So, it looks like I won’t be watching F1 from next year. But before I go into that, here’s a little “Ken and Cars” history that puts that statement in to context.
My
earliest memory of a car involves a Porsche. Not just any Porsche, but a
1973 2.7 Carrera RS. A bona fide classic, a sleek, stripped-down racing
car for the road. The Renn Sport
is frequently cited as the most desirable of all 911s, a sweet-handling
drivers car that rewards and thrills in equal measure. Sadly, my
memory doesn’t involve me driving one, or even seeing one, because I was
five and living in Aldershot. When you’re five (and living in
Aldershot) you get your automotive thrills courtesy of Matchbox (or
maybe Dinky, if you were flush).
The
reason that this particular model car stuck in my mind was due to the “duck
tail” spoiler that it sported on the rear engine cover. Bear in mind
that at this point in time I was five, and had a very limited grasp of
aerodynamics, which limited grasp I have hung on to, down to this day.
What was this flap? Why would you stick something like that on a car? I
couldn’t answer these questions, but I knew a man who surely could:
Dad. “Dad, what is this?” “Hmm, I think it’s a fold-up seat, so you can
carry extra passengers.” “Cool!”
So,
for quite a number of years following this explanation, I pictured
myself sat in a 911 dickie seat, having the ride of my life. The truth
was somewhat more prosaic, but eminently more practical.
Me, in a Porsche 911, going through the chicane at Goodwood. Passenger in dickie seat not pictured.
Over
the years like many, but not, all boys, I have been fascinated by cars.
That fascination manifest itself in the predictable ways: models,
Airfix kits, magazines, posters, and the Holy Grail, brochures! My
brochure collection spanned everything from Austin Allegro to Porsche
911. Trips to the Earls Court or Birmingham Motor Shows meant carrier
bags and carrier bags of brochures. Ford and BL were easy marks, with
their brochures just piled up ready to be gathered by eager young hands.
The more interesting marques were tougher, but by being inherently cute
(very easy for me obviously) it was occasionally possible to wheedle
something more interesting which, let’s be honest, wouldn’t be too
difficult.
Just
a couple of years later and it was time to get a taste of the good
stuff. Prior to 1985 my experience of motorsport had been confined to
evenings watching banger racing at Matchams Raceway. The term raceway is
perhaps a little grand for what was basically a ¼ mile tarmac loop
surrounded by a dusty embankment, but you could get close to cars being
driven recklessly quickly, and that was all that was
important. About this time dad took me to a hillclimb event at Gurston
Down, which was interesting (racing Skodas!?), but the one at a time
format wasn’t quite as exciting as circuit racing, in my admittedly
inexperienced eyes. Well then, imagine my excitement when some family
friends asked if I would like to go with them to Brands Hatch to watch
the hastily arranged European Grand Prix in 1985. “Would I?” So off I
went, having no idea really what to expect, and being totally blown
away. The noise, the smell, the speed was beyond anything I had
imagined. The whole thing was absolutely tremendous. That Grand Prix
is famous for being Nigel Mansell’s first GP win, and Prost’s clinching
of the Driver’s Championship, and there was a real sense of tension as
the race unfolded. Of course being 1985 it meant I can say that I saw
Ayrton Senna race, as well as Piquet, Alboreto and Rosberg.
Nigel Mansell on his way to victory, Brands Hatch 1985. Taken on a 110 camera, sorry!
John Watson, TAG-McLaren at the same race.
Second-place Ayrton Senna's JPS Lotus-Renault at Le Vie en Bleu, Prescott, May 2010
This
was a turning point. No longer was it enough to read about cars, now I
had to see them in action. And it didn’t matter what sort of action. I
would head off in to the forests of Dorset to watch the Winter Rally. (If
you want to get close to the action it really is hard to beat
rallying!)
Lancia Delta Integrale
My cousin got wind of a Supercar trackday being held at
Goodwood, so unselfconciously we set off, in his metallic bogie green Honda
Accord, and spent a day in the sun watching our fantasy cars being
blasted round the old circuit. Something similar was organised by the De
Tomaso Owners Club at Castle Combe, and again we turned up to have our
supercar itch scratched. I think the highlight was either the three
Lamborghini Miuras parked up together or the super-rare Ferrari 250 GT
SWB (currently one of my three all-time cars.)
De Tomaso Mangusta at Castle Combe
Ferrai 250 GT swb
Three(!) Lamborghini Miuras at Castle Combe
Ferrari 288 GTO at Castle Combe
A very sorry Ferrari 308 GT4 at Goodwood
Iso Grifo at Castle Combe.
In
1989 we upped the ante. Now depending on which bit of the globe you
call home, you may have a different answer to the question “What is the
world’s greatest motor race?” You might say the Indy 500, Dakar Rally,
Bathurst or maybe the Monaco grand prix, but clearly you would be wrong. The correct
answer is of course Le 24 Heure du Mans. Why? It’s epic, intense,
demanding beyond imagination, a sensory overload and that’s just for the
tens of thousands of fans who flock to northern France every year. In
‘89 Gary, Steve and I were the archetypal innocents abroad. We joined
up with the Page and Moy tour somewhere in Kent on a very drizzly night
and took the ferry to France. On disembarking we were allocated to our
coach which was also the unfortunate receptacle of approximately twenty
roaringly drunk Kiwis. They proceeded to increase their
roaringly-drunkeness on the journey south. We laughed, we cried, and at
times we feared for our lives. It is the journey that lives with me to
this day, but that is not to take away from the astonishing experience
of a twenty four hour motor race. After the first few hours we set off
hitching round the circuit, watching from numerous vantage points.
Without a radio it was impossible to follow what was unfolding but that
really didn’t matter; we were immersed in the experience. I think the
killer viewpoint was from an alley way between two houses on the Mulsanne
straight. We had an incredibly narrow viewing angle, it was two in the
morning, we were shattered beyond all belief, but racing cars were
blasting past at 220 m.p.h about ten feet away from our faces. It was all
too much for Steve, Gary and I looked round to find him asleep on a
nest he had made from our bags.
The winning Sauber-Mercedes C9, Le Mans 1989
The truly ear-splitting Mazda 787B, Le Mans 1989
That
wasn’t my last visit. In 1996 and 1997 I took my trusty VW Camper to
the Sarthe to enjoy the race again. I really can’t stress just how
fantastic these experiences were. The racing is clearly the reason to
go, and it was as exciting as ever. But Le Mans is so much more. We
established base camp in Camping du Houx, where over the course of the
next few day we enjoyed an attempt at the record for most people playing
volleyball in a crowded campsite, multi-frisbee, and drag-racing
(post-race). During the race, you wander about, watching the racing from
as many different places as you can, listening to position updates from
Radio Le Mans (I'd learnt my lesson from 1989), before stumbling back to your tent in the early hours.
You fall asleep to the sound of engines blaring round the track, before
coming blearily to, five hours later, to the same sound. As you produce
some sort of dubious fry-up, washed down with a small beer, you know there is another eight hours of
racing to go. It is a truly epic motor race.
Le
Mans is a tough act to follow, but over the year’s I’ve been to
Donington, Thruxton, Combe and Goodwood to watch all sorts of stuff be
raced. There is something to be said for being there, it beats watching
it on the TV by an order of magnitude or two. In recent years, living in
Gloucestershire as I do, I’ve been to the Prescott Hillclimb on several
occasions ( 1, 2, 3). It’s a well-supported event, but still small enough to be
intimate. You can get right in to the paddock, have a proper nose at the
cars, talk to the drivers and then get really close to the action as
they blast up the hill.
Porsche 935(?) at Castle Combe
Jaguar XJR-11 at Donington 1990
The winning Mercedes Benz C-11 at Donington 1990
So
what has any of this got to do with me not watching F1 next year? Well,
I think I probably sit somewhere in the middle of the target
demographic; I’m between the ages of 35-44, am interested in cars and
car racing, and own a TV. I’m not a motor-racing fanatic, and I’m not
someone who just watches F1 because they fancy JB or Lewis or Mark
Webber (you know who you are!) I’m somewhere between the two extremes,
probably a bit further away from the “fancying” end, to be honest. I’ll
watch the coverage of qualifying, the analysis and the race. I will have
my laptop or phone to hand with the FIA app running, so I can see
sector times and gaps and all that nerdy stuff. I get up early to watch
the far-flung races, and periodically buy Autosport to keep abreast of
what is going on. I listen to the Beeb’s “Chequered Flag” podcast.
Yet,
if I want to watch F1 next year, I have to get a Sky subscription. Yes,
yes, I know there will be half a season on the Beeb, but who watches half a
season of something? And let’s be realistic, once this weird, Chimera,
coverage has run its course, Sky will have the lot, and us poor old
terrestrial viewers can go hang for all anyone cares. I am not so naive
as to think that F1 is all about the fans, clearly in recent years the
move to tedious, soulless tracks in emerging economies has highlighted
that it’s all about the moolah, so the Sky deal makes perfect sense. The
ear-splitting silence from the teams and drivers about this switch just
emphasises where their loyalties lie. All the “Hey there fans, you’re
great, we really appreciate your support” tweets ring a little hollow
when not one of them, as far as I have seen, has expressed concern or
disquiet at Sky’s takeover and the impact that will have on UK fans.
So
“meh”, if you want my support, you have to give a little bit back. (As
you read that I would like you to imagine a tiny figure waving an
impotent, clenched fist at a huge, uncaring monolith. That will give you
an idea of how much I think Bernie, Sky and their F1 puppets will care
about my desertion.)
So
what am I going to do instead of spending money on a Sky box? Well I
think I might go and watch actual motorsport, with my own eyes, outside!
A weekend ticket for Prescott will set you back maybe £30. The
Silverstone 6 Hours last month cost £23. I live within a reasonable
drive of Castle Combe, Thruxton, Donington and numerous other circuits. A
ticket for Le Mans next year is about £70. £70! That’s an absolute
bargain.
So sorry F1, you’ve lost a fan. It’s been fun, the last couple of seasons have been immense, but goodbye.
