Rush to Glory: FORMULA 1 Racing's Greatest Rivalry

by Tom Rubython

  The captain greeted Hunt personally at the top of the aircraft steps and motioned him into the first class cabin. But Hunt wanted to be with his friends and the mechanics and said he would take a seat in economy class. The captain said he would keep Hunt’s first class seat free and asked him to join them for dinner. In those days Hunt always traveled economy, and it didn’t occur to him to book himself into the first class cabin, although by then he could easily have afforded it. He tended to be anesthetized by alcohol on flights, so he had little need for any pampering. As long as the drink flowed, which it did in those days in the economy cabin, he was happy. Daily Express motoring editor David Benson deliberately plopped himself into the seat next to Hunt’s in first class.

  As Hunt entered the cabin, a huge cheer went up. Within a few hours, the drink ran out and Hunt had to go into first class to top up supplies. The Japanese captain had ordered his crew to let the champion do what he wanted, and so they obliged his every wish.

  In the end, as the lights in the cabin were dimmed, everyone fell asleep completely exhausted by the nonstop drinking, which had by then stretched out for nearly 48 hours. Hunt then went up into the first class cabin to take the seat reserved for him for dinner.

  He sat next to Benson. During 1976 and through all the drama, Benson had proved himself the most skilled reporter of his day, and his stories had been picked up by newspapers across the globe. That night, he got another exclusive interview.

  The captain came by to chat about the race, and the crew served Hunt a special dinner of shrimp to start, followed by Chicken Princess with duchess potatoes. Hunt alternatively slurped beer and red wine with his meal as the stewardesses danced up and down the aisle with constant refills of both glasses.

  In those days the Boeing 747 100 series had nowhere near enough fuel capacity to make it in one hop from Asia to Europe, so a midflight stop was necessary. After they had feasted, Hunt got to his feet and did some slapstick comedy routines for Benson and the other first class passengers as the Boeing started to make its descent into Anchorage airport for refueling. The captain let Hunt make the announcement that the plane was beginning its descent, and Hunt put on the best Japanese accent he could muster.

  When they took off again, Hunt went into the back of the plane to speak with Max Mosley. He and Mosley looked for empty seats so they could stretch out. Later he went back to his seat in economy, and David Phipps took a photograph of Hunt asleep surrounded by his close friend Chris Jones, along with Alastair Caldwell and John Hogan. The Phipps photograph caught everyone’s imagination, and the photo was published around the world.

  Barry Sheene didn’t get any sleep at all and spent the entire journey trying to persuade women on the flight about the merits of joining the mile-high club, apparently with some success.

  John Hogan summed it up: “It wasn’t an outrageous flight, and everybody was just very very happy.”

  As the plane descended into Heathrow, Hunt woke up with the worst hangover of his life, but he had no regrets about what had happened—although it took him some time to remember precisely what had happened.

  When the plane landed at around nine o’clock in the morning, Hunt emerged from the Boeing 747 blinking and carrying his toy gorilla. A posse of photographers ambushed him at the foot of the Boeing’s steps, but he was rescued by airport staff, who whisked everyone through the VIP disembarkation exit.

  A huge crowd of fans had gathered outside the customs hall, and Hunt was greeted by more than 2,000 people waiting to welcome home their champion. Among the fans were his mother and father, Wallis and Sue, who had watched the race live in a TV studio. Hunt had no idea they would be there and was very surprised as they were publicly reunited. All three of them were embarrassed as the flashbulbs went off. After hugging his mother, he hugged Jane Birbeck, now very definitely his official girlfriend. It was a surreal experience. As Hunt recalled: “I hadn’t expected my family to be there, and it was the most unnerving thing to have to say ‘hello’ to them in front of all those people. It was all quite overwhelming.”

  As Sue Hunt hugged and kissed her son, it was all broadcast on television. She told reporters: “He’s done it. He’s done it. I’m elated, absolutely elated. It’s magnificent.” Then she added, “He may be the world champion, but he hasn’t changed. He’s still my naughty James.”

  The normally reserved and cautious Hunt family had thrown caution to the wind and had decorated the front of their house in Belmont in a gaudy display of Union Jacks and other patriotic embellishments. His parents just couldn’t help being caught up in the emotion of it all.

  A press conference followed, and his mother and father sat beside him as scores of journalists shouted questions and flashbulbs went off front of them. Hunt thought he might have been dreaming. As he said, “In most situations I feel in control, but, when I get out of control, I’m not sure whether I’m doing or saying the right thing—not because of what people want to hear so much as the difficulty of what I want to say to them.”

  When all the brouhaha was over at the airport, Hunt got in a car and was driven back to Jane Birbeck’s apartment in central London. When they finally arrived at Birbeck’s flat, Hunt longed for some peace and quiet. He was tired out, and only the adrenaline was keeping him awake. But outside they found another throng of reporters and photographers, some of whom had followed them from the airport. When he finally got inside and left the chaos outside, the enormity of what he had achieved still hadn’t hit him. All he wanted to do was sit down and have a drink and a smoke with his friends and family.

  First the Hunt family ate breakfast while Hunt brought them up to date with all the events of the previous weekend. Around lunchtime, he went off to the bedroom with Jane, and everyone else left to give him some peace and quiet. Wallis and Sue Hunt went home to Belmont to celebrate with their friends and neighbors, and their son went straight to sleep for eight hours. When he woke, he and Jane went out for a quiet dinner.

  On Wednesday morning Hunt went to his brother’s offices to discuss the multitude of financial offers that had landed on his desk in the few days since he had won the championship. In the afternoon John Hogan had him at work giving interviews to favored journalists and broadcasters.

  With that over, Hunt was free to return to Spain for a long weekend and was booked on the nine o’clock flight that Thursday evening. Inevitably, he was running late, but Iberia, the Spanish airline, decided to hold the flight for the new world champion. Hunt found everything was different as world champion. As it happened, the McDonnell-Douglas DC9 was almost completely empty: with only Hunt, two journalists, and three other passengers in an aircraft that could seat 250.

  The flight was due to land at 1 a.m. at Malaga airport. Despite that, it seemed that every British expatriate living in the area had decided to welcome him back at the airport. A huge crowd, led by his immediate neighbors, greeted him with champagne at the exit of the customs hall, and there was an impromptu party in the airport. The drive to his house took an hour. When he got there, more neighbors and expats he didn’t know were inside, having set up another party. Hunt, by now refreshed and wide awake, loved it and didn’t go to bed until well after eight o’clock on Friday evening.

  Later, friends from England arrived to continue celebrating over the weekend. After that, it was back to work.

  James Hunt found he was now public property, or at least he was Marlboro’s property. Marlboro paid him an extra $3,500 a day for promotional work, and he was ready for as many days as it wanted to pay him for.

  Hogan remembers: “We went off on a whirlwind tour of Europe, and in those days there used to be a lot of car shows at the end of the season. We bounced around all the car shows. I was in total admiration. We had this and that organized for him, and James’s feet didn’t touch the ground for a whole month. He behaved impeccably throughout and was a very good boy.”

  Hogan stage-managed the whole of the next month for the benefit of the world’s media. The val
ue to the cigarette company of those few months was immeasurable. It received global publicity that was probably worth around $100 million, completely dwarfing the money it had actually spent that season.

  Hunt’s first official assignment was at the London Motor Show at Earls Court, where he was mobbed by his British fans. Then he flew to Cologne for another car show and then back to Britain for a planned rendezvous with his fans at Brands Hatch.

  At the circuit, Hogan and circuit managing director John Webb got together and organized a celebratory binge for fans at an event Webb called a “Tribute to James” day. Over 15,000 people turned up to celebrate with their world champion. Hogan also asked Niki Lauda to fly in. The meeting of the two rivals on friendlier terms sparked acres of newspaper coverage around the world, not to mention hours upon hours of TV coverage, especially in mainland Europe.

  Next Hunt was feted by the city of London. His father used his connections, and he was made a “Freeman of the City of London.” The honor was conferred upon him and the chain of office put round his neck in the presence of a beaming Wallis Hunt. Then he was off to Lausanne to the Marlboro European headquarters, where executives thanked him profusely for his contribution to its bottom line. And he was honored in Switzerland by the Lausanne local authority.

  The following evening, it was back to London, where Hogan threw an exclusive party for McLaren employees. Patty, Bruce McLaren’s widow, was guest of honor.

  Hunt also visited the huge General Motors factory in Luton, Bedfordshire. The sprawling plant made Vauxhall cars and Bedford trucks and employed thousands of people. Hunt went for a lap of honor around the site on a Bedford flat truck, as if he had just won a race. He then formally launched an advertising campaign that had been made for him, with the catch line “Take my advice. Test drive a Vauxhall.” As a result of that campaign, Vauxhall sold many cars in the last quarter of 1976.

  While Hunt was in London, Marlboro arranged to sponsor a party to celebrate the fifth anniversary of the opening of the Ladbroke Club casino in London’s Mayfair. Richard Burton was a member of the club and turned up for the event with Suzy. By now, Hunt and Burton had become good friends. But despite the presence of two of the most famous people in the world, it was Suzy who attracted the most media attention and who was asked for the most autographs. Neither man was surprised and gave each other knowing looks; they had long become accustomed to being overshadowed by their beguiling wife.

  After that, at the request of Bernie Ecclestone, Hunt flew to Linz in Austria to open the Jochen Rindt Racing Car Show. Hunt wanted to return the favor Ecclestone had done him at the beginning of the season when he was out of a drive. Hogan didn’t mind, as it was an excuse for a huge round of promotional events in Austria, Lauda’s home country. The crowds were enormous outside every venue, and Austrian newspapers carried little else but news of Hunt’s visit to their country. Lauda was at home recuperating after his eye operation and did not particularly enjoy reading wall-to-wall coverage about his rival in Austria’s newspapers.

  From Austria Hunt flew to Switzerland for a few days in Geneva for Marlboro parties and receptions.

  Then he returned to London via Munich and went straight into the judging for the Miss World contest. The Miss World contest was a very big deal in those days and scored the highest audience ratings on ITV every year. The judges were all famous figures, and it was considered a great honor when the promoter, Eric Morley, invited Hunt to be one of them. Hunt couldn’t have enjoyed himself more that evening, and the smile never left his face. Photographs of him and the new Miss World appeared in virtually every newspaper in the Western world.

  He went straight to Dublin, then Essen and on to Vienna. The Vienna trip was to open the Niki Lauda Racing Car Show at the request of Lauda himself, and the two of them together attracted publicity everywhere. Racing car shows in the ’70s were very profitable events, and there were at least a dozen of them held in Europe across November and December. Hunt attended most of them that year. The public flocked to them until they lost popularity in the ’80s.

  Hunt left Vienna and went straight to Zurich. Much of his schedule was dictated by awards that all sorts of people wanted to bestow on him. So Hogan went with the flow and organized his schedule around the award ceremonies. Hunt was keen to scoop up all of them, especially if Marlboro cigarettes was paying his daily fee of $3,500. He couldn’t get enough of the ceremonies, as sometimes the organizers of the events paid him another $5,000 on top of what Marlboro gave him. On one promotional day, Hunt was paid by three different companies for effectively attending the same event. Again John Hogan didn’t seem to mind, as Marlboro benefited from the publicity each appearance generated.

  Back in London, Hunt attended the Royal Automobile Club (RAC) prize-giving lunch. Normally that event would hardly have been noticed. But Hunt decided to thumb his nose at the RAC for past slights. He turned up for its awards ceremony in jeans, a T-shirt, and, on this occasion, sandals. It’s impossible for anyone, even tradesmen, to get into the RAC club without a jacket and tie. Hunt had decided to leave immediately if he was barred entry, leaving the club’s directors to explain his absence at the dinner. But the RAC directors were cleverer than that and, suspecting there might be a confrontation, decided in advance to let him in as if nothing was amiss with his dress and instructed the doormen not to react at all. There would have been difficulty turning him away since the dinner was in his honor. Hunt had calculated he had the advantage and reveled in his revenge, although he was surprised how easily they acquiesced.

  The annual British Racing Drivers’ Club (BRDC) dinner dance at the Dorchester Hotel was altogether different. The Dorchester had no dress code, so there was no question of him not getting in. Hunt had no grudge against the BRDC but decided that, having got away with it at the RAC, he would again dress in jeans and an open-necked shirt and test the BRDC’s resolve. Gerald Lascelles, the Queen’s cousin and the president of the BRDC, decided it was all too much and told Hunt exactly what he thought of him. But Hunt was already drunk and didn’t even know who Lascelles was. He proceeded to get increasingly drunk, and by the time the Duke of Kent presented him with the BRDC award, he had no idea what was going on.

  He went from London to a presentation in Bologna, and after that he opened Giacomo Agostini’s motorcycle show, also in Bologna. At every event he attended in Italy, he needed at least 20 policemen on hand to control the crowds. Hunt marveled at the contrast to his last visit in Italy for the Italian Grand Prix, when he had been booed at every opportunity. As he said, “I was the villain at Monza, but when I went back after I had won the championship, you would have thought I was the biggest hero ever to come into Italy.”

  In the end, the police would only allow him five minutes at each event—such was the frenzy he created. The presence of him and Agostini together in Bologna created a mini-riot, which led the Italian news bulletins that evening and was treated as a national incident.

  The show was followed by a round of press interviews in Milan, where Hunt was attending the annual Autosprint magazine awards. Hunt, however, was very cross with the hypocritical attitude of the Italian journalists, saying, “They treat racing like a religion, get very passionate, and are fed a complete load of rubbish by their press.”

  Hunt was exhausted by the nonstop pace. As he said, “I feel like a bloody Ping-Pong ball being bounced all over the place. Everybody is tugging at me from all sides, and I seem to be moving in a world that’s gone completely mad.” With the frenetic schedule, Hunt was often giving interviews with up to 10 journalists a day and was being shuffled here, there, and everywhere by the very serious Marlboro PR people, who realized they were hot and that this was their one moment to reap the rewards of it. Consequently, a host of exclusive James Hunt interviews began appearing around the world, and his image graced countless magazine covers.

  But the big one still awaited Hunt. The one award he wanted to win was the BBC Sports Personality of the Year. Jackie Stewart and Gra
ham Hill had won it before him, and he desperately wanted it too. There was no question of jeans and T-shirt for this one, and he was dressed in a very fetching purple suede jacket and white heavy polo-necked sweater, fashionable at the time.

  Hunt was very much the British hero and hot favorite when he took his seat at the BBC Television Centre to hear the results. But just like Lewis Hamilton would be 34 years later, he was visibly shocked when the Olympic skater John Curry’s name was called instead of his. He later asked BBC producer Jonathan Martin, “Why didn’t I win? I don’t understand.” Martin said to him, “Well, James, all the women voted for Curry—they like him.” Hunt looked at Martin and said, “And they don’t like me?” He was affronted and simply didn’t understand how a Formula One driver champion could be beaten by a skater.

  He had better luck with the Sports Writers’ Association, which named him the Daily Express Sportsman of the Year, and 300 people cheered him as he arrived to receive the award at the Savoy Hotel. Everyone who was there that night remembered Jane Birbeck dressed to the nines in a stunning gown that left little to the imagination.

  By then Hunt was getting very tired, and even his legendary reserves of energy were being depleted. As he said, “My personal freedom is something I had worked for, for so long, and now it seems completely gone. I am simply not my own man anymore.”

  In mid-December he flew to Paris with John Hogan for the FIA Awards, where the championship trophies were officially bestowed on the winning drivers. And so on December 17, he finally got his hands on the world championship trophy and saw his name engraved upon it, where it would remain for all time.

  He was the 37th winner, and he couldn’t have loved it more.

  CHAPTER 31

  Postscript

  James Hunt and Niki Lauda

  1976–2011