FORMULA FORD
Mark Hales tests a Cortina-engined racer
WHILE THERE ARE other race categories still thriving five decades down the track, I can think of none that still operates to an exactly similar set of rules. Conceived originally in 1964 as a cheap option for use in race schools, Formula Ford became a National category in 1967 and since then only the brands of clutch and tyres have changed. Everything else, including the 1600cc alliron pushrod Cortina engine, is still as supplied by the only official source, which is Ford Motor Company. And you can still buy a brand new car, slightly slimmer than its forebears in an attempt to slip better through the air, but still meeting all the same original criteria.
Perhaps inevitably, given the intervening years, there are now Historic (pre-1972) and Classic (pre-1982) divisions, too, both of them retro in date of manufacture but less so in performance. A good man in a 40-year-old car can still be competitive in the modern division, testament indeed to the rigidity of the rules.
The original FF1600 blueprint is very simple: a welded steel tube frame mounts a wheel at each corner suspended by simple tubular wishbones and links with coil-overdampers. The engine bolts solidly to the chassis directly behind the driver, powering a VW-based transaxle. Bodywork is minimal, aerodynamic assistance is strictly banned, brakes are simple two-pot calipers on solid discs, and wheels are steel, wearing treaded tyres – originally
Dunlop, now Avon for some categories. It’s traditional and there are no frills whatsoever, but the sheer speed round a lap that a good driver could – and still can – extract from a Formula Ford is astonishing in comparison with much more complicated and powerful machinery. In days gone by, some of that was down to future world champions passing through on their way to greater things, but a quick look at the numbers and the layout might help to explain why it’s possible.
A Cortina engine carefully assembled by one or two specialists pushes out about 115bhp – almost certainly less than what’s managed by the diesel engine sitting in your drive – passing through a four-speed adaptation of the VW Beetle gearbox by transmission specialist Mike Hewland, to a pair of narrow 5.5x13in steel wheels wearing equally skinny tall-profile tyres. It’s all confined
within a rectangle measuring about 11ft by 5.5, with another pair of similarly sized wheels (wearing slightly smaller tyres) at the front corners. Even with the iron engine, it only adds up to a little over 400kg and the total – including the occupant – must weigh no more than 500kg by the end of the race, which is not very much.
An essential detail is that all the major masses – driver, fuel tank, engine and Hewland – sit low, distributed almost equally within the length and width of that rectangle. The combination of low overall mass and equal balance – left uncomplicated by a zealous lack of aerodynamic complexity and relatively low levels of adhesion – can be manipulated by an expert driver to influence that grip at either end of the car, exactly when they want, and in what percentage. It’s driver adjustability of the highest order, and it’s completely ad hoc.
The number of makes seen throughout the 50 years is vast – the category empowered builders almost as much as drivers – and there are more than 100 different models on the Classic eligibility list. Inevitably, a smaller number became more numerous in period and, for similarly obvious reasons, that tends to be the case in the Historic divisions today. Back then, I watched a great deal – National FF1600 was at many of the meetings where I was learning a little about driving in the 1970s and ’80s – but I’ve driven them only occasionally. There’s only one seat and, quite unreasonably, owners want to occupy that exclusively. So the chance to drive a 1970 Merlyn Mk17, a seminal example of the breed, at Silverstone’s Stowe circuit was a rare pleasure.
Very nicely turned out by former Merlyn racer Mike O’Brien’s Speedsport team (O’Brien raced Merlyns in
1978 and his son Michael is in contention for this year’s Historic FF1600 title, driving the sister car), it looks like a racing car should. Hard to explain that statement, so cast an eye over the pictures and you’ll see what I mean.
The instinct for line that great designers combine with best performance – Sydney Camm’s Hawker Fury and Hunter, Colin Chapman’s Lotus 25 and 49 – only proves the old epithet ‘if it looks right, it is right’, but clearly it’s something with which the Hayward brothers Clive and Selwyn – makers of the Merlyn – were also blessed.
Also in the epithets catalogue is the suggestion that you don’t so much as climb into a single-seater, you wear it like a suit, which in this case was a touch tight for my six-foot frame. Tilting the size 13s and sliding them under the dash, over the battery and down towards the pedals wasn’t a problem, and neither was lowering the body on arms and hands planted on the chassis tubes but, once in, my shoulders were tight up against the bodywork and my elbows either pinned to my ribs or resting on top of the tubes level with my shoulders.
It’s all part of the lack of compromise that defines a single-seater, but it meant I’d have to drive with hands pinching the top third of a small steering wheel. It wouldn’t be the first time. Put it out of mind and sometimes the problem goes away, and anyway, it might oblige me to drive tidily. The gearlever is down to the right, about four inches long, the gate much the same in any direction and there are only the four speeds. Dash is simple: revcounter, oil pressure and water temperature gauges, all with needles that creep like spiders, and