Whether on two wheels or four, helmeted heads were often seen
haring around rainswept swathes of tarmac, from Brands Hatch to Donington,
Thruxton to Lyddon Hill, all to the soundtrack of Mr Walker’s commentary. The
occasional shunt made the races moderately interesting and at least these
segments in Grandstand were more entertaining than the 2.15 from Catterick.
Even in black-and-white, the mud-spattered sport of Motorcross
definitely had appeal for this young boy. Umpteen bikes actually raced against
each other in close proximity, scrambling around rugged fields, generating a
genuine sense of excitement. This YouTube clip brought
it all back to me. Rally driving seemed to feature similar elements, but
without the danger of overtaking. On the few occasions I watched on the box, it
always seemed to be Finns winning everything and, while it looked a thrilling
spectacle for the spectator, I never felt the inner rush to travel to some
godforsaken forest and see a soggy Subaru fishtailing its way down the lanes. I
was happy to leave such adventures to the true petrolheads.
Rallycross and saloon car racing had the advantage of
featuring vehicles broadly recognisable from those I saw on the way to school
(Vauxhall Chevettes, Ford Escorts!), while Sports Car events had slightly more glamour
but without the global cache of F1. Not enough to convert me to the
Castrol-veined Clarksonesque community. As they say, every cloud…!
No, I preferred my cars smaller. Much smaller. I do remember
on our 1970 summer holiday to Cornwall buying a Roger Clark Ford Capri complete
with stickers, the closest I would ever get to rallying! Whilst my own ‘races’
on the living room carpet were more likely to involve the larger Corgi or Dinky
models, amongst my modest collection of toy cars were a few peeling metal
Matchbox Jaguars or Lesney Lotuses, either bought for me or passed down from my
uncles. Welcome to the word of Formula One.
Like most sports, the BBC tended to dominate motor sport broadcasting
and, being part of a Beeb-favouring family, I probably watched F1 from a young
age. I don’t recall exactly when I became aware of the sport’s epitome but I do
remember discussing the well-publicised death of Jochen Rindt in 1970 with a
classmate who was more into such things than I ever was; he even went to Brands
Hatch with his family, a distinctly exotic activity compared with my
stamp-collecting, bike-riding or back garden cricket with Dad.
My Grand Prix watching was fairly sporadic. It wasn’t
essential viewing for me, not even the British or Monaco races, for all their
hyper-hyped glitz and gloss. However, if there was nothing else to do or watch
on a wet Sunday summer or autumn afternoon, the BBC’s coverage was a reliable
friend. Let’s be honest, the best bits were:-
-
The brooding bassline and wailing guitar solo from
Fleetwood Mac’s The Chain’ top-and-tailing each programme;
-
Murray Walker acclaiming a particularly nifty
piece of overtaking or crash;
-
The chequered flag moment
Everything in between was rather boring. Monaco had some
street scenery but no overtaking, which put the onus on speed in pre-race
qualifying. Spa in Belgium had some distinctive rises and falls, Hockenheim the
forests, Monza had Ferrari’s irresistible seas of scarlet banners and, more
recently, the innovative floodlit Singapore brought a different look and
atmosphere. However, I always found it difficult to love the rest.
Once the mad dash for the first bend, with its associated
risks and potential for shunts and spins, was completed, what else is there to
look forward to? Putting a stopwatch on pit stops added a touch of tension to
what is basically a trip to the garage for new tyres (but without the wait and
browse through an incomprehensible spare parts magazine) but even if the
superbly-drilled mechanics performed their task inside six seconds, it would do
nothing to boost my heart rate. Only a bumper-to-bumper contest and
heart-in-mouth overtaking manoeuvres would do that.
There was nothing uplifting about a really serious accident,
of course. In the Seventies, Formula One was still a dangerous business. The
increased emphasis on ‘elf and safety may have produced less of a spectacle for
TV audiences but it has also undoubtedly extended the lifespan of drivers and
indeed those in the stands. Big stars like Rindt, Ronnie Peterson, Gilles
Villeneuve and Ayrton Senna all perished for our entertainment, while others
have sadly died during testing. I remember switching on to the 1994 Imola race
to learn of Senna’s fatal collision with a wall. Obviously there were no
highlights, no confirmation that the much-loved genius had been killed, but the
downbeat tone of Walker, Brundle et al said it all and practically had me in
tears. I hadn’t been watching in 1976 when the brilliant Niki Lauda was
engulfed in flames at the Nurburgring but the scenes shown on the News that
night were shocking. I definitely prefer my sporting heroes alive and kicking,
thank you very much.
As with other sports, the migration of F1 away from BBC then
terrestrial TV altogether seriously diminished my interest in motor racing. The
banter between Jake Humphreys, Eddie Jordan and David Coulthard had been quite
entertaining, while Suzi Perry had introduced some much-needed femininity but
even Suzi couldn’t lure me into the world of tyre treads and millionaire
motorhomes. The retirement of Michael Schumacher and rise of Lewis Hamilton
haven’t helped either. Will there be future drivers or presenters able to lead
me back into the fold? Probably not, given this household’s preference for
Sunday afternoon football! However, Formula One has not been without its
luminaries who have enthralled this armchair viewer.
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