It is very hard to watch your children go racing. As a former racer, you are acutely aware of the risks. What I do know is that when they decided to retire from motorsport I was hugely relieved. My younger son Greg had done some serious professional cycling these days and he has been in races where people have actually been killed, so I am not altogether comfortable with that either, but each to their own.
In June 2010 I had a high-speed crash at Le Mans that finished me with motorsport. I was there racing with Leo and Greg for Beechdean Motorsport. I was flat out down the straight after Mulsanne Corner when a tyre blew on the rear of the car. I vividly remember the explosion and the sensation of the car lifting up at the back before turning completely sideways. I looked down the straight then I looked where the nose of the car was pointing – perpendicular to the straight – and for the very first time in my life I thought, I am dead. This is it.
If you have ever had an accident in a car, you will know that, even at 30mph or so, they are over in a split second. So you might imagine that, at over 235mph, everything is even faster and in theory that is true. Yet on that day at Le Mans, it was all played out in very surreal slow motion; it took quite a while for the accident to complete. I distinctly recall having the time to think where the car was, what might happen next, what my chances of survival were – it was all very deliberate, almost pedestrian. It was also in total, eerie silence. The overwhelming sensation was, Oh my word, this is it.
What actually happened was the tyre blew, the first impact on the right-hand barrier was at around 200mph, then the car pinged off that and went backwards across the road and had a second impact into the barriers on the other side of the track. When I was pointing sideways the car had dug in, and then started to grip, and I was thinking – I actually had time to calculate – If this car takes off, are those barriers high enough to contain me? I was looking at all the trees in the forest and thinking, almost calmly, If I jump these barriers and cartwheel into there, then I am dead. I had all those thoughts, but there was no fear involved at that point in time; it was just a realisation that my life was highly likely to be over.
In that window of warped time, which was a matter of a few seconds but felt like a lifetime, all that I had done, my achievements, my career, my family, my friends, everything did flash before me and I thought, again quite calmly, So, it’s all come down to this, a stupid effing tyre blowing out, throwing me off the circuit and that’s it, I’m gone. I distinctly remember momentarily chastising myself, thinking, Where’s the skill in that? This is just stupid. I even had the time to rationalise and say to myself, Well, at least it’s happened to me and not to one of my lads. So if I die, I die hugely proud of them and I know they will go on to be even more amazing individuals. I felt this strange acceptance that this was my end game.
I remember the first impacts vividly, but the final impact, when the car slammed laterally into the barrier, just switched my lights off. The sheer force of the car whipping around twisted my neck and just switched me off. Then the car slid along the barrier and came to a standstill.
When I started to come around, I didn’t have a clue where I was. I had some vision, albeit blurred, but I recall the sensation of not being able to move my legs or arms. Apart from that, I barely remember anything at all.
And I didn’t know who I was.
When I saw Rosanne and the boys, I didn’t know who they were, either.
It was like a complete out-of-body experience. I was there but I didn’t know what I was doing or what was going on; it was really bad news. The emergency teams were there quickly to help me, but I don’t have any recall of the specific events of the rest of that day, or indeed for several days afterwards. It’s just a vague, random selection of hazy moments. I was 57 years old when I crashed at Le Mans. One thing was for certain: my racing career was finished. I was just very lucky that my life wasn’t over too.
Although the aftermath was very unpleasant, it is a fact that I was exceptionally lucky on a number of levels. Other cars didn’t smash into me, for example. Most obviously, because I pinged across the track it wasn’t one massive impact; if it had been, at the 200mph mark, I am pretty sure it would have killed me.
A part of me was angry that I had put myself in harm’s way. I’d found out first-hand why Colin Chapman paid me not to race Le Mans during my time at Lotus. The diversity in the pit lane from the fast cars to the slow cars can be just enormous, so you can have closing speeds with a difference well in excess of 100mph. You can have semi-pro drivers who make a very small mistake that ends up being a monumental life-threatening mistake. It can be a very dangerous race indeed. Colin, you knew what you were talking about all those years ago.
At Le Mans, the risk was considerable. I have to say, I was very disappointed that the tyre blew but you are often wise after the event. I was older, obviously not as robust as I used to be. Further, to try to compete at the level we were – LMP1, which is a seven-figure race – was totally unsustainable. It cost a fortune to do that one Le Mans. I like to compete but the truth is in reality, in my opinion, in 2010, that was unlikely and we paid very dearly, in more ways than one.
I must speak in defence of Le Mans, though, because although I had a traumatic time there, it really is a great event. Endurance racing is very special. The car has to sustain the hours and hours going round the circuit without things breaking; pit stops can cost you a lap or so; strategy is enormous; the drivers are supremely talented – it is really quite something. Reliability becomes almost the single most important element of the car. The gearbox, the engine, all the electronics have to be heavily tested and reliable; if you are running for 24 hours, the demands that places on the car over and above a Formula 1 car, which only has to last two hours, are ridiculous. Endurance car technology is fascinating, because the vehicles are built to be quick to repair, so have quick-release wings, easy-to-change wheel arches and so on. There are other issues that come with operating a high-performance car for hours. For example, they have vanes on top for cooling purposes, because the car is under such strain for so long that if your cooling isn’t spot on then your race is run before it’s started. It’s extremely complex. This all makes for a unique racing experience. I believe there is a magic at Le Mans; it is an incredible race and not to be pooh-poohed, not to be understated. For me, despite the crash, the short time I had there was wonderful.
After Le Mans, my two boys carried on racing for a while and, in fact, during that same year they won a prestigious six-hour endurance race together in Hungary, which was a fantastic achievement and I was thrilled for them. Although they are now retired from motor racing, they are both members of the BRDC, which is a fine achievement. They should be very proud of that. I hope their experiences on and around the tracks have made them better individuals, as well as given them memories that money can’t buy and that not many people in the world will ever have.
In the aftermath of the Le Mans crash, I reproached myself for doing the race. I also realised that I thought I had been doing it for the benefit of my two boys but in fact I wasn’t benefiting them at all. Other than the experience of racing at Le Mans it was a pretty fruitless exercise. And how would it have benefited my two boys, Chloe, Rosanne, and my beautiful grandchildren if I’d come home in a box? In my opinion, going to race there was a very bad error of judgement. One that very nearly cost me my life. I am still here but it was a very close call.
To be fair, we were very unlucky that day. I was very unlucky that the tyre blew at the fastest point in the straight; I was unlucky that the blow-out turned the car sideways and caused me to have a massive accident. If the car had stayed in a straight line then I could’ve come into the pits, changed the tyres and carried on. However, destiny and Lady Luck were definitely not on my side that time.
I have been told now a number of times by different specialists that, if I have another major bang on the head, that’s the end of me. I know that anyway, I have a sixth sense; it is a case of admitting
it and knowing my own limitations. If nothing else, Le Mans taught me it was time to hang up the helmet and overalls once and for all.
CHAPTER 23
SAVED BY MAGIC
After the big Le Mans crash, I flew home the next day. It appeared that I had concussion, so they only reluctantly released me and on the condition that I flew home low level and with an accompanying doctor, my good friend Mike. There was very little the hospital could do after they’d checked me over. The paralysis had been temporary, possibly an instant shock after the impact, so it was really just the concussion. I was told to go home and spend as much time as possible recuperating in a quiet, dark room. After suffering a concussion, you have to be very careful because although much, if not all, of your body seems to be working absolutely fine, the reality is your brain has had a trauma and, if you aren’t very cautious, this can cause big problems. At the time of writing, Fernando Alonso missed the first race of the 2015 season because he was recovering from concussion, and it is very sensible that the team were protective of him in that way.
I think, in the aftermath of my Le Mans crash, it didn’t help that I’d had so many previous accidents and several big concussions. I didn’t realise until relatively recently the extent to which bruising on the brain can cause damage, or the length of time it takes for the brain to recover properly.
Unfortunately, although I felt reasonably okay the week following Le Mans, it soon became apparent that all was not well. When I tried to speak, my words came out as gobbledegook. At first, I put this down to the shock and thought it would quickly pass. But it didn’t. We later found out that I’d had severe bruising on the brain, and this had a devastating effect on my ability to communicate, my ability to speak. The first time I ventured out of the house after Le Mans was acutely embarrassing: I bumped into a few people I knew, but when I spoke to them the words were just garbage. As I said, I was talking gobbledegook. I was mortified, it was really embarrassing. We actually kept it quiet for obvious reasons; you don’t want people to think you have turned into a vegetable. Only our very dearest friends knew; we didn’t tell most of our wider social circle. If people said they hadn’t seen me for a while, Rosanne simply told them I’d been busy working or made other excuses.
After that first humiliating time when I’d ventured out and had difficulty speaking, I decided to stay in the house because that way I couldn’t embarrass myself. It’s one thing when you are with your family in private and you have the confidence to try to engage and speak correctly, but another altogether when you are out and people talk to you – you are hearing them, but when you reply and your words are slurred, they look at you strangely because they can’t understand what you are saying. You just crash and burn. Plus the concentration needed to speak clearly was exhausting. So you just go home and think, I am not doing that again.
So I stayed in my room in the dark for some weeks and effectively became housebound. Over the weeks, the speech improved only slightly and certainly not enough for me to work up the courage to venture out again. I had a lengthy phase during which I wouldn’t go out; and even if people were in the house visiting I wouldn’t engage with them because I knew my words wouldn’t come out properly. It was a horrible time. The headaches were vicious, too, really painful. In the immediate term, I didn’t go out of the front door for some time.
Very gradually my speech started to improve, but remained far from back to normal. Rosanne was concerned that I was essentially becoming a recluse, so she was keen to try to coax me out of the house. At first I kicked against this; I was very self-conscious and still felt fragile. I knew she was right and that I couldn’t stay indoors for the rest of my life, but it was a very intimidating thought, going out. In my moments of clarity, though, I knew I had to challenge my brain to start operating properly again. Agreeing to go out with Rosanne one night, to be with a few friends over dinner, is one of the most intimidating things I have ever done. But thank goodness I did, because that is how I found magic and it changed my life.
Magic has literally been my saviour. You might wonder what on earth card tricks and magic have got to do with brain injury, but bear with me on this. Like I said, Rosanne urged, ‘Nigel, you have got to try to go out – you have just got to have a go . . .’ She pushed and pushed and eventually I gave in and agreed to go to a very good friend’s house for a small celebration party they were having. I was incredibly nervous on the night of the party, but we went. When we got there, they had a magician going round entertaining the guests, and this immediately put me at ease because it meant I could watch the magic and not have to make lots of conversation with people.
The magician was a very flamboyant individual called Maximilian Somerset, complete with a pristine black top hat, and he was doing the most amazing tricks. I am very inquisitive by nature, so I was trying to work out how he was doing these tricks. He then performed some really close-up card tricks that were just fantastic. I tried to talk to him slowly and it was a little jumbled, but fortunately Max was extremely patient and made me feel very comfortable.
I said, ‘Will you show me how you did that?’
Obviously, as all professional magicians should, he declined and politely explained that, as a member of the Magic Circle, it was forbidden for him to reveal the secrets of his trade. ‘I can tell you if you are a member of the Magic Circle,’ he said.
‘Well, how do I become a member of that, then?’
‘By being invited.’
‘And why would I be invited if I don’t know any tricks?’
‘You won’t be!’
It was a catch-22. I was very frustrated because something about the magic tricks really struck a chord within me, not least because it made me temporarily forget my fears of being out of the house. So I took a gamble and decided to tell Max what had happened to me and what I had been going through. I took him to one side and explained about the crash, about my speech problems, and I said I needed something to focus on to help my recovery and was wondering if magic might give me that purpose. ‘I need help to function as a normal human being – will you please help me?’
Max is a fabulous magician and a fantastic man, so he listened carefully and I could see he was beginning to understand my difficulty. To my delight, he then agreed to help me. ‘Magic will help you recover, Nigel, because to be a great magician you have to work your brain at times in completely the opposite way to a normal person. It is often counterintuitive. Plus the motor skills you will need for card tricks and other magic will really stretch your brain and make you relearn how to think. You will definitely use different parts of the brain. I would like to help.’
First, Max had to go to the president of the Magic Circle and explain my medical difficulty, hoping to get permission to show me some tricks to aid my recovery. Fantastically, the Magic Circle understood my plight and granted that permission, which meant I was able to start working with Max. He was brilliant. He would come to the house and show me tricks, teach me things and set me challenges that I had to practise. For much of the time, he would show me a trick and then leave me to practise. This suited me perfectly because I was still not confident about going out, so here was a recovery strategy that didn’t involve me having to leave the front door.
I absolutely threw myself into learning magic. I spent hours and hours learning to shuffle cards in particular ways, counting cards while they were in my hand, dealing them in certain ways. I practised non-stop; I was pretty much obsessed. I’ve since been told I did three years of practice in 12 months. The regenerative effect it had on my speech was remarkable. Each time I felt better, I would try to go out and, if my speech was okay in public, that would reinforce my confidence, and thus a self-perpetuating cycle of recovery had begun. All because of magic.
The icing on the cake came when I was invited to join the Magic Circle. At first, I was a little apprehensive because I wasn’t sure I was good enough, but they reassured me I was and so I accepted the great honour of becoming a member. I
had some incredible mentors within the Magic Circle, who befriended me and got me to a level of proficiency where I was good enough to be invited, which was obviously fantastic. I am very proud of that achievement indeed, but above all I am grateful to magic and the people within that world who have helped me out of a very dark place.
I have since done my own magic shows and now have material that could last two hours, but I limit the performance to 30 minutes or so. I’ve really enjoyed these performances and have had some great shows in America. When I do a magic show, if there are motorsport fans in the room who recognise me, I enjoy the look on their faces very much. They obviously know me as a racing driver so it’s fun to see them watch me as a magician.
I still adore magic and practise it all the time. Once my recovery from the Le Mans injuries was complete, I also found a phenomenal new benefit of magic. In my work with UK Youth, I obviously meet some young people who have had very challenging lives. Very often, they will sit round a table and simply not engage at all with any adults, or indeed with the other young people. My profile is irrelevant to them. They don’t really want to know who I am; they don’t actually care that I’ve won this race or done that or whatever; they have got their own challenges and problems to face. So it can be really hard to make a breakthrough.
However, I found that when I was having a hard time chatting with a particular group of young people, if I got out a deck of cards and did a few tricks, they would suddenly engage. They’d pick a card, then laugh or look shocked when I showed them their card out of nowhere. They engaged. Then they’d quite often start to talk and the ice would be broken. At that point the most important thing to do is listen and sometimes that young person, who hasn’t said a word all day, will suddenly talk about their lives for 20, 30 minutes. In those cases, the tricks and little stunts literally are magic.
Nigel Mansell Autobiography Page 29
