A reminder that
It was a scene positively biblical in its power. Just 20 seconds after he had speared into a Bahraini crash barrier at 53 times the force of gravity, his car slicing in half and flames engulfing his cockpit, Romain Grosjean emerged from the inferno, hurdled the wall of shattered steel, and walked away.
Formula One is not a realm given to invoking the divine, but the Frenchman’s escape from seemingly certain death was as close to a miraculous vision as any sport has seen.
One half of Grosjean’s machine lay embedded in molten metal, the other half had come to rest a few yards away, a gruesome cleaving that bore witness to the horror of the impact.
If ever there was a sight to shatter the misconception that modern F1 drivers know nothing of the terrors that assailed their forefathers, this was it. Grosjean’s ordeal rendered any suggestion of this sport being too safe, too anodyne, null and void.
But for the halo that encircled his head as he hurtled towards doom at 220kmh, he would, in all likelihood, have been killed on impact. But for his advanced flameretardant overalls, he would have been consumed by the conflagration.
As it was, Grosjean sustained only minor burns to his wrists and ankles, staying overnight at a nearby military hospital as doctors examined him for suspected broken ribs.
His team, Haas, posted a video of him in his bed, albeit with his hands encased in protective plastic. ‘‘I am OK – well, sort of OK,’’ he joked.
‘‘Thank you for all the messages.’’
The outcome was one that nobody observing either the crash or the ensuing fireball had any right to expect. The very fact that the 34-year-old would live to spend another day with his wife, Marion, and his three children, Sacha, Simon and Camille, stood as testament to the sport’s insistence never to compromise on safety.
When the FIA, F1’s world governing body, resolved in 2017 to introduce the halo, a wishboneshaped device to protect drivers from head injuries, it drew criticism for the aesthetics of the design.
Too ugly, it was claimed, and too obstructive to vision was the verdict from some. Today, not for the first time, it can be confidently credited with saving somebody’s life.
‘‘I wasn’t for the halo some years ago, but I think it’s the greatest thing we have built in Formula One,’’ Grosjean said. ‘‘Without it I wouldn’t be able to speak to you today.’’
But he owes his fortune, too, to the astonishingly quick thinking of two men in the silver medical vehicle behind. No sooner did the opening-lap carnage unfold, with Grosjean clipping AlphaTauri’s Daniil Kvyat before veering off a reduced run-off area and into the wall, than the rescue team arrived.
While Dr Ian Roberts, the medical rescue coordinator, dashed straight into the flames to retrieve Grosjean from the wreckage, medical car driver Alan van der Merwe had a fire extinguisher on hand to help save them both.
It was an utterly extraordinary sight, crystallising the sharpness of the thinking that kept Grosjean from a far grislier fate.
As has become customary, F1
last night invited votes for its driver of the day, expecting a landslide for Lewis Hamilton on the occasion of his record-extending 95th victory. The win would go down, though, as a historical footnote.
For the true hero of the hour was Van der Merwe, the South African who in 2008 shelved his own racing career to drive the medical car.
‘‘I’ve never seen that much fire in 12 years,’’ he said. ‘‘It took a little while to process what was going on, but then Romain started to get out of the car by himself, which was amazing.
‘‘It was a relief when we finally got back to the medical centre. Everything worked hand in hand: the halo, the barriers, the seat-belt. Without one of those things, it could have been a different outcome.’’
The FIA’s investigation into the distressing events in the Sakhir desert promises to be exhaustive. For if there is one spectacle that chills the blood in F1 more than a high-speed crash, it is fire.
Vicious blazes were only too common when drivers had their legs mere millimetres from the fuel tank, but they have grown mercifully rare in recent years. Just as F1’s record of 47 driver deaths in the 1960s and 70s has improved beyond recognition since, so, too, has its avoidance of incendiary dramas.
Grosjean’s ordeal was a reminder that while risks have reduced since the days of Niki Lauda, who suffered terrible disfigurement when his car exploded at the Nurburgring in 1976, they have not vanished altogether.
The drivers of 2020 were brought far too close for comfort to their own mortality. Renault’s Daniel Ricciardo was visibly shaken, criticising broadcasters for bombarding them with replays of Grosjean’s accident before they had a chance even to restart the race.
‘‘It was completely disrespectful and inconsiderate for his family, for all our families,’’ the Australian said.
‘‘Every time we look on TV it’s a ball of fire, and his car’s cut in half. They’re playing with all our emotions.’’
Hamilton, despite the dominance of his eventual triumph, acknowledged how narrowly F1 had averted its first fatal accident since 2014, when Jules Bianchi died after colliding with the rear of a tractor crane.
‘‘This was horrifying,’’ the seventime world champion said. ‘‘I am so grateful that the halo worked, that the barrier didn’t slice his head off. It could have been so much worse. It is a reminder to people watching: this is a dangerous sport.’’
This reality was reinforced soon after the resumption, when Lance Stroll’s Racing Point flipped upsidedown. To think, this Bahrain Grand Prix had effectively been a dead rubber of a race, with Hamilton having sealed the title with three races to spare.
And yet such is the unprecedented speed generated by these cars, the perils never abate.
Grosjean is edging towards retirement, with Haas already having dropped him from next season’s line-up.
But, as he wakes in hospital today, his prevailing sense, shared powerfully by his peers, is one of pure incredulity that he is still alive.