by Alan Jones
Mid-Ohio was the third round, and after fine-tuning my toilet run, I had a trouble-free weekend and what turned out to be an easy win when all my main rivals had some sort of trouble. The 1972 champ George Follmer was second in a Prophet.
In the middle of the Canadian summer, we were up at the Mont-Tremblant track outside St Jovite which is now owned by Lawrence Stroll, the father of Lance Stroll, who debuted for Williams in 2017. This great track was tucked away high in a valley in the mountains and it hosted the first few Canadian grands prix. I started from pole but got tangled up with someone in the chicane and managed only 13th. Follmer won his only race for the season there.
Watkins Glen was another that didn’t go to plan. Again I qualified on pole and led the opening laps before dropping 10 laps during the race. This was the halfway point of the season, I had pole and the fastest lap at each race and a combination of poor luck, mechanical issues and some of my own impatience was costing me.
There was only two weeks from there to Road America, which was essentially the home race for Haas, in Chicago. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t in the best of moods when I turned up, I had just lost the British Grand Prix because of a gearbox problem when I had the race under control. I wasn’t that quick on Friday practice and then the weather was shit for Saturday, so everyone thought Warwick would be on pole because of his Friday time. But I was in no mood for mucking around: head down and arse up, I went for it. I took a few risks and ended up by whacking it on pole by more than a second.
I won the race by a handful of seconds – but I felt like I was in full control. I carried that momentum through to Mosport Park in Canada for pole again by more than a second and won by half a lap. Warwick was second again to me, and he was just nipping away at me in the championship despite the fact that I was winning more races than him. I knew I was going to have to miss the Laguna Seca round because of a Formula One clash, so I needed a bank of points to play with.
Warwick’s VDS Racing was owned by the van der Straten family, which essentially owned Stella Artois, and versions of the team are still running to this day, including the MotoGP team that Australian Jack Miller rides for. As a family, they love motorsport. The Count, as he was called, used to come along to all the races with his wife, who looked a bit like the old lady out of Something About Mary. They bought the test track that Jim Hall had built at Midland, Texas, drove the rattle snakes out and built a big house there … so she could sunbake and smoke while they all went motor racing.
VDS had run Warwick in the Rothmans International Series earlier that year in Australia and won every race. It was a Formula 5000 Lola. They really did know what they were doing and they were keeping us on our toes.
The two wins in a row moved the title back into my control, but we knew Warwick and VDS would capitalise if we mucked up. It was important to finish well up the points at Grand Prix de Trois-Rivières in Quebec, a street circuit with all the risks of a street circuit. I had raced there before a few years earlier in a Formula Atlanta car, which was the first time I ever raced against Gilles Villeneuve. I raced for a guy called Fred Opert in a Chevron, and James Hunt was Gilles’ teammate. It was James going back to Europe raving about Gilles that gave the little Canadian his break, but I nearly had a fight with James that weekend. He was in front of me at the start, but I got away better and I slipped in front of him at the first corner with a pretty aggressive move, which he didn’t like. He spent the rest of the race behind me, and he had a go at me afterwards. ‘AJ, you fucking cut me off,’ or some bullshit and I said, ‘No, I passed you.’ I left it at that. But I learned about that track then, and like a lot of street circuits it was hard to pass anyone.
So with that in mind, I really wanted pole, and during qualifying one of the mechanics hung out a sign with 0.2 on it. I took that as being 0.2 of a second behind. So I got on it, put the eyes on just like I did at Road America and got pole by more than a second. They were a bit grumpy when I came back in. ‘Fucking hell. We told you you were 0.2 of a second in front.’ We had a laugh when we all twigged.
I got third in the race, which was enough I thought with Laguna Seca next. Even if Warwick won at Laguna Seca, which he didn’t, I’d still have a good lead heading off to Riverside for the final. I’d seen a couple of titles slip out of my hands already and I was determined not to let that happen again. At Riverside I dominated qualifying and had pole again, so every race I started in that series I did from pole, which was satisfying. Then in the race I opened up a lead early and then just kept out of trouble to win by 30-odd seconds.
That gave me my first championship, which was a bloody good feeling. To win a substantial championship, an international one really with a quality field of drivers, meant a great deal to me. We had good equipment, but no more so than anyone else. We all pretty much had the same Chev engines with the same horsepower – we just did a better job overall, winning half the races in the series.
I think what I learned in the run to that championship helped me with Formula One, especially in 1980. When you’re leading the title, you think to yourself, ‘Well hang on, don’t panic, you can do it.’ And deep down you know you can, but you have to bury doubt. Until mathematically you can no longer be beaten, you can still lose, so you cannot ease up at all.
I didn’t defend the championship in 1979 because Frank didn’t want me to run in it any longer. I filled in for Jacky Ickx at Mid-Ohio when he had a clash with Le Mans and I managed another win, and then I ran the final race of that season only to crash out. But that was it for Can-Am, and I walked away from it with a championship, some great memories and friends and a love of America.
The Lifestyle
Life has always been pretty good for Formula One drivers, but there is a cost. We only did 16 races a year, instead of the 20 they do now, but even then you’d get sick of airports and hotels. And bloody Heathrow Airport – you could wait an hour for your luggage.
During the season at home, I used to allow myself a pint of English beer every night, that was it. On a Sunday night after a grand prix, I used to get on it a bit. Which didn’t take much because I was dehydrated from the driving. I was probably pissed out of my brain on about two cans.
There were plenty of other opportunities for fun, and if you’ve watched the Rush movie, I was not into anything as outrageous as James Hunt. But I had my fun. You would meet the odd person, I suppose, that was fairly interested in the fact that you were a Formula One driver. Occasionally I’d share my knowledge with them … up in my room.
But even before that time in my life there were plenty of distractions. Carnaby Street when I first went to London was a pretty good place to be. You’d make a beeline down there wearing your horrible checked dacks and a striped shirt, which just screamed at each other. There were parties everywhere both down that way and at Earl’s Court, where we lived. The Rhodesian Club was pretty good, but we quickly learned which clubs and pubs had the girls and that is where you’d find us.
When I started travelling for the races, Beverley often stayed back at ‘headquarters’ and left me to my own devices. I always figured she knew, so I felt no guilt spreading my knowledge. At the end of the day if something’s presented to you on a plate there’s no aggro. Takes a strong bloke to knock it back, but I never went out hunting.
I wasn’t that bad though, it wasn’t like I rooted my way around the world. Because I didn’t, it was only half the world … no, I didn’t really. I mean there was the odd indiscretion, but most guys were doing it. Bev was more than welcome to come to all the races. At no point did I say no I don’t want you there. She chose to stay at home.
I was a mutt compared to James. He was up to no good every grand prix.
11
IROC and a Hard Place
WE KNEW WHAT we had to do in 1979, and it all revolved around the FW07 that Patrick Head was working on. This car was a big undertaking for what was then a small team. I had full faith in Patrick and his crew … we just had to get it finished and on
the track.
I was happy with 1978, but now I wanted more. I had plans to defend my Can-Am Championship and a few other opportunities were coming up too, but I let most of them go.
I knew I was making a name too. I had been invited to run in the so-called ‘International Race of Champions’ in the States, which was a quirky little series with lots of money up for grabs. All the drivers were kitted out with supposedly identical Chevrolet Camaro Stock Cars. After my experience in the McLaren in 1976, I thought those big old Chevies, with the big roll-cages across them, were safe enough.
Anyway, they invited people from USAC Champ Car, NASCAR and Road Racing and I was there with Mario, Emerson and Niki – which wasn’t bad company – as part of the road-racing team. It was being run by a guy called Les Richter, who was a hell of a nice guy, and he was the one who rang me to see if I wanted to do it. When they told me how much it paid, I was in.
So, the first race for the road racers was at California’s Riverside Raceway in October and I got fourth, which qualified me to go on to North Carolina. I’ll never forget the first time I drove out of the pits, I let the steering wheel go for a second just to tighten up my safety belts and the thing turned sharp left. I thought, ‘Shit, there’s something wrong with this.’ The suspension’s broken or something.
‘Oh, no, it’s jacked,’ they said, ‘Well, can you un-jack it?’
By jack they mean they put stiffer springs on one side of the car than the other to compensate for the banking because the G force pushes the car down, and the strongest springs on the outside stop that. On a road track, it also gives it a terrible bias to the left.
I came straight back in and got a lesson. First of all, there was a little bit of white tape on the top of the steering wheel, which I like to call a rudder indicator, and they said that was to let me know when the wheels were straight. I thought, ‘Fuck, if you don’t know that, there’s something wrong.’ But it was all done so that when driving on the banks your hands were at nine and three on the wheel.
Anyway, I worked my way through that car and the oddities of US racing to get fourth in both the qualifying race and the final with the NASCAR and CART racers added in to the field. Niki didn’t even get a lap done and there are rumours about him blowing up the car so he didn’t have to go back for the finals. He didn’t want to get paid for the racing, he just wanted them to cover the costs of flying his Learjet to the States to get some new instruments done … that took precisely one weekend and he was back on the jet and home. If the rumours were right, I could see the logic behind his decision.
Silly me took it seriously and I ended up going down to race the final in March of 1979 – a few races into the Formula One season – on a banked oval at Atlanta. Before I went there for the final I had some warts on my dick surgically removed. If only I’d used the products of my former sponsor.
Anyway they wrapped the old fella in gauze and put a little knot on it and I thought it was all good. So I got down there and I hop in this car and the good old boys, which were the Allison brothers, took me under their wing because driving those things on an oval is a bit of a black art. I didn’t realise that the guy behind you can make you understeer or oversteer depending on where he puts his car. There’s various little tricks like that. I think it was Bobby who said, ‘Come on boy. Come around with us and you can follow me around.’
I was getting the hang of it now and had set the second quickest time. Sportscar racer Peter Gregg, who was known as Peter Perfect, decided he’d join in the fun. On the track there were two cars behind me, the second car being Peter’s. Suddenly Peter with a double tow pulled out from behind the car that was on my tail and went past both of us as we went into turn three. Which was where Peter lost it. He went broadside right along the middle of the track. The driver behind me chose to go below Peter; I tried to get above him, between Peter and the wall. If you lose it in oval racing, what you’re meant to do is turn into the slide and spin your car into the infield, but Peter, being a road-racer like myself, did what I would have done in the same conditions to correct the slide: he corrected it and shot straight up into the wall.
I was doing about 170mph when I T-boned him, I went from his car into the wall and from the wall back into him, completely demolishing the Camaro. At first I thought I’d really hurt myself badly: I hit him so hard the Coke I’d drunk earlier exploded out of my body and soaked my race suit. Because I was strapped in and had my helmet on, I couldn’t look down and all I could feel was wet against my body.
I’m thinking, ‘Oh, shit. It’s blood. Oh, fuck. This must be a big one.’ Of course the marshals have come running up and then they take a step back. I thought, ‘Oh, Christ. This must be bad, my guts are hanging out or something.’ Then the major trauma unit came – because you know in America you can’t call it an ambulance, that’s not dramatic enough – and they finally extracted me from the car, and said, ‘We’ll take you down to the medical centre.’
So I’ve gone down to the medical centre, and all the good old boys have come down to see how I was, which in reality was pretty good – even the bow tied around my dick stayed in place.
I think in a big one like that, a driver always thinks the worst. After I’d hit him I went straight into the concrete wall and pushed the engine right up through the body of the car. I was completely winded; I couldn’t breathe. Luckily, all I had was a very bad case of bruising, but for a few seconds I had a clear picture of myself being dragged out of the car and raced to hospital.
When I hit Peter, it was as though I’d come right out of my seat and been suspended against my safety belts. Later on it was as if someone had taken a tar brush and painted stripes on my body where the seat belts had been. I could barely move. But I thought, hold on here, if this happened in a big safe old Chevy Camaro, think what that shunt would have been like in a little fragile USAC car like I’d tried in 1976. It didn’t take much to convince me, after that, that there was no way in the world I would go USAC racing on an oval again. Ever.
Even when a shunt seems inevitable, you fight it right up to the end: until it really is. When that moment comes, everything is happening so quickly that a driver doesn’t really have much time to do anything, nor even think very much. I go into a state that is not really a daze so much as an acceptance of the inevitable. My thought is: ‘It’s going to happen; I’ve got to make sure I get out of this alive.’
At the moment of impact, everything is happening so quickly that you are simultaneously aware of its happening and of its inevitability. The G-forces throw a driver’s hands all over the place. It’s not as though he could react calmly and throw the car into neutral or shut off the master switch: not while he’s banging into the wall. At that stage he is just being knocked about. He is a dead weight, a human dummy. His next reaction is when he finally comes to rest. His first thought is probably to check his body out in all its particulars: is it all there? Is anything radically wrong? Almost simultaneously he will turn off the master switch – because fire is what every driver dreads most – and the next thing he’ll do, if he’s not winded or unconscious or unable, is jump out of the car and get away from it as quickly as possible. The worst things occur when you stay in too long; and that only happens when you can’t get out.
In that shunt with Peter, I was badly winded, I was confused, I didn’t know what this liquid was and I really couldn’t move. I could see the car was steaming and I was thinking, ‘Let’s hope this bleeder doesn’t catch fire, because if it does, I don’t know how quickly I can move.’ And as I thought that, I was also hoping and praying the marshals would get to me quickly and get me out.
There are really three stages to a crash. In the first, you’re still fighting for control, still trying to prevent the crash, even when you know your chances are minimal. That stage continues until you know it is going to happen and there’s nothing at all you can do about it. At the impact, you don’t think at all. Your mind is a blank. From that point until you come to a stand
still is stage two: it happens so quickly and so violently there is time neither to think nor to do – you’re in the lap of the gods. There are huge, loud noises, there are wrenches and twists, lurches, bangs, forces twisting you every which way: it’s like being set upon by a gang of thugs in an alley. When you come to a stop finally, which is the third stage, you realise that you’re still alive and functioning – and if you’re not, you don’t – and then your mind can start working again on what to do next.
I don’t think there’s a gap between conscious and unconscious thought during a shunt. It’s largely a question of whether I have time to do any thinking of any kind at all, conscious or unconscious. Even your reflexes dry up. Once you accept that there’s nothing your mind can do, that there are no longer any effective orders it can give, you ride it out.
Perhaps it’s not that you lack the time to think. It may be that you don’t want to think. Perhaps what a driver feels is resignation, or a refusal to acknowledge what is happening to him, or even outrage that it is. I do not sit there helplessly and think about anything outside the car. I’m not looking at my past life or thinking of my family or bills I’ve forgotten to pay. I know something is happening, but I don’t actually think about anything. The body isn’t paralysed; it isn’t that you can’t move or twitch. It’s a form of knowing that nothing your body can do will help.
Meanwhile, however, you observe everything that is going on. Very acutely and almost abstractly. It is happening, and it is happening to you. When I T-boned Peter Gregg, I knew I was going to a split second before I actually did. I kept my eyes wide open and, after I hit him, I saw very clearly that my car was bouncing off him and heading straight for the wall. You don’t think: you register a fact. The fact is in the form of a thought: ‘Oh Christ! I’m going to have a big one, I’m going to hit the bloody wall!’ I hit the wall and registered coming away from the wall and sliding down the embankment and into him again. At that point I knew that, as far as crunching into things went, the crash was finished. I’d been through the worst.
