MOTOR SPORT FLASHBACK
MICHAEL CLARK AND HIS WIFE’ S RECENT GRAND TOUR OF THE UK AND EUROPE INCLUDED CLOSE ENCOUNTERS WITH MCLAREN S, BEING DRIVEN BY GROS JEAN’ S BROTHER—OR WAS IT ?— AND A VISIT TO THE FAMOUS COLLECTION SCHLUMP F
As we arrived to sign in, we saw a dark grey Mclaren 650S roll up, and my wife enunciated what I’d been thinking: “When you arrive at Mclaren, who better to see behind the wheel of the first Mclaren you see than the founder’s daughter, Amanda Mclaren?”
Mclaren HQ was very much the brainchild of Ron Dennis, who, sadly, has seemingly been airbrushed out of the company’s history in recent years. Dennis joined the thenstruggling organization in 1981 and built it into the empire it has become. We followed Amanda around the semicircular lake, where her husband, Stephen Donnell, was waiting to take us on a tour. The scale is immense, yet, because it is partially sunk into the ground, there is no blot-on-the-landscape risk. To the edge of campus is Mclaren Park. Although it is stating the obvious, you can’t help but stop and think: a Kiwi was behind all this. The atrium features older Mclaren Formula 1 (F1) cars — Bruce’s 1969 M7A and Denny’s 1972 M19C — but ahead of them is the only non-mclaren car in the whole facility: Bruce’s first racing car, the red Austin Ulster.
We wandered past Can-am monsters and F1 cars from the Niki Lauda, Alain Prost, and Ayrton Senna days and then on to the Mika Häkkinen and Lewis Hamilton machines. There are also Le Mans cars from the mid to late 1990s — it’s all a bit much to take in.
Stephen ushered us to the area where current — sadly, slow — cars were being prepped prior to being sent to Singapore. In an adjacent area, an M8B Can-am car was being fettled. The man in charge was instantly recognizable. I’d never previously met Neil Trundle, but he’s got orange Mclaren blood running through his veins. Trundle and Dennis were running Formula 2 cars back in the 1970s as Rondel Racing, and, within seconds of shaking his hand, I could sense that he would have been the perfect foil for the obsessive and aloof ‘RD’. Neil’s an absolute top man — a total motor racing, and Mclaren, nutter, and meeting him was a highlight of our visit.
We then started walking — past seemingly endless trophy cabinets, and through a series of doors (the closing sequence of Get Smart soon came to mind) until we reached a staircase that took us to a viewing platform overlooking the road-car assembly area. The activity was astonishing — cars being moved along on wheeled frames from one technician’s station to another. As we watched a kaleidoscope of colour options moving through, Stephen told us that Mclaren has yet to build a car that is 100-per-cent identical to another. In the foreground was the waterspray booth that would determine any hint of a leak, while all around was the impression that the place is so spotless that open-heart surgery could be carried out without any thought about sterilizing the joint. It was, quite simply, mind-blowing.
Rome
I’d been told not to expect much in the way of car emporiums in Italy’s capital — a police car museum didn’t appeal. After six days, the only slice of exotica we spotted while there was a late model front-engined Ferrari. Apart from the omnipresence of Smart cars, it was looking as if there would be zilch to report on from one of the world’s most historic cities. At least, that was the situation until an evening stroll far from our accommodation meant that the only logical option for getting back was an inconspicuous Fiat Multipla taxi.
The ride was largely uneventful to start with, as we headed south-east towards the Castel Sant’angelo. Our driver was multitasking
— texting, and turning around to give us the courtesy of eye contact as he chatted. A Giulietta had stopped in front of us as the road started to curve around the edge of the Tiber, and he twigged when we gasped, refocusing by reorienting his eyes to the windscreen. The Alfa Romeo badge had become so large that it seemed inevitable that we would go through it any second, but somehow our man pulled up the Multipla without any contact— but we all knew it must have been close. He turned again and flashed my wife a smile accompanied by “Sorry, mama, sorry”.
Now he was awake; once traffic was moving again, he was in race mode. Scooters were overtaken with no margin for error, but there were no hysterics or fist waving — this was all par for the course for Roman traffic — but then he completely carved up a Toyota Starlet, which was forced to swerve to avoid collision; I could see that the driver was an elderly lady. We navigated a path through more scooters at a speed that was greater than necessary, and it became apparent that we were now engaged in a race — the grey-haired driver of the Starlet had a point to make, and in turn carved us up in a beautiful bit of timing that was delicious payback for what our driver had done to her a few seconds earlier. My wife, however, was oblivious to this, having decided her eyes should remain shut. I could feel that our driver wanted to go on with it, but we were soon at our destination, meaning that the Starlet prevailed. We didn’t care; we’d had a ride to remember — we even tipped our driver. Two things occurred to me: the first was to make a mental note never to think about driving in Rome; the other was to wonder how it is that Italy hasn’t had a world champion since 1953.
Bornracer
France’s famous daily newspaper dedicated to only sport is L’equipe, and it so happened that we were in the delightful city of Metz a day or so after Scott Dixon had secured another Indycar title. Indeed the caption confirmed that “he can be happy. He has just won the last race of the year and his fifth title”. That puts Scott into the realm of AJ Foyt and Mario Andretti in terms of achievements in North American open-wheeler racing.
Any hint that Scott might be thinking about easing up at the age of 38 certainly gets put to rest in the film Born Racer, which follows Scott through his 2017 campaign and captures the massive crash from which he limped away at last year’s Indianapolis 500. I remember thinking, as I watched it live, that it could be a career-ending accident, but, as the title of the film confirms, he’s been put here to do this and racers don’t quit just because of a wee prang. Besides, while titles are nice, I’ve no doubt that, in the US, winning the Indy 500 is nicer still. Scott won it in 2008, and, although he’s come close to it again, his statistics confirm just how hard it is to triumph at the Brickyard.
Scott and his wife have allowed the filmmakers plenty of latitude in reporting their private lives, and there is no doubt that Emma emerges as a real star — totally behind her man, with seemingly unconditional support. This is more than just a movie for petrolheads, and I expect it to receive excellent reviews. Parts of Scott’s background are portrayed, from the karting days with massively dedicated parents, up through the ranks via Formula Ford, Australia, and Indy Lights.
As with Brendon Hartley, Kenny Smith played a huge part in getting Scott onto the world stage, as Kenny explained: “Although he won in Australia, there wasn’t enough
I’d never previously met Neil Trundle, but he’s got orange Mclaren blood running through his veins. Trundle and Dennis were running Formula 2 cars back in the 1970s as Rondel Racing.
money to buy him a drive in America, but we assembled enough so that he could live. I took Scott to Laguna Seca to an Indycar race — it took the best part of two hours to walk up pit lane because I knew so many people who wanted to chat. I seemed to know 80 per cent of the people there, and if I didn’t know them, then they seemed to know me. It was as hot as hell, and Scott was saying ‘I’m bored — I want to go back to the hotel for a swim’. I told him in no uncertain terms, ‘Look, we’re here to get you a drive’.”
That was at the end of 1998, and the first of his five titles came in 2003.
Born Racer confirms the fervour Scott has for racing, and especially for winning. He is a Kiwi sporting phenomenon whose impressive career was recognized by the mayor of Indianapolis when he declared 24 September 2018 to be Scott Dixon Day.
Fernando Alonso
When Dixon lines up for the 2019 Indianapolis 500, it would seem highly likely that, once again, he’ll have Fernando Alonso to contend with. The Spaniard has left Mclaren but insists he hasn’t retired from F1 — more like tired of it. He has hinted at a return in 2020. For 2019, Alonso’s giving the 500 another crack — in 2017, he was released by Mclaren to make his debut around the famous rectangle because the race clashed with Monaco — as, sadly, it always seems to these days. Alonso not only adapted to it extremely quickly, impressing hardliners such as AJ and Mario with his attitude and speed, but actually came damn close to winning it.
If he does manage it, he will become only the second person to have won Indy, Le Mans, and the Monaco Grand Prix. Graham Hill is the only person to have done it thus far, winning Indy on debut in 1966, Le Mans in 1972, and Monaco five times during the 1970s. His feat was dubbed ‘the triple crown’ — a slogan invented by the media in 1972 that seems to have become accepted as an official title.
Grosjean’s brother
It is as if, several hundred years ago, the people of each town in Alsace made it their mission to make their town prettier than that of their nearest neighbour. We thought nothing could be cuter than Riquewihr until we arrived in Kaysersberg — just as delightful, possibly more so, but without as many tourists. There were four of us for the taxi ride to Colmar, and I was assigned the front seat. Something about the driver rang a bell, but initially I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then I had it! I googled ‘Romain Grosjean’ — the French F1 driver — and showed a photo to those in the back seat, who confirmed what I was thinking. I showed my phone to the driver, who enthusiastically announced “Romain Grosjean — my brother!” Given some of Romain’s antics in recent years, I said to our driver that I hoped that he wasn’t going to crash anytime soon.
Of course, Gerard wasn’t really the brother of an F1 driver, but it seems we weren’t the first of his passengers to have arrived at that thought. He phoned his wife, Sandrine, because “her English good”, so we chatted with Mme Belison, who, with her delightful accent, told us that “He gets this all the time, but he doesn’t crash, I promise”. Compared with our Roman taxi experience a week or so earlier, Gerard drove with Prost-like smoothness.
Mulhouse
Much has been written about the Cité de l’automobile, Musée national de l’automobile, Collection Schlumpf — or simply Schlumpf Collection, as it widely known; indeed, a review of a recently published book on the collection features in last month’s issue of this magazine. The Schlumpfs were besotted with Bugattis, and these cars, built 100km to the north of the museum, make up a large proportion of the exhibits. The first F1 car we saw was near the main lobby — a 1970 Ferrari 312B, the Italian team’s first flat-12 car for the three-litre era. It was a car that was intended for Chris Amon.
“I always thought it would be ready for Monza in 1969. I ran it around Mechanic the Modena Autodrome in early August and the crank broke,” Amon said. “Then we ran it two or three weeks later, and the crank broke again. Of course, it went onto become one of F1’s most reliable engines, but after all the retirements in ’68 and ’69, I decided to leave. What might have been …”