MOTOR SPORT FLASHBACK: A VERY WET GP
SOMETIMES A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER CAN ADD A LITTLE EXCITEMENT TO A MOTOR RACE; OTHER TIMES, IT CAN CAUSE IT TO BECOME MONTY PYTHON–ESQUE
The first Australian Grand Prix (GP) to be part of the world championship was run in early November 1985 in stinking-hot conditions. I can still recall how warm it was in the early evening when I was walking back to the train station along North Terrace after another day in the baking sun. The 1986 race, the one in which Nigel Mansell’s tyre exploded late in the race, along with his chances of finishing the day as world champion, was run in late October; it wasn’t just cooler on race day — it was noticeably colder across the entire event, with even an occasional sprinkle. For 1987, the race was moved to mid November, and it was back to the heat of ’85. I had initially decided to give the 1988 race a miss because the Mclaren-honda domination that year made the result inevitable (it was) but a week or so out, I couldn’t resist and booked a flight — having friends to stay with made it easy; the ’88 weekend was another hot one. With the date now firmly fixed in November, there became an expectation of warm weather across the four days of the event, and so it looked in 1989. In fact, I can recall applying sunblock even before an early breakfast in a cafe on Rundle Mall.
That year I was in a grandstand at the very end of the back straight and it had proven to be a good spot through practice and qualifying. Adelaide always seemed to attract plenty of quality demonstrations. One year, for instance, Juan Manuel Fangio was there in the Alfa Romeo Alfetta 159 in which he’d won the first of his five world titles, and in 1989 John Surtees was entrusted with a pre-war Mercedes-benz W125.
From the grandstand, we could see the cars exiting the hairpin and, after a lap or two to acclimatize, ‘Big John’ got on to the power early and the 5.6-litre supercharged straight-eight drifted perilously close to the outside wall. The guy in front of me turned to his mate and said, “He won’t do that again”, but the next time around he went even closer. It was one of those moments when you realize that these guys don’t breathe the same air as the rest of us.
And now for something completely different
By late morning, the previously rising temperatures had given way to a darkening sky. We were told that not only was rain on the way but there would also be plenty of it. It hadn’t occurred to me put a raincoat into my backpack that morning, but as it approached noon, with the race due to start in only two hours, there seemed only two logical options: either get extremely wet, or find a pub showing the race. As the size of the raindrops increased significantly, I did some mental arithmetic and made my move. The grandstand was near the intersection of Wakefield Road and Princes Highway, where I figured there might be a cab. In no time I was in an XF Falcon bound for my friend’s house in the suburb of Seacliff. The taxi driver
was happy to wait as I dashed inside to grab the waterproof leggings I’d left there after the 1986 event, raincoat, and anything else I had that I thought might help. I rode back to the track in the back seat so I could apply the overtrousers while on the move, much to the amusement of Dimitris the Greek taxi driver: “Maate, why you want to get wet? I take you to pub.”
Thinking about that three decades later, it was a suggestion with very real merit, especially, if my memory is correct, since it now seemed to be raining even harder. After all, the world championship had been concluded, in massively controversial circumstances, at the previous round in Japan, but perhaps Dimitris was indeed correct and I was, “Crazy, you crazy.”
Let the circus begin
I was back in my seat half an hour or so before the first of the two starts and already registering that my overtrousers weren’t really waterproof at all. As they’d been all season, the Mclarens of Ayrton Senna and Alain Prost qualified quickest, and with the Frenchman having his last drive for the team he’d been with for the previous six seasons, and clearly no love lost between them, there was an expectation of it being game on. Prost got the jump on the Brazilian initially, but Senna had plenty to prove and went past into turn one. All sorts of mayhem was going on down the field, to such an extent that the race was stopped because the track was blocked. The commentators told us that the race might not restart, and this was just the news some needed to take refuge in a pub.
Arguments raged on the grid about a restart but what we knew is that at the end of that lap, Prost had returned to the pits and speculation circled as to whether he’d just call it quits — after all, he had nothing to prove and would still finish the day as 1989’s world champion. Senna meanwhile left no one in any doubt as to his position; he sat in his Mclaren on the grid as the restarting debate continued.
Acrobatics
While I wouldn’t have been heartbroken had the race been cancelled, I was also thinking of the small fortune Dimitris had cost me, and on balance I really wanted some return from that expenditure. Restart the race did, and Senna was gone. He alone had a clear track in front of him and he made the most of it by pulling out a huge lead. Prost had withdrawn, and it became apparent that with each lap we were seeing fewer cars go past. Most retirements were a result of collisions or spinning off in the appalling conditions.
By lap 10, seven cars had gone, but all the while Senna was supreme — until lap 13. He was about due to come past us but out of the gloom came Martin Brundle’s Brabham with the rear wing having been severed. Seconds later we saw Senna, the front left wheel gone, and what had happened instantly became obvious. If you feel inclined, dial this incident up on Youtube; Brundle was running that day with a rear-mounted camera and it is obvious that Senna had not seen him and had simply ploughed into the back of him, blinded by spray.
Up until that moment, I was firmly in the ‘these guys are the best on the planet and are paid to race so don’t start talking about cancelling or even postponing GPS’ camp, but if Senna could hammer into the back of a car he was lapping, then perhaps Prost’s approach was right after all. The Frenchman had attracted a huge amount of criticism at Silverstone the year before when he had withdrawn from the 1988 British GP, following which he’d stated: “Why risk a big accident, maybe break a leg or something, and put myself out for the rest of the year so I can maybe be 12th or something? Everyone does what he wants with his own car and his own life. I know maybe I lost the championship today, but I decided to stop.”
As I contemplated whether this race should
really be happening, we were in pole position to witness something else a few laps later that convinced me that racing in this wasn’t the smartest of decisions. On lap 19, the yellow Lotus of three-time world champion Nelson Piquet came up to lap the Osella of Italian backmarker Piercarlo Ghinzani, who in turn was following countryman Pierluigi Martini’s Minardi.
And pirouettes
Whereas the Senna/brundle crash had occurred just before our grandstand, the attack by Piquet on the Osella happened right in front of us. The Brazilian smashed into Ghinzani under-braking for the hairpin, launching the Italian into a spin that sent him ploughing into the concrete wall in front of us. Piquet meanwhile was launched backwards at seemingly unreduced speed, and just as it seemed as if he’d also take Martini out on his now-uncontrolled path, the Minardi driver, who would have been oblivious to this carnage behind him, calmly made the right-hander. Piquet was now careering down the escape road as he tried to find some stopping power. It seemed certain that the now-three-wheeled Lotus would soon be smashed tail first into the tyres strapped in front of the concrete wall a few metres from where Dimitris had collected and delivered me a few hours earlier.
Somehow it stopped. It’s possible that the rear wing ended up no more than a millimetre from the wall. At worst, it might have kissed it, but it remains the worst accident I have personally witnessed in a GP. Ghinzani chucked out the steering wheel from his
All sorts of mayhem was going on down the field, to such an extent that the race was stopped because the track was blocked
savaged Osella after it came to rest just past the outer edge of the right-hand turn, while bits of bodywork, and Piquet’s front left wheel, were spread across the track in front of us. At this point there was an expectation that sanity might prevail and the race be called, but on they went.
In fact, American Eddie Cheever was the last retirement, when he spun off on lap 42, and the rest behaved themselves, with four cars on the lead lap when the flag dropped after the two-hour maximum time limit had been reached on lap 70.
Mercifully, no one was hurt and Belgian driver Thierry Boutsen drove magnificently through the spray, dealing with aquaplaning and unsighted backmarkers to record the second of the three wins of his career. His Williams teammate Riccardo Patrese was third and between them was the Benetton of Alessandro Nannini, who’d won the previous time out in Japan.
There was a Cher concert after the 1990 GP at Adelaide, but even if she’d been there in 1989, I’d have still been forced to give her a miss. Yup, that sodden. Now, where did Dimitris say he’d be?
The orangewash
In tier-one motor racing championships comprising more than half a dozen rounds, it is unheard of for every race to be won by the same team. Despite the dominant Michael Schumacher / Ferrari period of 2000– 2004, Mclaren-honda in 1988, and Mercedes in recent Formula 1, history has never seen a 100-per-cent strike rate. All of that was in the future when the Mclaren team arrived at the Texas World Speedway, roughly between Houston and Austin, in early November 1969 for the final round of that season’s Can-am championship.
The previous 10 races had seen five wins to Bruce Mclaren and five wins to Denny Hulme, their 7.0-litre papaya orange Mclaren-chevs having comprehensively seen off the might of Ferrari, Chaparral, and Lola. Could they make it 11 from 11?
To emphasize the scale of their advantage: in eight of the previous 10 races, they’d finished one-two. Denny had 160 points to Bruce’s 145 going into the race, with the plan being that Bruce would win the race and Denny would follow him home to take the title. The 8.1-litre Ford-powered Mclaren of Mario Andretti qualified second to Denny, with Bruce sharing the second row with the V12 Ferrari of Chris Amon.
It didn’t take long for the Ferrari to blow, then Andretti blew a couple of laps later. Bruce led until late in the race, when Denny’s Chev let go after setting the fastest lap. Speeds had been in the realm of 340kph on this tri-oval but Bruce eased up to win the race, complete the 100-percent domination, and take his second Can-am title plus the third in a row for the team. The ‘Bruce and Denny Show’, as the North Americans called it, had prevailed in the car Denny described to me in an interview in 1992 as being “the best car Mclaren ever built”.