Steve Matchett has spent the last twenty years in the engineering business, working as a qualified mechanic for both Ferrari and BMW, before joining the Benetton Grand Prix team in January 1990. As a member of the pit crew he participated in exactly one hundred Grands Prix for Benetton, a career which culminated in winning the Formula One Drivers’ Championship with Michael Schumacher in 1994 and both the Drivers’ and Constructors’ Championships in 1995.
He was in the Imola pits during the ill-fated San Marino Grand Prix which claimed the life of Ayrton Senna, and in the same year was engulfed in the flames of the infamous Hockenheim refuelling fire when Verstappen’s Benetton dramatically exploded.
His first book, Life in the Fast Lane, was published in 1994. Since then he has continued to write about Grand Prix racing, contributing to the Sunday Times, the Telegraph, the Guardian, Gentlemen’s Quarterly, On Track, F1 Racing and Autosport. He has finally managed to escape the Formula One pit-lane and now lives in western France.
THE
MECHANIC’S
TALE
Life in the Pit-Lanes
of Formula One
STEVE MATCHETT
Written for
Signor Benetton and Mr Ecclestone
for showing me the world and for giving me
a shot at the Championship. Thank you.
Also dedicated to the memory of
George, Harris and J.
Three faithful travelling companions
‘Will it be the same in the future? Will the prized treasures of today always be the cheap trifles of the day before? Will rows of our willow-pattern dinner-plates be ranged above the chimney-pieces of the great in the years 2000 and odd?’
Three Men in a Boat – Jerome K. Jerome, 1888
Contents
Cover
Title
Dedication
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Introduction
Chapter One: 1988
Chapter Two: 1989
Chapter Three: 1990
Chapter Four: 1991
Chapter Five: 1992
Chapter Six: 1993
Chapter Seven: 1994
Chapter Eight: 1995
Chapter Nine: 1996
Chapter Ten: 1997
Epilogue
Index
Copyright
Acknowledgements
My sincere thanks to my publisher Michael Dover, my editor Marilyn Inglis and to Claire Wedderburn-Maxwell, the in-house editor at Weidenfeld & Nicolson, for making it happen.
Thanks once again to Steven Tee, the photographers and staff of LAT Photographic for their polite and patient assistance during the research and choosing of the pictures.
Many thanks also go to Alistair Watkins of the FIA for allowing me back into the pit-lane; and to Matt Bishop of F1 Racing; James Baker of Autosport and Jon Gunn of On Track, for helping to keep the wolf at bay – and, of course, to Tony Dodgins for making the initial introductions.
Finally, a very special thank you to Sarah Rouche for proof-reading, chicken, guidance, wine, support and for her wonderful resourcefulness in such difficult conditions.
Introduction
It was 23 May, the eve of the 1998 Grand Prix de Monaco, and I had been invited by a company called Airtrack, Grand Prix travel agents, to give an after-dinner talk in Monaco about the years I spent working as a race mechanic with Michael Schumacher and Benetton Formula, and how we had finally managed to overturn the dominance of McLaren and Williams to win three Formula One World Championships. Indeed, how we had done it was a very good question. How had we done it? For me, Benetton’s success in the mid-nineties had been quite magnificent to behold, although our grand accomplishments were destined to be but a few fleeting moments in the grand scheme of things, a few brief seasons of greatness. Then all too swiftly, the spell was broken and we quickly found ourselves back in the real world – back with the also-rans.
Like a thrown stone, we had taken the Formula One pond by surprise and the ripples had rocked the establishment, disturbing the calm order of things – just for a moment – then the waters had settled again after 1994–5. Things were back to normal and McLaren and Williams resumed fighting for first-place honours. After Benetton’s brief interruption, normal service has once again been resumed.
The Monte Carlo Hermitage is one of the most luxurious hotels in the world, and there I was, Steve Matchett, motor mechanic, a glass of bright champagne in hand, relaxed and enjoying the splendid terrace garden, and about to have dinner there too. Before 1990 I had never even dreamed of visiting Monaco, let alone the very notion of dining in one of the Principality’s most famous hotels; not only that, ten years ago I hadn’t so much as laid a finger on a Grand Prix car. Now less than a decade later, I was a published author and an ex-Formula One World Champion mechanic, a one-time winner of the Monaco Grand Prix, arguably the most prestigious race in the world, and the holder of the 1995 Constructors’ Championship. Five years ago I couldn’t speak a word of French and now I live in France. How odd, the twists and turns of life.
I stood leaning on the garden wall, sipping my wine and watching the world go by on the road below. For the third time in less than thirty minutes the white 246 was stopped by the security guard at the entrance to the car park near the casino. Really, the driver must have suspected another rejection after the first refusal, but he had driven off, circled round and tried again, and now again. This time the parting was far less amicable: the security guard’s posture and the fact that he had removed his black shades to talk to the driver made it quite clear that he didn’t want to have to tell him again. While this exchange was in progress, the red F40 slipped alongside hardly noticed and into the car park; a discreet beckoning finger from the security guard’s friend was all it took. Both cars had seemingly identical, long and blonde passengers on board. I couldn’t be certain from where I stood, but I suspected the 246 had failed to pass muster with the doorman because it still sported the original ‘Dino’ insignia; certainly there weren’t any Prancing Horse stickers on the front wings, the addition of which is normally the first sign that the owner wants his car to be recognized for all it’s worth. ‘Look mate, I’ve told you before, no Fiats in here, not tonight! Now go away!’ The doorman wasn’t to know, but the Dino was as much a genuine Ferrari as the F40 – the 246 was just blessed with a more subtle and elegant dress sense.
The overnight train from Bordeaux to Nice hadn’t been quite as chic as commuting by Ferrari, but it was infinitely more affordable; the girls alone looked like they’d cost a small fortune to keep amused, let alone the insurance and service bills of trying to run an Italian sports car. Ownership was out of my league, not that it bothered me; I had some pleasant memories of working on Enzo’s cars. That was enough; besides, I knew how temperamental they could be without having to have one parked in the barn to remind me.
My train wasn’t really a sleeper – there was no in-cabin loo or washing facilities, no privacy at all: the cramped, six-berth compartments were fitted with couchettes, just a small bunk, a blanket and pillow. For eight sleepless hours, as the train lurched and rumbled along the eastbound tracks, five of us had stared into the darkness while our room-mate snored and backfired his way through western France and along the dawn coastline of the Côte d’Azur. It had been a bright, early morning when I climbed from the train at Nice and caught the aged and rattling shuttle service to Monaco; but that was hours ago. Now as I stood on the terrace, the sun had tired and the lights on the opposite side of the harbour were much brighter than they had been just five minutes before. The air was still warm, carrying a little salt from the ocean as the breeze rolled inland, up and over the casino and hotels, and onwa
rd through the town, until it finally climbed the mountains behind the Principality, circling high overhead, then back out to sea where it would begin its cycle all over again.
The road below the terrace where I stood was busy but surprisingly not jammed with people; I had expected to see many more. Most were ambling uphill to the square; some dressed in shorts and Dekra hats, red and dripping sweat; others dressed in black, tanned and dripping money. But despite the cars and the bustle, the place was calm and the town retained all its composure. There is never any need to rush in Monaco – unless you happen to be working in a hotel kitchen (or the Formula One pit-lane).
I was travelling alone but had arranged to share a hotel room with Tony Dodgins, a Grand Prix journalist I had got to know over the years. We weren’t staying in the Monte Carlo Hermitage, however; I suspect a room here would be only marginally more affordable than the Ferrari. We were staying in Beausoleil, an area technically outside Monaco, separated from the Principality’s two square kilometres of multi-billion-dollar real-estate by the width of a narrow street. One side belongs to Prince Rainier and the Grimaldi family, while the other side, paved with a multitude of smiling sun tiles, belongs to the distinctly non-Royalist French Republic. If you sit in a bar and dial the café on the opposite side of the road, a distance no greater than a couple of metres, you need to use the international dialling code. It’s easier and cheaper to simply shout through the door the way the locals do.
Following a cramped and sleepless night in the couchette, the hot shower at the Hotel Olympia was utter bliss; such a thing had become a rarity to me over the last few months and I was reluctant to get out and dry off. Since moving to France I hadn’t yet managed to install a shower in the old farmhouse – I’d been too busy trying to stop the place from falling down to worry about indulgences like showers and hot water. I’d get round to it eventually, perhaps when I had a bit more spare time on my hands. A shower, a shave, a set of posh clothes and I was ready to leave the hotel and depart France, crossing the road to enter Monaco, a country of quite extraordinary wealth and luxury. Bienvenue à Monte Carlo.
A waiter took my empty flute and offered me a fresh glass, and as I took a sip of champagne I heard the first engine start and bark into life. From my distant vantage point across the water at the Hermitage, it was impossible to identify which team it belonged to, but I guessed McLaren; over the last couple of years they always seemed to be the quickest at Saturday night engine changes. Ten minutes later and another team fired up, then another: nice and gentle for a minute or so, to check for leaks, then a succession of swift rifle-like cracks as the transmission shifted up and down the gears, the engine automatically blipping the throttle on down-changes. The heat of early evening was rapidly disappearing into the chill of the night air; I gave a slight, involuntary shudder.
‘Monsieur, s’il vous plaît, votre table vous attend’ – a gentle reminder to come and join the others in the dining room, dinner was served. I’d sneaked a look at our menu a little earlier – we were to start the proceedings off with a thick slice of pâté de foie gras made with fresh Provençal truffles. Delicious! Before turning away I raised my glass towards the chaps beavering away on the opposite side of the harbour and drank a toast to their good health, then it was time for me to go to work as well. I had not planned what I would say when I stood up to address the guests – I thought I would start at the beginning and hope that the rest would just fall into place.
Steve Matchett
Fayolle,
November 1998
1988 – Chapter One
An old riddle answered – How to get into F1 – Why I am
talking about 1989 now – A proper apprenticeship – Working
with Ferrari – The 288 GTO – Divine intervention at Monza
How long is a piece of string? Any ideas? No? Like you I have always been told that there is no answer to this question; the string can be cut to any length and therefore the problem is unsolvable. And for many years I accepted this apparent conclusion too, until late one evening about twenty years ago, as I lay in bed unable to sleep. It was then that the answer to this annoying riddle came to me. A piece of string is twice as long as from the middle to one end. Eureka!
Now the details of how I finally solved this bothersome puzzle may not seem a very relevant way to begin a book about Grand Prix motor racing, but the significance of finally solving such an age-old conundrum has remained with me ever since. And that is merely this: every problem in life has an answer, you just have to be patient and adaptable. Patient and adaptable. Halfway through the summer of 1989, the problem I was facing was how to get a job in Formula One. The main stumbling block, I supposed, was that I didn’t have any race experience. At least, that is what I envisaged the problem to be. But as it had proved impossible to receive any sort of reply from the letters of application I had posted, I may have been misreading and over-complicating the situation. It could simply have been the fact that after a cursory reading of my CV, every team manager in the pit-lane had decided I was a total non-starter and completely unsuited to such a career. In moments of uncertainty I have always underestimated the merits of my own worth, and it has taken me years to fully appreciate my own strengths and weaknesses.
Perhaps the next thing that needs explanation is why I’m already discussing the issues of 1989 when this chapter is clearly entitled 1988, and you’re probably beginning to feel a bit perplexed. Well, I’m just trying to set the scene. This book is mainly concerned with the years I spent with Benetton working as a race mechanic, and I’m hoping that this opening chapter will give you some idea of the sort of work that any Grand Prix mechanic could have been doing before their big break into the prestigious world of Formula One. Some mechanics work their way through the junior formulae of motor racing, picking up skills and improving their knowledge as they go from team to team, rising from Formula Ford, to F3, up to F3000, and on into Formula One. Other Grand Prix mechanics work in the road car industry before moving into Formula One, serving apprenticeships, attending college, and learning both traditional and new skills from a solid background in mechanical engineering. I suppose that both of these tracks have their own individual merits, but after talking to many of the current crop of Formula One mechanics in the pit-lane, the majority seem to have arrived via the college and road car route. Perhaps the engineering of a modern Grand Prix car has become too refined, needing a far greater degree of basic technical competence than was required in the past.
The mechanical experience and qualifications on my CV must have looked fine on paper; I had worked through an indentured City and Guilds apprenticeship – proudly passing the yearly exams with a series of credits and distinctions. I had found, to my own surprise, that absorbing the academic theory associated with the apprenticeship had come with ease. I enjoyed the logical, problem-solving work that a mechanic is faced with, and when I tried combining these two disciplines, I found that learning became a pleasure. I can only speak for myself, but if one wants to learn, then the task is ninety percent accomplished already. If, on the other hand, one is left wondering what the very point of the lesson is – or, even worse, the pupil is forced to stare blindly at lists of meaningless figures or script until they can be repeated verbatim – the act of learning swiftly becomes like trying to sprint through thick mud; mental barriers are erected and the whole process becomes a nightmare.
It was correct practice throughout the duration of any apprenticeship, whether mastering the art of plumbing, barrel-making or mechanical engineering, to start the trainee with a series of simple tasks and then to carefully introduce more complex work as the appropriate techniques were slowly understood and the requisite skills acquired. If the apprenticeship was carried out correctly, it was a costly, time-consuming process and the manager rarely made a profit out of the trainee until the third or fourth year of employment. Of course, after his training, as the apprentice slowly matured and evolved into a time-served craftsman, the boss starte
d to see the real benefits of his long-term commitment and loyalty to his junior staff. Regrettably, however, this desire and resolve to improve the quality of the workforce is not always present, and some disreputable firms will merely set their ‘apprentices’ to work carrying out repetitive, unskilled tasks, maximizing any potential income in return for no real training and at as small a wage as it is legally possible to pay. Cheap labour.
I was one of the fortunate ones. My first job at sixteen was with Howlett’s of Loughborough in 1977. Terry Howlett, my first employer – and now a great friend – was a stickler for detail. He’s an ex-military man and he ran his workshop in the same fashion: neat, clean, a place for everything and everything in its place. ‘Matchett, those tappets are still noisy, do them again! They should sound like a well-oiled sewing machine, not a damn Gatling-gun holding off a dawn offensive. And don’t over-tighten them either, come and get me when you’re happy with them; and smarten yourself up, you look like a refugee from M.A.S.H.’ After tax and national insurance had been deducted, my first brown wage packet, handed out with great ceremony on Thursday afternoon, contained £24.83 in cash. I felt like a millionaire! After giving £5 to my parents towards my board, I was left with the rest: books, records, trips to the cinema, a beer in the Pear Tree, new jeans, even £5 in the building society. To be honest, I had trouble spending it all before yet another brown envelope was handed out, and off I would go again. If only the passing years hadn’t lost to me the secret of enjoying so much financial freedom for under £25 a week!
The Mechanic’s Tale Page 1
