, though, I enjoyed that part of the job and I knew that more often than not, I nailed it. I see kids coming into the sport now and they haven’t got a Scooby what to do in front of the sponsors. These are companies putting £50 million into a team. It’s a massive deal. And drivers just stand there staring out from under the peaks of their snapbacks and gawping like guppy fish.

  So anyway. Silverstone. They fly me from Silverstone for this meeting, we walk in and it’s Deutsche Bank.

  I say to marketing, ‘Er, can I have a word?’

  We go outside. I say, ‘You do know that I’m an ambassador for Santander and I have been for five years. I know you know this because you sorted the deal.’

  ‘Yes,’ says the marketing bod, ‘but this is fine. This is for the future.’

  I say, ‘I’m still contracted, I’ve got another year.’

  He’s, like, ‘Oh, it’ll be fine.’

  At this point, I have to do what the team say. So I’m sitting in a meeting about a bank sponsor for the team when I’m sponsored by a rival bank, which is awkward to say the least.

  But of course I wear my ingratiating smile and play my part, which is to convey that whether we win or lose, we at McLaren work hard, and that we’re a great family that you, the sponsor, absolutely want to be a part of.

  And that’s my job because as I say, I’m like a hub in the team. The bosses know many things about the future of the team, but in terms of where the car is – its performance and future direction – that’s something that only the engineers, mechanics and the driver know, and like it or not, the sponsors don’t want to talk to the engineers and mechanics. They want to talk to the driver.

  The drivers are the personalities who represent the team and therefore they become the public faces of any brand that aligns itself to the team. So if the sponsor doesn’t like the driver, it’s an uphill battle for the team to make a deal.

  So it’s a strange situation, but I actually quite enjoyed it, knowing that what I said and did actually made a difference to whether we succeeded or not.

  More on sponsors later, but for the time being…

  In brief: If you think you’re just a racing driver and not a salesman as well, think again.

  7. Fitness

  More on fitness to come. For the time being I just want to leave this here.

  8. Luck

  You know how people say you make your own luck? That’s bollocks. If a car spins off the circuit in front of you and you beat it, that’s not you ‘making your own luck’, that’s just luck. He spun off the circuit and you benefited because he’s been unfortunate or made a mistake.

  Racing at Suzuka in May, 2019, I was in sixth place at the weekend and the Mugen NSX in front of me got a puncture, pulled out and I went up to fifth. That was good luck. Later on, I got a puncture myself. That was bad luck.

  In brief: Luck is swings and roundabouts. Sometimes we get it, sometimes we don’t. Be sure to make the best of it when you do. That’s all I have to say about that.

  9. Self-belief

  What’s the difference between arrogance and self-belief?’ I think self-belief is believing in yourself. Arrogance, on the other hand, that’s when you’re shouting it from the rooftops. Ask someone with self-belief if they’re the best in the world and they’ll give you a little wink or the smile that says, “What do you think I think?” Ask an arrogant bleeder if he’s the best in the world and he’ll be shouting it from the rooftops. So that’s the big difference. They know they are, but they don’t shout it out.

  In brief: Acquiring self-belief is a whole other thing, of course. For that you need…

  10. Support

  When you start your career, you think that everyone you meet is looking out for you. You believe that everyone is a well-wisher, every pat on the back a purely selfless act.

  It’s a common tale in sports and entertainment: somebody makes various promises, and because you’re young (for which read naïve) and you’re walking around with a big Snoopy grin on your face because you can’t believe your luck, and because the money’s coming in, you don’t really do much questioning.

  Then one day the penny drops that you haven’t got quite as much as you should and your gaze turns to the guy in the corner puffing on a big cigar and sitting on a big pile of money.

  After that, you go the opposite way. You suddenly become ultra-suspicious, you only trust those in your inner circle, which means you go through a period of suspecting people’s motives. You think, Why does this person want to be my mate? Is it because they like me as a person? Or do they want something?

  That’s the situation I was in for, oh, about 13 of the 17 years I was in the sport. It was only latterly that I really started to open up. If I got into a relationship and discovered they weren’t really interested in me as a person I could deal with it, whereas when I was younger I couldn’t.

  Living in LA you have to be careful. People there are always looking for an angle, but I’m willing to let them in and see where it takes us as friends. I’m a lot more open to that; I’m much stronger and I can handle it if it all goes tits up.

  As for that inner circle, mine has been incredible. First off, there was my dad. There was never any doubt that he had my best interests at heart. When it came to racing, everything he said and did was for me. He never had a hidden agenda.

  Having said that, I didn’t take on board everything he told me. I used him to bounce ideas off, but if I didn’t like his response I would often snap at him. If his answer or his reasoning wasn’t what I wanted to hear, I let him know about it. For example, he’d be saying, ‘I think you need to spend more time with the mechanics, make them feel part of the team, you know,’ something li
ke that.

  I’d be like, ‘Dad, come on, I’m doing enough.’

  But then I’d think about it and realise he was right. Years later, I’d even be including it as a piece of essential advice in this very book. And the reason he was right was that he saw things from another angle; he stood back in the garage, saw the guys at work, noted how I interacted with them and thought there was room for improvement. It’s one of the few things I regret in life, snapping at Papa Smurf.

  But at least I can say that I came round. And I can say when it happened, too, because it was in 2009, my Championship-winning year. The season began spectacularly well for me – I won six of the first seven races – after which things were, shall we say, a little more trying. And that’s when it really hit home to me that I couldn’t do this on my own. Before that year I’d always felt that I was getting the best out of the car. No one ever thought we had a race-winning car, so there wasn’t that pressure; I could just go out and enjoy my racing. It was a little bit frustrating that we weren’t winning races, but we were fighting for podiums and it was great, it was fun, every success was a bonus that exceeded all of the expectations placed upon me.

  Then suddenly we had a chance to fight for the Championship and wouldn’t you just know it but the pressure from the team and the outside world increased exponentially.

  History tells us that I was doing phenomenally well at the beginning of the season – until suddenly I wasn’t. My teammate, Rubens Barrichello, was doing a better job in certain races and I felt the Championship was maybe slipping from my grasp.

  More pressure. In an interview somebody asked me, ‘Do you not want to win this Championship?’ and I responded sarcastically. It was a dumb, unprofessional thing to do (despite the fact that it was a stupid question, and I saw other journalists shaking their heads at just how stupid it was), but it became a bit of a watershed moment nonetheless, the point at which I thought, Hang on, no, I can’t do this on my own, I need support.

  And, sure, when you’re down, and the pressure’s on, that’s when you cast about looking for other opinions.

  It shouldn’t have taken being down for me to do that, but it did, and I’m glad it happened because at least I finally opened myself up to the advice of others. Not for the purpose of blowing smoke up my arse and telling me how good I was, but to remind me of what I’d achieved at the start of that season, making me feel comfortable with having a bad race, because we all have bad races, and it’s all about learning from them and coming back stronger.

  I remember my dad saying to me that year, ‘Is it okay for me to say how I feel?’ and I was, like, ‘Yes, I promise you I won’t be snappy, I want to hear what you’ve got to say,’ and that was a real turning point in my career. I began listening to the people around me and using their support, understanding that they were being helpful in my time of need. I realised how much they meant to me.

  The fact is that whether you take it with a pinch of salt or take it seriously, you’ve got to listen to others’ opinions, because they see things that you don’t. I wish it hadn’t taken adversity to make me realise that, because I know now that you can always be better as a person and as a driver through listening – because that’s how you learn.

  Mikey was a really calming influence, because the only time I got to relax was when I was getting a massage over a race weekend, when he’d talk me through the race. ‘What do you want from this weekend? What would you be happy with? Where do you think you need to improve?’

  I don’t even know if he was listening to my answers – probably not – but it was great to have that sounding board. As Brits, we’re not very good at talking about our feelings, most of us anyway, so you need people around you who can draw that out of you. Having read a bunch of books by the life coach Tony Robbins I’ve begun to wish I’d had someone like that in F1, someone to whom you can talk who doesn’t have a vested interest in you.

  On the other hand, I would have never wanted my teammate or a rival from another team knowing I was seeing a therapist. However you’re feeling on the inside you’ve got to look strong and confident. There’s no room for doubt in motorsport, because in motorsport if you doubt yourself, other people will doubt you as well. Big shout out, then, to those I’ve already mentioned – Richard, Mikey, Chrissy, James – as well as my PA, Jules Gough – all of whom were there for the bad times as well as the good, and are still with me.

  In brief: It’s not just a case of remembering that you need support, it’s about listening to that support and letting that support know that their contribution is welcome and valued.

  11. The right mental attitude

  In LA I go karting with a bunch of kids who beat me every time. Does it bother me? No.

  Well, okay, it does bother me a bit. Quite a lot, actually. But it’s not as though I have a problem with it. It’s not like I’m throwing my crash helmet at the fence and decking stewards in my anger. That’s because, firstly, I’m not in the habit of chucking helmets and decking stewards at the best of times; and secondly, I’m not afraid to lose.

  It’s true. Despite everything I’ve already said about having a competitive nature, I really don’t mind losing. I care. Oh yes. And I plan to get better the next time I’m sitting behind the wheel. But it doesn’t scare me, and that’s the crucial difference.

  Plus – and here’s the important bit – I know I can improve. I mean, I’ll always get quicker. Even at 39, I reckon I could spend two weeks in a kart and be good enough to race. Probably wouldn’t win, but I would race competitively.

  It’s the same for me and GT racing. I’ve had to put the time and effort in and not get frustrated when it wasn’t plain sailing. An F1 car is open-wheeled. It’s single-seater. It’s all about the aerodynamics. A GT car is none of the above. Pretty much all they have in common is four wheels. Even the steering wheel’s a different shape.

  So there’s still so much left to learn before I hang up my cap for good. My ultimate aim is to be that ‘complete driver’ I’m talking about, and maybe even go one better than the likes of Fernando. After all, the categories he’s chosen have high down-force. He’s not racing anything like Super GT or rallying, and that’s when it gets more difficult, which is when you really learn. So that’s what I’m looking forward to over the next few years. I’m looking forward to doing more learning.

  I remember speaking to Alain Prost – one of my childhood heroes – because I was interested in getting a team together for rallycross, which is rally but around a circuit, banging wheels and everything. It’s great fun. ‘Would you be interested in being my teammate, Alain?’ I asked him.

  That would be so cool. Alain Prost as my teammate.

  ‘Only do it if I could test every day.’

  Cue the sound of fizzling fireworks.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  With typical Gallic insouciance he said, ‘I would never get in a car and race if I’m not up there with the best of them.’

  He wanted to test for weeks before we went racing and most teams don’t have the budget for that. Now, as it happens, the team didn’t get off the ground anyway, but the fact is most teams don’t have the budget for that kind of testing, so Alain was counting himself out.

  At the time I was disappointed, but I totally got where he was coming from. He knew what we all know, that it takes time. You can’t just jump in anything and be the quickest; there will always be drivers in every category who are experts at what they do, who will be very, very difficult to beat.

  Put simply, if you have too much ego you’ll never succeed in other forms of motorsport, because you’ll arrive, you won’t be much cop, and you’ll reach the conclusion that the equipment is at fault, when the blame lies with you.

  Equally, you will never be a good driver if you don’t eat, sleep and breathe F1. There’s no such thing as a brilliant driver with a passing interest in the sport. When I was racing in F1, I didn’t think about anything else apart from racing in F1. So on a Sunday night after t
he race, whether it was good or bad, I’d want to get straight back in the car. Pretty much, the whole time I was not racing, I wanted to be in the car.

  As you might imagine, I struggled to relax. Whether I was driving the car or not, it was all Formula One: how can I be better as a driver? How can I put right the mistakes I made the weekend before, or, if I had won the race, how could I do an even better job? As a result, I was so drained at the end of the season, I’d get ill. You never fall ill during the season, always at the end.

  Is it a strength or a weakness, that inability to switch off? You might argue that the ability to focus is a good one, but on balance I’m marking it down in the minus column. If I’d had a negative race, that negativity would stay with me and I was very bad at being able to put it behind me, at which point it started to have a slightly poisoning effect.

  I think that’s why racing took such a toll on me over 17 years, and why it was so tough for me, mentally and physically. Why I retired. I couldn’t deal with it any more.

  In brief: Don’t be afraid to lose and try – if you can (and if you can then you’re a stronger person than I am) – not to let it take over your life.

  12. A strong nerve (but not outright fearlessness)

  Crashing is inevitable. The trick is to come out the other side. Some of the reason why you can carry on after a big shunt is because you’ve survived and you look at yourself, and you think, I hit that wall at 140 miles an hour and I’m still here. How is that possible? Because in a road car, you’d be dead; you’d be a millimetre thick, whereas in an F1 car you’re surrounded by goodness: you’ve the carbon-fibre tub, the spongey headrest; you’re wearing a carbon-fibre helmet and you’ve got the HANS device, which stops your head from going too far forward and breaking your neck.