Mansell article, 1989

[Heebeegeetee]

Forgive me if this has been here before, but I have dug this article up during a sort out of the magazine collection. I remember reading it at the time, and it gave me a good laugh again so I thought I'd share it with those who may not have seen it. The piece is too long for one posting, apparently, so I'll try it in two go's.
It concerns a British sports writer by the name of Frank Keating. In 1989 he had written that the two most boring men in British sport were Ian Botham and Nigel Mansell. Mansell got to hear about it, and so set the guy up for revenge during the preperations for the forthcoming Brit GP. One of the best bits of the set-up was the fact that Mansell launched the F40 into a series of doughnuts whilst still in the pit-lane! That must have woke everyone up.
The article was called 'Day Of The Doughnuts'. Read on...

Frankly, I have only myself to blame. That, somehow, makes the spine riddling recollection even more perilously palpitating.
I accepted the invitation listlessly. Just another job. Bit of a doddle, actually. Be driven round Silverstone as Nigel Mansell talks you through the curves and the course for the upcoming biggie this weekend. Oh, and yes, in a Ferrari F40, so it will be the nearest any non racer can ever get to simulating the experience of an F1 whizzer at full throttle. Okay, sure, a goodish wheeze I suppose, and not a bad gimmick either, seeing as I'm a famous family sluggard in my little staff car blue Escort in which even venerably rusty tractors have been known to leave me standing when lights turn to amber on market day.
So I tootled down unconcernedly for my pootle with good ol' Nige. Even got down early to give myself a half hour in the delicious library hush of that blissful browsers' book shop in Brackley main street.
It was a benign midsummer midmorning. The heavyish rain squalls had scooted off eastwards after freshening up the day, and now a heat haze chummily settled over the heart of England. There was no better place to be in all the world than in the mellow greenery of the rolling shires. Silverstone looked absolutely glorious. So did the Silverstone girls; there is no more obliging, civilised bunch of administrators in all British sport.
Nigel would meet me at the Ferrari pits in 20 minutes. Meanwhile, have a coffee and a few press handouts and, oh yes, good luck.
Good luck? Ominous, that. Even so, the penny was taking a long time to drop.
I flipped through the bumph. I must have read that the F40 could reach 202.87mph flat out but seeing as I, to my certain knowledge, had never reached 102.87mph on four wheels in my life, it did not register. I do recall, however, that my subconscious did order another coffee, black this time and a large hug of Perrier after I'd glanced through the press kit crits.
'The F40 reminds me of a German shepherd dog from which you risk getting a nasty bite' (Michele Aboreto, Auto In); 'I had the feeling that I was in the car I had dreamed so much of driving when I was still racing' (Giancarlo Baghetti, Auto Oggi); 'It was not we who were testing the car, but the F40 that was putting us to the test' (Giancarlo Perini, Gente Motori); 'Keep an eye, above all, on the cleanliness of the road surface; a streak of diesel left by a tanker could be lethal' (Duilio Trufo Autocapital).
And a motoring lady from Auto Week called Denise McCluggage (who should have been a travel correspondent for the Glasgow Herald, I thought) had written that 'nothing in my entire life was as red, as swift, as aerodynamic, as powerful, and as far out as my test drive with Eddie Cheever'. She summarised the whole experience simply as 'Gulp!'.
These were now, suddenly, my thoughts exactly.
Gulp. What the flaming hell have I let myself in for? They brought me crash helmets to try for size. Already I felt like using one as a sickbag. There was something of the dread and doom of an execution squad as they led me to the pits. I'd left home, dammit, with no more than a cheery cheerio. No final, fulsome, cuddle for the kids. Your past life swims before you. Wasn't I the guy, aged 12, who'd fainted cold out when he got off the Big Dipper at Battersea Funfair in 1951 when Mum and Dad took us up to the Festival of Britain? Sheer unadulterated terror. Years of nightmares followed. For Christ's sakes, I'm a cricket writer. I've never been, strapped into a net with a crash hat on and been expected to take my chances with Malcolm Marshall. This is what they were asking me to do now with this Nigel bloody Mansell.
Could I make a bolt for it? Yellow bellied blue funk isn't against the law, is it? Say you must go to the loo and vamoose to the dear old beguiling blue Escort, and I could be back cowering, behind the shelves of that Brackley bookshop in no time. They'd never think to look for me there.
I even flunked that. There was a throng around the car cameramen and cognoscenti. Lots of 'good lucks', lots of envy too. Lord, if they only knew.
The red, sleek, low slung, dangerous tube seemed to be glinting in the sun with a sadist smile. So did Mansell's grin of greeting, I thought, betray a similar curl of cruelty. He was slighter, less well built than I thought. His handshake was firm, and I noticed (when your life's on the line, you obviously log these minute details with perfect clarity) that as soon as he released the wet flannel which was my palm, he wiped it dry on his overall.
They helped cram me, quivering now, into the cockpit. I couldn't fasten my belt. I was in a real state. Mansell leaned across, still grinning, and did it up for me. That was decent of him. So look here, pull yourself together, man. He's not only a good bloke, good ol' Nige, but he's so obviously one of the very best drivers of a motor car in the whole world. Well, it's his job, isn't it? Stands to reason. He'll only potter around. Would he do anything really scary? Of course not. You'll be as safe as houses with the best driver on the planet. Sit back, old son, and enjoy it. Didn't you hear how those mechanics and people out there were totally envious of you for this experience? Yes, it's going to be okey doke. Just enjoy it.
I was calm now. Could I, I asked, clip this little microphone to your overalls Nigel, so you could talk me round the course? Sure, said Nige, but although my brain now seemed serene and settled my hands were still twitching, so the nice chap clipped it on himself, and also plugged the cable into the tape recorder which I was holding in my lap He chuckled in, I hoped, a matey, reassuring fashion and asked: 'Do you like doughnuts?' Funny question. I just smiled a gormless sheep's smile strangled almost at birth as, all of a sudden, a ridiculous retch of revs and high pitched screams erupted in an explosion like the world had gone off its rocker. We were on our back wheels, spinning like a crazed top. Outside, smoke was all around our pirouetting red pot. Every brain cell was in a stamped of palpitating panic, and every emotion and sense cascaded with rivers and floods of fear. The prancing, rearing horse of Maranello gone dreadfully, dangerously mad.
With diabolic footwork, Mansell's prologue to this torture chamber turn was to taunt me with a devilishly meticulous balance of clutch, power and steering that had us wrenched terrifyingly and dizzily through half a dozen 360deg turns before we leapt careeringly, and still crazily, in an alarming, convulsive forwards spiral up the pit lane like we were snaking uncontrollably down a twisting hallway to, if not hell, then at least oblivion.
I have never been so petrified in all my existence. Please, God willing, I will never be so wretchedly so again. And this cocky, cruel little man beside me was actually talking. In my utter petrifaction, I heard not a word.
Another stunned, cold sweat broke out on my brow when, days later, I had to force myself to play back the tape. This, verbatim, is what he said all above the primeval, banshee wailing wall of note 'Enjoy the start, did you eh? (chortle chortle)... A hell of a lot of power eh? Nought to 112 in 12 seconds... That was Copse. Hang on, the track's still very slippery at the moment... Wa hey!... from second down to Maggotts in top; I'd be slowing from about 160 down to under 100 for Becketts in the race... lots of brake, down to second. and now flat out to Chapel wa hey! still very slippery, and now absolutely let it rip down Hangar... wa heeee! Close your eyes, a bit bumpy here... Stowe's an even quicker corner today after the rain... Enjoy that, eh? (diabolic chuckle)... Up to fifth, 150 plus... Abbey... now, foot down, push for 200 to Woodcote...'
And then the tape went dead. It had slipped from my sopping, sweat wet fingers to the floor. My other hand, knuckles pure white with tension like they were the Malverns iced with snow, was pressed to the dashboard. I hadn't taken a breath since that mind numbing start. Nor I'm certain, had my heart beaten.
Woodcote? Woodcote? Wasn't that where Scheckter caused that almighty pile up a few years back? Hell, what is this raving Brummie doing to me? Slow down, can't you? Surely we're coming to the pits now? No, not again, not another lap. Please! It seems such a perilously tiny corridor The barriers blur past like murderously intent tracer bullets, just lining up my eggshell skull in their sights. I've heard it said you don't feel a thing. But, oh, dear wife, my children! Not even a decent cheerio.
This flaming, deranged nut alongside me is still rabbitting on, matter of fact. Still chortling. Still saying the track is slippery, but not slowing down an iota except, what’s this? He's braking. Merciful heavens. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with me...

[Heebeegeetee]

'A couple more doughnuts for your photographer,' says Mansell, and there on Chapel Curve itself, he prances us through the terrifying twirls again, and I'm now almost dead with fear because I know, just know, those *******s back in the pits didn't close the door on my side properly...
With an excruciating, gulping surge, we're careering ahead again in an unbearable tumult of acceleration down Hangar... and engraved on what's left of the tatters of my mind is that overhead camera shot of this same blithering sadist at my side when, at Adelaide, his tyre burst at full pelt in a convulsed and crazy catherine wheel of sparks and flames and fury. What if that happened to us now? Didn't Jackie Stewart once say that 90 per cent of grand prix accidents were caused by mechanical failure? My God, come to think of it, it'd serve this Mansell creep right if a wheel blew now. That'd wipe the bloody stupid grin off his face, and stop this insane commentary dead. I'd be a goner too, but in a way it'd be almost worth it in the way of sweet revenge...
Jackie Stewart also said that driving a grand prix car at full lick was so coaxingly rhythmic and sensitive it was akin to making gentle, passionate and voluptuous love. Well, you can tell him from me, that it's more like a harmless civilised gentleman being attacked by a horde of lewdly lascivious Amazons and then left for dead in the jungle
My mouth was too dry to utter even the most crucial question. How can 20 or 30 racers, jockeys strapped alongside each other into these snarling beasts (like i was now), have time to think, let alone adjust - let alone dice with each other for sport - when the curves and corners come at you in such a crazed and quickfire kaleidoscope? Their eyesight, distance and depth perception must be phenomenal.
We had stopped. I could re focus. I was safe. Alive! It was heady. Glorious. Alive aliveo. Still quivering uncontrollably, though. That was to last for a good two or three hours.
Well done, said everyone. Golly, you lucky blighter. Was it a fantastic experience? “Absolutely, fan bloody tastic!” I said, trying to revert from lockjaw to a smile.
Now the splendidly chivalrous ace hall of famer from the Isle of Man and the whole wide world put an arm round me as we both posed for photographs and (yes, both signed dozens of autographs). 'Nothing to it,' I told the clamour of congrats chaps clustering around us, 'a great thrill, a truly memorable experience.' Good ol' Nige."
I sauntered, gingerly but trying to be serene, to my little blue Escort. For my next trick well, how
about blindfold and naked in a barrel over Niagara?
A cinch - in comparison.

[Heebeegeetee]

Sorry, it is a bit long, isn't it. If you want to read it, it might be best printing it off.

[steve_r]

Excellent. What would he of made of the Mclaren F1?

[krt917]

No probs Heebee, nice one. I think I've got that article somewhere. I guess it helps to show that these guys - who we're always criticising and judging - are really on another planet when it comes to driving a car fast.

Still think Frank's a lucky guy though! (to have had the experience, not to have survived!)

[Schummy]

Ha ha ha Yes, I think I remember this article. great sense of humour by the writer.

Nigel was (is) a heroe, full of, yes, heroics moments in F1, like few drivers were. Some "silly" decisions (he was not a computerized driver at all), and not always at full pace (like MS, Ayrton, Stewart, ect) but lots of brave and unreal perfomances. Mansell reminded me a bit Gilles, he sometimes looked to extract an impossible 101% out of the car, in apparent contradiction against nature's laws.

Jerez 1986, Mexico 1992, Senna's overtake in Hungary, many bullish qualif laps..., ovals in CART'93... He looked a bag of adrenaline when motivated, almost suicide. His accidents in Suzuka'87, Phoenix'93, BTCC'94(?), etc tell how abnormally brave he was. Some people can even say "stupid", but I'll never say it because those unreal bravery moments save us for all those boring, unsurprising, calculating moments that mostly is F1.

[Knowlesy]

Mexico, 1990, peraltada corner, 170mph, round outside slippery line, past Gerhard Berger. That's our Nige summed up in that one audacious overtaking move, really.

[krt917]

Originally posted by knowlesy
Mexico, 1990, peraltada corner, 170mph, round outside slippery line, past Gerhard Berger. That's our Nige summed up in that one audacious overtaking move, really.

Absolutely - one of my all-time favourite F1 moments. Murray's commentary was pretty amazing too - I didn't know his voice could go THAT high!

[Knowlesy]

AND MANSELL GOING ROUND THE OUTSIDE! INCREDIBLE!

[krt917]

Spot on!

[The Moon Monkey]

that 360 at about 160 mph he did at San Marino in 1990 was quite exciting!

[Knowlesy]

Oh yes! And immediately bafter that he set the fastest lap of the race I recall. Balls like watermelons! Balls like freakish watermelons that have swollen to an extortionate size!

[Knowlesy]

Spain 1991 with Senna wasn't too bad either was it? Side by side at 190mph, in damp conditions, just inches apart.

[RMR]

That was a great read on a boring day at work! Love it! more...more...

[The Moon Monkey]

his move on Piquet - Silverstone '87 - again - simply superb!

[Heebeegeetee]

Thanks guys. When I posted it up I thought migawd, it's really long, no-one will read all that, but it's nice to see there are those who care!

What would we give for a Mansell type in F1 now, eh?

[Spudgun]

Originally posted by Heebeegeetee
Thanks guys. When I posted it up I thought migawd, it's really long, no-one will read all that, but it's nice to see there are those who care!

I've got all the time in the world for 'Red foive' Noige. Thanks for posting that. I really enjoyed it.

[Knowlesy]

Great article, pleasure to read!

[f1manoz]

People may have thought of him as a whinger off the track, but you could not doubt for an instant his absolute commitment on the track.

[garcon]

Not only shows what an excellent driver Nige was, but also what a great bloke he (still) is.

There are very very few people who could even dream of retiring from one career as a professional sportsman and launching into another. But Nige could have turned pro as a golfer and would very possibly have got onto the PGA circuit.

Instead, he chose to put a massive effort into supporting golf at grassroots level and helping organise so many successful charity pro-am tournaments.

I still don't know which sport he loved more. I guess motorsport was the job and golf was the hobby. Lucky sod!