NIGEL ROEBUCK - ונהיגה במכונית פורמולה-1

[דובי מילר]

כמה פעמים ראיתם בטלויזיה מרוץ פורמולה-1 ואמרתם לעצמכם שאתם יכולים לעשות את זה לפחות טוב כמו אחד הנהגים.

תחשבו רק על המרוץ האחרון בבחריין ואני בטוח שאמרתם שלא הייתם מתרסקים כמו סוטהיל או לויזי ואולי אפילו מחזיקים מעמד במקום אלונסו מול העקיפה הנהדרת של היידפלד .

כאשר עיתונאי ספורט מוטורי מעבירים ביקורת על נהג כזה או אחר תמיד עולה התהייה באם הם בכלל ניסו לנהוג במכונית מרוץ או שהם סתם מפנטזים.

השבוע בעקבות שאלה שנשאל בנושא , NIGEL ROEBUCK מספר ומסביר איך זה מתוך הקוקפיט המפחיד של הרנו טורבו הצהובה של אדי צ'יבר , נהג וזמנים שרבים ממכם בוודאי לא מכירים אבל ישמחו לקרוא על זה .

 

תהנו

דובי

[דובי מילר]

"...Over the years I've driven quite a few single-seaters, but only one of them was a Formula One car, and we have to go back nearly 25 years.

 

In the late autumn of 1982 I got a phone call from Renault: would I like to drive their F1 car? Heart thudding, I said yes, of course I would. It will only be in a straight line, they added, charitably leaving unsaid the fact that the guardrails were hard and F1 cars expensive. Fine, fine, anything you say...

 

Away to Ricard, then, with others from the F1 press corps. At dinner that night team manager Jean Sage said that the forecast for the following day was gloomy, adding that we would probably not get a run if the day turned out wet.

 

Eddie Cheever, who had recently joined Renault, and would drive for the team in 1983, joined us for dinner, and later in the evening his team leader, Alain Prost, turned up. After a full day's testing with the turbocharged RE30B, he had cleared off into the mountains, getting in a little practice for the forthcoming Rallye du Var. It was still raining, he said.

 

Friday morning. I looked out to find the streets awash, mist over the sea, but as we drove up to the circuit the rain had stopped, and it would hold off until the evening.

 

"It's a pity," said Cheever, "that the surface is wet, because you won't really be able to feel the acceleration..."

 

As he spoke, (Renault competitions director) Gerard Larrousse was out in the car, hammering past in a cloud of spray, revs sometimes rising hysterically as the rear wheels hit a particularly bad puddle. We looked at each other and shivered. There was nothing new in seeing a Renault fishtail through the wet, but the circumstances lent a new dimension to it now.

 

It is always said of theatre critics that they are frustrated actors, writing about it because they can't do it. I had last driven a racing car eight years before, this a Lola T70 at Silverstone, and came away with all the usual thoughts of, "If only..."

 

I'd driven it reasonably quickly, and relished the experience, finding the car marred only by the gear change, which I found singularly imprecise.

 

"Hewlands are a knack," Cheever agreed. "You have to try and use your hand only, rather than move your whole arm. As a matter of fact, I don't care for the gearshift on the Renault and I think we need to improve the linkage. The throw is too long.

 

"Remember," Eddie said, "when you shift down in the Renault, give the engine a big rev, not just a blip. Then you'll find that the lever will go in smoothly."

 

More advice: "When you're turning around at each end, keep an eye on the boost gauge. You must keep the pressure up, otherwise the engine will die. Blipping the throttle won't keep it from stalling. You'll probably find the easiest thing is to leave it in second, dip the clutch and coast round, keeping your foot on the throttle. And in this weather there's probably not a lot of point in trying to boot it in first or second..."

 

My turn arrived. Renault had very sensibly brought along a Formule Renault Martini for everyone to try before getting out in the Formula One car. It was a nice little thing, which reached its 6000rpm maximum in fifth with case on the runway course which had been laid out for us. Round the hairpin, tail out, opposite lock, piece of cake this driving racing cars lark...

 

And so to the big moment. I could have done with a cigarette between stints, but there wasn't time. The cockpit of the RE30B I found comfortable, but unfortunately the welt on my moccasins made it impossible to reach the accelerator without snagging the brake pedal. I therefore removed my shoes - which turned out to be the first of several mistakes.

 

"Contact!" said one of the mechanics. As instructed, I put my right foot to the floor, and suddenly the 600-odd horsepower behind was alive. This was it.

 

After the Martini everything about the Renault felt very big. In the little car you had two skinny tyres out ahead, but now there were two wide ones very much closer. Out of the hairpin in first, accelerate, into second, accelerate. Hey, this is all right! Pull the lever back...fifth. The engine threatens to die of rev starvation. I move the lever around, trying desperately to find one of the lower ratios. It is just as I remember the Lola, only this time there is boost pressure to worry about as well.

 

Eventually I sorted it out, got it into third. The pressure built up once more, and I then experienced this truly extraordinary horsepower. Between eight and 10 thousand the rush forward was stunning, way beyond anything I had encountered previously, and seemed to be acceleration without end. In fourth, and going hard, I saw the marker cones ahead, eased off and found the brakes as impressive as the power.

 

After a couple of runs I was starting to regret the absence of shoes, for my feet were cold to the point of deadness. Keeping everything going round the hairpins became more difficult than ever, but I emerged once more with the engine still living. Away we go, up through the gears, second, third - and I spun. In a straight line I spun...

 

The power was hard on as the rear wheels hit a puddle. Round came the tail very quickly, and the car looped off the runway, slithering across the grass and coming to rest with a dead engine. I felt no fear because there had been nothing to hit, but a variety of other emotions flooded into my mind. Had any damage been done? If so, there was just the ghost of a chance that my colleagues awaiting their turn (let alone the Renault personnel) might not understand. It was like making love for the first time - with all your friends watching.

 

For a few seconds I sat there, furious with myself, and then the mechanics arrived, followed by an anxious Sage. Mercifully, all was well, the guys grinning as they removed grass and earth from the sidepods. No harm done, they said.

 

Back on the runway, the engine was fired up once more. Seven thousand revs, let the clutch in gently, away. After several more runs I got the sign indicating that my time was up.

 

Pull off, stop by the transporter, flick the ignition switch. My colleague Eoin Young leaned into the cockpit: "Thanks for that. You've just written my column for me..."

 

I retrieved my shoes, stamped up and down to get some feeling back into my feet and accepted a lighted fag from someone who knows me well. "Hold your hand out in front of you," said Cheever, doing a remarkable job of keeping a straight face. "Is it shaking?"

 

I thought about the mysteries of that gearbox, of never being quite certain which ratio I was going into next - and then I thought about final qualifying at Monte Carlo, of the downchange before the swimming pool, where you needed to be fairly sure the lever is in the right place, where - in those days - solid masonry awaited you if you made a mistake.

 

I remembered, too, the way Rene Arnoux had driven the early laps of the race that year, and tried to imagine all that power on the burst from Casino Square down to Mirabeau. And that didn't even take into account the fact that there would be other cars around you, trying to race with you...

 

"Silly idiot," I'd thought, when Rene spun at the entry to the swimming pool complex. "And he's stalled the thing, as well!" After experiencing the Renault at Ricard, I became a little more circumspect. It wasn't more than I expected, but it was as much, and that's not true of most things in life..."