Memory of a Silverstone Summer

My First Grand Prix by Richard Seymour

I have, it has to be said, a terrible memory for past events. But there are some events I can never forget. My first kiss is imprinted on the side of my brain like a firebrand, and my first car I shall always remember fondly. My first wage packet has somewhat lost it's original appeal as, years later, it is still my last.

Somewhere toward the bottom of the steep hill of my life, I recall as clear as though it were yesterday, the first Grand Prix I attended. The year: 1989, which seems so long ago now. The place: Silverstone.

Chilled by the thought of 150,000 cars choking the spindly lanes of Northamptonshire, my father made the decision to leave at midnight and beat the traffic. At that time, the roads were complete devoid of any other cars, so we arrived at the circuit around 1:30. At this time of the morning, Silverstone resembled something close to a refugee camp, with row upon row of pointed tents and improvised washing lines. We parked close to the gate and reclined our seats to steal a few hours of sleep.

I woke at 4 AM. We had arrived under the cover of night and now, with the sun beginning to put a bluish tint of light into the sky, I stretched the cuff of my pullover over a clenched fist and wiped a spy hole through the condensation on the window: accompanied by a symphony of unzipping tents, eager race goers were emerging head first, crawling on their hands and knees, and starting to form a scruffy line.

Prodding my father from his slumber, we had soon joined the queue too, wiping our eyes and flattening our hair with the palms of our hands. Some time later, I earned the undying loathing of those immediately in front and behind me by disappearing on a sortie to the front, only to return groaning, 'this is only the queue for burger van.'

The sliding of a chain accompanied by a general livening of the rabble unmistakably signalled the gates opening. As one, we all lifted heavy bags of sandwiches and flask from the dewy grass and shuffled forward in a decidedly Orwellian manner.

Completely underestimating the vastness of the race track, we decided to circumnavigate its perimeter till we found a suitable vantage point to watch the race. Our aching legs eventually brought us to the pit straight where, mindful that carrying on would almost certainly see us walking in circles all day, we deposited £10 apiece at the bridge before stepping into the pit lane for the now lamented 'walkabout.'

Those less than well informed observers who today recall Nigel Mansell as dour would have done well to be present that morning. Even allowing for my bias (Mansell is the only man I have ever really hero worshipped) his charisma whilst dealing with the crush of fans, young and old, all waving race programs in one hand and pens in the other, is something I look back on with admiration, even to this day.

A crackly voice announced over the public address system that the pit lane was now closed to the general public before urging us to proceed to the exits. However, this close to their hero, the general public were not likely to go anywhere soon. Mindful of this and the fact that, after all, the pit lane is a dangerous place, Nigel leapt the pit wall onto the grid and whaling wildly, ran down to the first corner. Predictably, like rats following the Pied Piper, we poured over the wall ourselves and made chase. Within seconds, the pit lane was clear and the mechanics were left to get on with the real business of the day undisturbed.

Still without a place from which to watch the race, my father and I latched on to a group who looked as though they knew where they were going. They followed the main runway, which stretches diagonally across the infield for perhaps a quarter of a mile, and clambered up the side of a grass bank. I caught my first glimpse of the beautiful ribbon of smooth grey asphalt which slipped like a serpents tongue from underneath the bridge which spans Hangar Straight and disappeared over our shoulders towards Club Corner. We dropped our bags to the ground and made ourselves comfortable on our jackets which we folded underneath us. Suddenly, I no longer felt weary. I was to watch the British Grand Prix from the inside of one of the worlds great corners: Stowe.

We passed the rest of the morning listening to the misty eyed reminiscences of an old man mourning the days of Villeneuve, Scheckter, and Arnoux - for they were genuine characters, not like the stale faces you see today. I am certain he will be there this year too, reminding those who sit beside him how the drivers of today lack the charisma of Mansell, Piquet, Prost or Senna from bygone days…

Like most of my childhood, I remember only glimpses from the race. A roar of delight and a ripple of Union Flags accompanied Senna's departure from the race into the sand trap at Beckets, victim of gear selection trouble.

I also recall Nigel Mansell, wrestling for control of his Ferrari as it bucked and kicked from a punctured front tyre as he entered Stowe at all of 160 mph.

Prost won the race with effortless style and simplicity. Even under pressure from Mansell, his red and white Mclaren never deviated from the racing line from one lap to the next. Nor did I see his helmet remain anything other than perfectly steady.

As we strolled with stiff limbs back to the car, my mind was utterly made up that one day, starry eyed boys would be watching me as I drove to victory in front of my patriotic fans. Mercifully, I nodded into an uncomfortable sleep against the passenger window while my father headed for the same cattle gate as 50,000 others and I saw very little of the journey after that.

My first Grand Prix was a wonderful experience although sadly, like my first wage packet, ten years on, it is still my last.

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