Читать книгу Green Races Red - Maurice Hamilton - Страница 9

The buzz I felt after finishing third in Australia had nothing to do with the result. Michael had been waiting for me in parc ferme. I think he said: ‘Good race, well done.’ It was difficult for me to hear exactly because my ears were ringing.

Most drivers use ear plugs while in the car to cut out the engine noise; they also double up as speakers for the radio system. Unfortunately, mine had fallen out during the race. The team had been trying to tell me to speed up because Jacques Villeneuve was in trouble, but the message wasn’t getting through. I could hear a buzzing in my ears every now and again. I knew my engineer was trying to say something but I assumed I had a problem of some sort, so I was going slower and slower – and the more I backed off, the more I was being told to speed up!

After the race, people were talking to me, but I couldn’t hear them clearly. My ear plugs had never fallen out before. It must have happened gradually, because I didn’t notice them go. I was just increasingly aware of the engine; in the end, the noise was unreal. I had noticed other drivers taping the plugs into their ears before the start of the races; I made a point of doing that from then on.

Meanwhile, there had been a noise of a different kind following events on the rostrum in Melbourne. The usual arrangement at the end of a race is for the first three finishers to take their place on the podium and the flags of their respective countries raised behind them, the winner having his national anthem played at the same time. In my case, they put up the Irish flag because I race under an Irish licence, more as a matter of convenience than a political statement. The Irish flag is green, white and orange and it was designed for the whole of Ireland; green for the Republic, orange for Northern Ireland with white for peace between the two. The problem is, the so-called Tricolour has unfortunate connotations in Northern Ireland because it is seen to soley represent the Republic. People in the North have been told for as long as I can remember that the colours are green, white and gold. I had only discovered the proper meaning a year or so ago; it made me wonder if this green, white and gold business had been deliberate misinformation by those who want the Union Flag flown in Northern Ireland.

Anyway, I was not about to get into Irish politics when the officials asked me, before the Australian race, which flag I would prefer: the Irish or the British. I said I didn’t mind. To be honest, I didn’t really care because I was sure I wasn’t going to finish. Ideally, I would have liked a flag with a shamrock; something with no political overtones. The officials had also asked about the national anthem if I won. I thought that was pushing my luck a bit too far but, just in case, I had asked for the ‘Londonderry Air’, a traditional tune which everyone knows, very Irish but completely non-political.

I suddenly remembered all of that when I was on the rostrum. I looked behind me but, from where I stood, I couldn’t make out which flag they were using. Unfortunately, a number of people back home could see the Irish Tricolour all too clearly on television.

My Dad received several telephone calls; there were letters of objection in the Northern Ireland newspapers; all that sort of thing. I had raised the subject with the sport’s governing body, the Federation Internationale de l’Automobile (FIA). They said it was either the Union Flag or the Irish Tricolour. They didn’t appreciate the delicate situation and they didn’t want to know about anything else. So, we had the Irish flag in Australia and, all of a sudden, attitudes softened a few weeks later. I don’t know why; maybe someone at the FIA had a phone call or a letter and the full implication of the Irish question was brought home. Someone said the Irish take these things very seriously. Tell me about it!

I was born and brought up in County Down, Northern Ireland. The best part of my education came from Regent House, a very good school in the market town of Newtownards, about ten miles from Belfast. The majority of boys at Regent House were Protestant and I can remember the day when a teacher asked if we wanted a united Ireland. I had never understood the politics or the economics of the situation; I just thought: ‘It’s one island, it should be one country. Yes, we should have a united Ireland. Why not?’ I can’t remember the exact numbers but quite a few pupils held the same view, which was surprising considering, as I said, this happened to be a largely Protestant school.

It made sense then, and it makes sense now. If you live in Northern Ireland and you are not Irish, then what are you? Saying you are British is not the answer. The front of the ‘British’ passport says ‘The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland’. Strictly speaking, people from the north of Ireland are part of the UK. A number say they are British and hold allegiance to The Queen but – and this is just my personal opinion – The Queen is only a figure head, someone who mainly attracts tourists. And you have to say that she does not bring many visitors to Northern Ireland. I agree with having a Queen but I think the rest of the Royal family and the hangers-on are nothing more than a total waste of money.

I would class myself as Irish in the same way that David Coulthard says he is Scottish. A Scotsman doesn’t necessarily say he’s British even though, in the strictest sense, he has more right to make that claim than someone from Northern Ireland.

Obviously there has been a lot of talk over the years about Northern Ireland losing its links with Great Britain. I’ve heard it said in the North that the people from the South want to come along and take over Northern Ireland because it’s ‘a great little country with a great little economy’.

They must be joking. Northern Ireland is a wonderful place but, when you look at the infrastructure, you can see there’s not a lot going for it. The main industries are heavily subsidised by the British government; we produce very little off our own bat that is financially viable in a big way. If Northern Ireland lost its links with Britain, it would be an economic disaster. The Republic of Ireland has a forward thinking, young government. But it couldn’t cope with the financial burden which would come with the North if we were to have a totally united Ireland. There has got to be some sort of compromise and I’m sure one could be worked out if intelligent, logical people were allowed to get on with it.

In my opinion the younger generation, North and South, are not really bothered about this old fashioned dogma about keeping the two sides apart. I am convinced that if there was better cross-border transport communication – a much-improved train or bus service, for instance – then the flow back and forth would help to heal the divide. Young people are not into the politics. They simply want to live their lives on both sides of the border and better communications would help them do that and strengthen the bond as a matter of course. I should stress that this is a personal opinion, although I would like to think that I am not alone in my views.

The trouble is, people on both sides of the border are hamstrung by minorities living in the past. I find the Reverend Ian Paisley a total embarrassment, a man who has set the Unionist cause back a hundred years. When we went to Argentina for the Grand Prix, I was with some friends when the television news showed Orangemen (Protestants) having a punch-up in Belfast. They wanted to walk down a certain road and the police wouldn’t let them because it would inflame the situation in a sensitive area where Catholics lived. They were shouting and screaming, intent on causing aggravation on the pretext that they had walked down the road for donkey’s years, so why should they change now. My friends wanted to know what the trouble was all about. I said: ‘Don’t even ask, it’s just too difficult to explain. You wouldn’t believe it possible of grown men.’

I have to admit I was put on a bit of a spot when I came into Formula 1 and certain assumptions were made about the orange and green on my crash helmet. I had started out with a plain white helmet but I was advised early in my career to make it more distinctive. I chose orange because it stood out. Okay, it was a coincidence that there was the orange connection with Northern Ireland, but there was no political statement involved whatsoever. If the Orangemen’s colour had been purple, there would not have been purple on the helmet. I wanted a bright colour. Yellow had been taken by someone else. So I chose orange.

The original markings along the side made the helmet looked similar to Ayrton Senna’s; it was assumed I was modelling myself on him. In fact, the shade of orange I used at first made the helmet look yellow in photographs. I changed it to a richer shade of orange and then added the green stripes, just to make a point about the Irish connection and the orange not being a political statement.

I have to admit I played on it a bit when asked. I would make comments about the religious divisions in Northern Ireland and journalists didn’t know how to take it. This is obviously a serious subject and they weren’t sure whether or not I was joking; they didn’t want to cause offence over a matter which, sadly, is life and death for some people on both sides of the Irish border.

The fact is that I that I haven’t been to church since I was old enough to avoid going to Sunday School. And I have no intention of going to church now because, in Ireland, religion creates so much aggravation. My parents and my grandparents were not churchgoers even though, in Northern Ireland, the majority of the community attended church. The numbers have dropped in recent years but, even so, church attendance in Northern Ireland remains much higher than in most parts of the United Kingdom.

I don’t have strong feelings either way. I think you are either good or you are bad. I don’t know which is right and which is wrong. There may be a lot of people who are right but, on the other hand, there seems to be a tremendous number who are wrong. Who’s to say which is correct? Is it right to say that anyone living in the jungle, because of their lack of knowledge of religion as we know it, will automatically go to hell? What kind of logic is that? But then, the way things have been with the situation in Northern Ireland during the past twenty-five years, it’s not for me to talk about logic!

I was actually acting a bit stupid myself during the few days I had off between the Australian Grand Prix and the next race in Brazil. I decided to have a go at sorting out the back garden of my house in Dublin. I went at it like a bull in a china shop and ended up hurting my shoulder, which was a silly thing to do. My house is in Dalkey, a very nice area just south of Dublin. The garden covers about half an acre and the guy who had the house before me cut down a number of trees in order to improve the view across Killiney Bay. I was to discover that he had trouble with the neighbours; the police had been called in to try and stop him and I only wish they had succeeded. I would prefer to look at trees rather than the water; I can walk to the bottom of the garden any time I feel like a view of the Irish Sea. Now, after this man’s over-enthusiasm with a saw, the garden had been left in a right mess. There were bits of tree everywhere. I had to chop them up and drag them out of the garden. I like doing that sort of thing; it makes you feel as if you are achieving something instead of going round in circles all your life.

I don’t want to create the impression that I like manicured lawns and neat gardens; quite the opposite, in fact. Given the choice, I would prefer a forest. I like to let it grow and forget about it. But, before I could leave the place to its own devices, I had to drag the felled trees out of the way. That’s when I hurt my shoulder; as a result, I wasn’t particularly looking forward to the overnight flight to South America.

In fact, it was great. British Airways had seats in First Class which folded into beds. I find it very difficult to sleep on my back but this meant I was able to lie on my front. It was fantastic. I didn’t have dinner on the flight; just a small snack, which I much prefer. Then, head down, off to sleep, no problem at all. I woke up with half an hour to go before landing in Brazil.

It was living in the lap of luxury; a complete contrast to what greets you on arrival in Sao Paulo. It amazes me how the Brazilians can be such happy people while living under such terrible conditions. Looking at it logically, if you weren’t an optimistic, easy-going person, you couldn’t live the way they do. I like Brazilians; they’re good fun. But I certainly don’t like Sao Paulo. The river that runs alongside the road from the airport is a rich brown colour. It’s probably not as bad as it looks because there are birds catching fish, so the water must be able to support life. But I wouldn’t like to go for a swim in it.

I don’t feel comfortable being in Brazil. When you think about the money people earn from Grand Prix racing, it is put in perspective when you see the way so many hundreds of thousands have to live Sao Paulo. It causes a conflict of emotions. I hate seeing things like that; on the other hand, maybe it’s better that we are aware of such poverty. It makes me think about the attitude of certain people in Northern Ireland who are unemployed and believe they’re hard done by. A few minutes spent in Sao Paulo would alter their outlook.

Typically, of course, the problems of the world are soon left behind when you climb into a Formula 1 car. Nothing else matters and I would have plenty to hold my attention within minutes of practice starting.

For the first time, I had one of the latest steering wheels fitted to my car. It does everything. Apart from carrying the paddles which we use for the clutch and to change gear, there are buttons for the radio, as well as for scrolling the read-out, operating the pit lane speed-limiter and selecting neutral, and there are dials for adjusting controls such as the brake balance. Across the top of the wheel is the digital read-out, which gives lap times and other information, as well as the display of sequential lights, previously mounted on the dashboard, which signal the moment to change gear. Using the wheel to actually steer the car is almost incidental.

I drove out of the pits and I couldn’t believe how hard the wheel felt. It was like holding a vibrator – not that I’ve ever handled such a thing, of course! These were vibrations from the engine. Whenever I reached 16,000 rpm, there were 16,000 vibrations per minute going through my hands. I had never experienced anything like it and I felt sure there must have been an engine problem of some sort. I went through the first two corners and then down the straight. As I went into the third corner, a left-hander, I was just about to radio the pits to tell them about the vibration when – bang! – the rear of the car hit a bump and I was off the road and into the barrier. Just like that. I couldn’t believe it.

The car had turned sharp left and spun onto the inside of the corner; normally, when travelling at speed, the car would be thrown to the outside of the corner. In this instance, I was going so slowly, the car shot straight across the grass on the inside and removed most of one side – wheels, suspension, radiator – against the barrier.

I didn’t know what to think. It was one of those things. There was no alternative but to walk away. I was given a lift back to the pits with Sid Watkins, the FIA doctor. It looked as if it had been quite a big accident and he checked me over. There was nothing wrong with me – which was more than could be said for the car. It wouldn’t be fixed until after practice had finished, so that was it for Friday. Half a lap and no progress whatsoever.

Nobody in the team said anything because they could see from the telemetry that I hadn’t been going quickly. It was an easy corner, so it shouldn’t have been a problem. There wasn’t much grip on the track at that stage and the tyres were probably not up to temperature. Even so, it came as a big shock.

I was really worried about the following day. By the time I got started on Saturday morning, everyone else would have done thirty laps, so they would have been much better prepared. However, within four laps, I had set a competitive time, so I knew it was not a major problem.

I qualified in tenth place, which wasn’t too bad considering the alterations that had been made to the car because of the problems we had experienced in Australia. The gearbox had been changed to an older specification because the new one kept cracking and the casing was in need of a redesign. This had a knock-on effect because the return to the 1995 gearbox meant we also needed to go back to the old floor. I don’t know whether it was these alterations which made a difference to the handling of the car in Brazil, but it certainly did not feel brilliant.

The Interlagos circuit is run anti-clockwise and is a strange one; people who succeed in Brazil for some reason don’t do well anywhere else, and vice versa. I had not been helped by discovering that my car had sprung a fuel leak moments before qualifying was due to begin. I had to jump into the spare car, which didn’t have the latest differential and that made a big difference in slow corners.

I was very cautious during my first qualifying run and yet I was only one tenth of a second off Michael’s time at that stage. But my position on the grid gradually fell as others improved. I went out with another set of tyres and found a bit more time, which surprised me because I didn’t feel I had gone that much faster and yet it was a much better lap than the first one. I could only assume that the track conditions had improved.

I went out for a third time and Mika Hakkinen in the McLaren deliberately held me up by backing off in the middle of a fast right-hander, so I had to go off line. I could forget that lap. I waited for Hakkinen – if he thought he was being smart, then I could be smart as well – and I held him up on the start of his attack lap.

I had one lap left. I pushed really hard but, on the last corner, the back of the car stepped out of line and that cost three-tenths of a second – which made a big difference. Michael was on the second row and I was on the fifth row. There may have been just half a second between us, but it was night and day.

I couldn’t complain because I was in the spare car, I didn’t have the right set-up, and I had made a mistake. But that didn’t get away from the fact that I was tenth on the grid, which, on paper anyway, didn’t look that good.

We spent a lot of time discussing everything in great detail and I didn’t get back to the hotel until early evening. James Bowles, a friend with whom I occasionally stay when I am in Oxford, had come to Brazil. I left specific instructions with the front desk to let James into my room. He arrived at 8 am and, at 7 pm, he was still sitting outside the hotel because they wouldn’t let him into my room. He was not happy! Having James there made life a bit more fun than it had been in Australia. Unlike Melbourne, where the teams were in various hotels scattered across the city, everyone uses the Hotel Transamerica in Sao Paulo, mainly because it is comfortable and close to the track. It is a sociable place as a result; quite lively at night. Once again, I didn’t go out much in the evenings. The local speciality seems to be the Churrascaria, a popular type of restaurant where they serve as much meat as you can eat. They carve it off massive swords, straight onto your plate. Maybe once in a while is okay, but eating slabs and slabs of meat can’t be good for you. It didn’t appeal to me, so I usually ate in the hotel.

When I woke on race morning, I had a feeling that the day wasn’t going to work out. In fact, the feeling had persisted all weekend. Even before I went to Brazil, I was telling people not to bet on a good result at Interlagos. So far, I had been proved correct and I didn’t feel it was going to get any better.

The warm-up wasn’t bad – but neither was it good. The car felt okay, nothing more. I told myself not to take any chances in the race, just plod round, bring the car home and perhaps score a couple of points.

Then, just as we were about to go the grid, the heavens opened. It really poured, the track was flooded and the car was aquaplaning. I was thinking: ‘You don’t want to be tenth on the grid in these conditions.’ Just for good measure, the engine began to misfire and they couldn’t do much about it at that stage. I made a good start initially but then found I couldn’t control the throttle because I didn’t know how much power I was going to have at any given moment because of the misfire. People started to go past me as we went onto the straight in a cloud of spray.

I was really scared. I just couldn’t see a thing. I couldn’t see beside me, nor could I see in front or behind. When it’s like that, you just drive, hoping that you are going fast enough to avoid having someone go into the back of you, but not so fast that you are going to drive into the back of someone else.

Racing in wet weather is the most dangerous aspect of Formula 1. The worst place here on the Interlagos circuit was at the end of the long straight. Damon Hill was leading and, if he had spun in the middle of the track, no-one would have been able to see him. We would have cannoned into each other; it would have been carnage.

You think to yourself: ‘It’s time they did something about this.’ But the problem is, the officials are not sitting where we are. They are up high in every sense of the expression. They can see the cars, so they assume we can too. But if they checked the pictures from the in-car cameras, they would soon be aware just how dangerous it is. Nothing ever seems to be done until there’s a big problem. It was complete madness in Brazil and everyone was extremely lucky that nothing serious happened.

I was dropping back because of the misfire, but then the spray began to clear. I was really struggling just to stay on the track; the car didn’t seem to have any grip. I was running a one-stop strategy because that would give us better options to stay out longer if it looked like the track might dry. In fact, we came in three or four laps too soon because we thought the rain was going to continue. I had another set of wet tyres and no sooner had I rejoined than it stopped raining and the sun came out. That meant losing 45–50 seconds coming back in for slicks. The track was drying but we had a lot of downforce on the car in order to cope with what we anticipated would be a wet track. That meant I was very slow in the dry.

I was so embarrassed. Ferrari were doing badly and I was wondering what people were thinking. I tried to push, but as soon as I did that, the car would understeer and I’d be off the dry line, onto the wet line and I’d lose a lot of time. The last thing I needed this weekend was another trip onto the grass and into the crash barrier. It was one of those races where you would look a complete idiot if you spun off. Quite a few drivers had left the road. But I could not afford to be one of them.

It was only when the track had dried across most of its width that I could actually push hard enough to allow the car to drift out. I set my fastest laps near the end of the race, but they were a second and a half off the pace. That was unreal; absolutely unbelievable.

Damon Hill won his second race in succession for Williams. I came home in seventh place, very disappointed. But the team seemed happy enough. Michael had finished third. He did a bloody good job to get the car home in that position. Starting at the front had helped a huge amount, of course. But he was not very happy. He had been lapped and no one could remember the last time that had happened, if ever, to Michael Schumacher. The only consolation for me was that my fastest race lap was only two-tenths of a second slower than Michael’s best.

It was just as well, perhaps, that we were not in a hurry to leave the following day. I had a lie-in before sitting quietly by the pool and mulling over what had gone wrong during the weekend. I was a bit pissed off, to be honest. Melbourne had removed a lot of the pressure. Now it was back on again. What flag did I want on the rostrum, indeed. I should be so lucky.