Mansell: My Autobiography

Over the years I have been more down after accidents and retirements caused by mechanical failure than those where I was at fault. When something breaks and you crash, you’ve got to take it personally because you are the one who is sitting in the car and you realise that you are under threat from some major unknowns. It’s far easier if you make a mistake to accept it and learn from it. For sure if it’s a big error it might take a little longer to get over, but you can still rationalise it and put it out of your mind.

One of the worst mechanical failures I ever suffered was during the Canadian Grand Prix at Montreal in 1991. I was winning the race hands down, heading for my first win of the season, when the gearbox failed. It was a semi-automatic gearbox, which controls the gear selection electronically and was operated by pushing a lever on the back of the steering wheel. We had had a few problems with it at the start of the season, but we thought that those problems had now been solved. But coming through the hairpin on the last lap I couldn’t find a gear to save my life. I had a box full of neutrals. The revs dropped and the engine cut out. That was it. To be leading the race by almost a minute and then to be forced to quit on the last lap was hard to take.

My engineer David Brown and I were trying to get over it as quickly as possible, when we read some truly idiotic suggestions in the press that I had switched the ignition off while waving to the crowd. It was a pathetic notion and it really hurt. Let’s face it, you don’t push as hard as you can for 68 laps and then switch your own engine off. It was bad enough losing the race through mechanical failure, but to have insult added to injury in that way was too painful to describe.

That accident at Morecambe had been a wake-up call, but I bounced back and carried on racing karts. As I reached the end of my teenage years, I had won seven Midlands Championships, one Northern Championship, one British Championship and many other races. It had been a lot of fun, but my attention was beginning to wander onto single-seater car racing and onto Formula Ford in particular. It was clearly time to move forward on the road towards Formula 1 and the World Championship.

Almost immediately I ran into problems.

Chris Hampshire, a karting colleague: ‘There are probably a hundred people who raced against Nigel in karts, who look at where he’s got to and say, “Now why couldn’t I have done that?” Nigel had the determination to pull himself right up to the top. His will to win is enormous. He also had extraordinary reactions, much faster than most people’s. By reacting so quickly, he seemed to make more time for himself.’

6

THE HUNGRY YEARS

My father didn’t want me to go into single-seater racing. He had been right behind me all through my karting career and it had been his interest in karting that had got me started, but when it came to proper racing cars he decided to draw the line. Karting was fun, he said, but motor racing was serious. He had a good job and a comfortable, although by no means affluent lifestyle and he wanted the same for me. It was clear that he was hoping I would pursue a career in engineering as he had done. He was being realistic, trying to guard against what he saw as the likelihood that I wouldn’t make it in motor racing. And knowing how competitive I was he thought that I would find it hard to bear the disappointment of failure.

After all, the odds against a lad from Birmingham going on to beat the world’s best drivers and win the Formula 1 World Championship were huge. Every year thousands of young drivers start racing and join the ranks of the hopeful. Every season new teenage talents from Europe, as well as from countries further afield like Brazil, Colombia and Argentina, come pouring into England with pockets full of money to race in the most competitive starter championships in the world.

It was common knowledge in racing circles around the world that if you wanted to climb the ladder and get noticed by a Formula 1 team, you needed to race in the British Formula Ford and Formula 3 Championships. Britain has the most powerful motor racing industry and because most of the Formula 1 teams are based here, there is a huge network of information around the industry. A lot of the people who run teams in the junior formulae know people in Formula 1. Formula 3 team managers might tip off their friends in Formula 1 if they see a driver with special talent or someone who has reasonable talent and massive financial backing. For a young driver, being spotted by a Formula 1 team owner is what it’s all about.

Unlike the local kart scene, in Formula Ford or Formula 3 money can make the difference between winning and losing. The cars and engines were all similar, so a few extra thousand pounds could buy you better engine tuning, which in turn would gain you a few precious horsepower over your rivals.

The British series had sent many of its champions on to Formula 1 and it was into this ultra-competitive environment that I wanted to throw myself. Considering that this was the goal of many other young drivers, most of whom had plenty of overseas sponsorship money, the chances of me being successful were less than my chances of winning the pools.

I don’t hold it against my father that he was against me trying. What I was disappointed about was that he motivated me to stick with my engineering job with the promise that if I reached certain goals he would support me in my racing career. Out of the goodness of his heart, because he really did love me, he promised many things which never came to fruition.

I had joined my father at Lucas Aerospace at the age of 16 as an apprentice engineer. By this time I was all fired up to race cars and was desperate to get on with the next stage of my career. Given a fair chance I knew I would be able to make it. I realised that the jump to single-seater cars would be impossible without my father’s help and eventually I persuaded him to make a deal with me. If I passed all my engineering exams, he would help to finance my racing.

It was a hard slog. I worked part of the time at Lucas and the rest of the time I attended classes at various technical colleges and polytechnics in and around Birmingham. It took several years and in the meantime I carried on karting. My father enjoyed my success and was proud of my competitiveness and determination, but I was longing for a chance to prove myself on a wider stage. I would arrive at a local kart meeting with the knowledge that, barring some mechanical disaster I was going to win fairly easily. It was still fun, but really I knew it was pointless. I had outgrown karts and could not wait to get into a proper racing car.

When I was twenty-one I passed the last exam and emerged with a Higher National Diploma in Engineering. By this time I had also made progress at Lucas and I now held the position of electronics instructor. Things looked rosy. I went to see my father to tell him that I had qualified and to remind him of his promise. I was in for a nasty shock.

I found him in the laboratory at Lucas and cheerfully told him that I was going to be a racing driver. He asked me how I planned to finance my venture. When I reminded him of his promise he told me that my chances of making it were nil and that he would not be a part of it. I couldn’t believe it. I tried to reason with him but he wouldn’t budge. He would not help me race and that was that. I was furious. I had spent several years fulfilling my side of the bargain, going to endless engineering classes and now I was back to square one. My goal of moving into Formula Ford began to look distant. I felt bitter and disappointed. It was one of the worst days of my life.

I discussed it at great length with Rosanne, who by then had become my wife. I was determined to race. I knew that I had talent and refused to be beaten by the circumstances. Rosanne and I decided that, whatever the consequences, we were going to give it a go.

The cheapest and most sensible first move was to try out a Formula Ford car at a racing school. At least then I would know whether I could drive one or not. I might find that I didn’t like it and return to karts, but I had to know what it was like.

We scraped together £15 which was enough for a one-day lesson in a Formula Ford car at the Mallory Park school. Most of the other students there on that day were signed up for a week-long course, but I couldn’t afford such luxuries. I had one day to decide.

I went out in the car and immediately found it to my liking. It was fairly predictable and I felt quite comfortable with its behaviour. Because it was light and had narrow tyres it had a tendency to slide through corners. I quickly got a feel for what it would do next and felt that it was a car with which I would be able to express myself. That day at Mallory was enough to persuade me that my instinct was right. I should move on to Formula Ford racing.

But when he heard of my plan, my father was very angry and wouldn’t speak to me. My mother was upset by the rift that the whole issue had caused and the situation was quite unpleasant for some time.

Rosanne and I went ahead and bought a second hand car which we saw advertised. It had obviously seen plenty of action and had passed through several owners, some not so caring. We scraped together our savings, sold a few items here and there and got the money together to buy the car and a trailer. Rosanne had a nice new road car, but it was too small to tow the race car, so we traded it in for an older but larger model. She was marvellous, always keeping me company in the garage late into the night when I was working either on the race car or on the road car. I remember the latter used to devour clutches in protest at having to tow the race car!

Most evenings I would come home from work at Lucas and go straight over to Rosanne’s brother’s workshop, where I used to make extra cash helping him out with his picture framing business. We used to work late into the evening mounting pictures in the frames, and then around eleven o’clock we would go out to the bars and clubs around Birmingham selling them. It was quite a good business, although the drawback was I often didn’t get home until 3 am and I had to be at work again at 7.30. But the money came in useful – in fact, all money came in useful.

The racing car I had bought was in a bit of a state, but I was able to do something with it which I hadn’t managed in karting – to win my first race. Fittingly it was at Mallory Park, a circuit which had played a big part in my decision to take the plunge. The field of drivers I beat was something of a mixed bag, but it didn’t matter. I was on my way and very pleased about it too.

Although I could see many areas where the car needed improving, I felt comfortable with it and pushed it quite hard. I was not conscious of developing a style of driving at the time, it was more instinctive, but I was winning races and could already see the possibilities. I remember one particular race that first year when I was really charging through the field and came through strongly to win on the last lap. Rosanne told me later that the track commentator had been going crazy at the microphone, ‘Mansell’s coming up on the outside, he’s not going to be able to do it there, he’s on the wrong line. And he’s done it!’ I hope that same commentator was watching fifteen years later when I passed Gerhard Berger around the outside of the infamous Peraltada corner in the Mexican Grand Prix!

That first season went well for us. I won six races in all out of the nine that I entered and I went away feeling reasonably pleased with my progress. But my competitive instinct was gnawing at me. I wanted to win a lot of races and I knew that I needed a better car and a better budget if I was going to move forward.

As I had learned at school and in junior karting, there were a few people, like me, who loved winning and couldn’t contemplate defeat, and plenty of others who were just racing for fun and didn’t mind too much if they didn’t win. It was never a game to me. I could see from that first season that my feelings about racing had been right. I had the ability to win and to make instinctive overtaking moves, which others wouldn’t even dream possible.

Because of my engineering background I had a pretty good feel for the technical side of a racing car and was able to make adjustments to the car to make it faster on each circuit. Those Formula Ford cars were fairly basic technically, and a long way from the highly-sophisticated Formula 1 cars I would drive later. There weren’t many things that you could adjust, but it still required clarity of thought and confidence in your own instincts to make the right changes to the car. From the early stages of my single-seater career I learned to trust what I felt was right and wrong on a car. That’s not to say that occasionally even today I don’t go down the odd blind alley while looking for an ideal chassis set-up, but for the most part I know which direction to head in as soon as I’ve done a couple of laps.

I felt confident that I had made the right choice in pursuing my racing career and was determined that I would become a professional racing driver as soon as possible.

The turning point came in 1977. I started the year with a slightly better car, although it was still pretty run-down compared to many of my competitors. The car was owned and run by a colourful Irishman called Patrick Mulleady and it was yet another case of trying to do the best I could in a dilapidated old car. At one race I qualified on pole position but, coming round to the grid on the parade lap, the driveshaft broke and fell through to the ground. I was beside myself with anger. I had given everything to put that old nail of a car on pole and here we were losing a race we could have won because of bad preparation. We did win a few races that season with the car, but when eventually one of the wheels fell off while I was leading by over ten seconds, it was clear that we needed help to move forward.

I had started to get noticed by this point and I decided to try my luck and approach a man called John Thornburn, a manager who had a reputation for running a good race team. One day I walked into his office and said, ‘Hello, my name is Nigel Mansell and before you throw me out I don’t want money, I want help.’

I had bought a slightly better car, but it was still pretty worn out and I was anxious to get it prepared as well as possible. John said he would have one of his mechanics take a look at it.

The following weekend I got pole position and a win with it. I rang John up to thank him for his work and he was obviously stunned.

‘What do you mean you won with it?’ he gasped. ‘When we looked at it, only three of the wheels were in line, the other was an inch and a half out of line because of all the shunts it’s had. Either you’ve got a lot of talent or you were driving against a blind school, because that car is a load of crap.’

My next race was at Thruxton and without telling me, John came along as a spectator. He liked what he saw and told me that he would help. He said, ‘You have a lot of natural talent, Nigel. There are plenty of quick drivers out there, but very few really talented racers. Remember that no-one can beat you except yourself.’

I knew he was right. I think it is true for anybody as long as they have equal equipment and total self-belief and have the capabilities or the talent to do the job. John told me that I had to get really fit so that I would be strong at the end of races. He said it was possible to win a race in the last couple of laps when your rivals are beginning to get tired. At the time I was a little overweight, largely because I used to enjoy my beer, but I knew John was right so I stopped drinking there and then. I have been a teetotaller ever since. I also got very fit by going to the gym and running several miles every day. In actual fact I hated running, but I forced myself to do it because I knew it would pay off.

The season was going well and I worked my way up to being a leading contender for one of the national Formula Ford Championships. Because we had no money, Rosanne and I used to sleep in the back of a van at race meetings. We borrowed it from Alan McKechnie who was John Thornburn’s partner in the wine business, so ironically, although I had given up the drink, I went to sleep every night with a stale smell of booze hanging in the air. Not only that, but it was freezing cold in the van and the condensation from the ceiling and the windows used to drip on our sleeping bags. Combined with the wind to which circuits like Silverstone and Snetterton are often exposed, neither Rosanne nor I had ever experienced such extreme cold.

But we didn’t think twice about it. It wasn’t a hardship, it was reality for us at the time. Rosanne and I have a saying: ‘What you’ve never had you never miss.’ If we had had a better life up until that point and then had to do that sort of thing, it would have been a hardship. But the fact is that this was our life. It was how we had to live in order to achieve what we both wanted. It was unpleasant and looking back on it now with all the creature comforts we have today, then it does seem like a terrible hardship, but at the time it was necessary and whatever was necessary we did without a second thought.

Both of us were working overtime to pay for the racing. Rosanne was working for British Gas as a demonstrator and took on evening assignments to get as much money as she could. At times she was working up to eighty hours a week. It was a tough situation. We had very little spare time and certainly couldn’t contemplate taking a holiday. We saw less and less of our friends and our families. Deep down we knew what we were doing was right, but many of the people around us had serious doubts.

We tried to keep our distance from them. It wasn’t a case of cutting them off, we just made a personal commitment to ourselves that we didn’t need negative people in our company, telling us that we would never make it, that we shouldn’t take the risk and how stupid we were to try.

When you want to turn the tables and be successful in an environment which is already tough enough, you can do without that kind of negative influence. Everybody’s entitled to their own opinion, but if it’s really negative, then it is far more constructive to keep it to yourself. It doesn’t help anybody to come out with that sort of thing.

There were people whom we hardly ever saw, but if something went wrong they would come up to us and say, ‘I could have told you about that. I could have told you that wouldn’t work.’ It’s amazing how many people we’ve run into with that attitude.

If they were more constructive in their approach and came to us saying, ‘Listen Nigel and Rosanne, we love you a lot, but we’re concerned about what you’re trying to do and that you might get hurt,’ and maybe even make a few tactful suggestions about other ways of going about things, then I can respect that kind of opinion. As it turned out, our true friends were fabulous and kept us going, while gradually the ones who didn’t believe in us dropped away.

I have always been a positive thinker and I have never been able to tolerate people who are negative. Perhaps that is the root of my problem with some of the motor racing journalists I have encountered over the years. In any case, it is something to which I really hardenened my attitude during those difficult early days in Formula Ford.

Meanwhile, things began to look up. A guy called Mike Taylor offered me a newer car, on condition that I used my own engine. I jumped at the chance and drove down to his workshop to fit my engine into his car. It was very late when we finished and I only managed a couple of hours sleep before I had to go to Thruxton to race it. Although I was exhausted, I won the race, which was immensely satisfying. It was to prove a major turning point.

The car was made by a company called Crossle, which was based in Ireland. When John Crossle heard what had happened at Thruxton he called John Thornburn and said, ‘Tell me honestly, John, how good is this bloke Mansell?’

‘Well from a Formula Ford point of view,’ John said, ‘he’s the best there’s ever been. But he’s got no money.’ Crossle thought for a second and said, ‘I suppose I’d better give him a car then.’ To which John replied, ‘Well, if you don’t someone else will, because he’s going to win whatever he drives.’

Crossle sent a car over and we managed to persuade one of the top engine tuners to work on the engines for free. Things were beginning to come together and at this point I made the biggest decision of my life.

I was in the position of manager at Lucas, even though I was only twenty-two, and it was a well paid job. The problem was they wanted me to make myself available to work Saturdays and Sundays if the workload required, but they weren’t prepared to pay any overtime. At the time I was racing most weekends during the season and winning a lot. I pointed this out to my boss and he said, ‘Well, Nigel, you’ve got to decide whether you’re going to be an amateur playboy racer or a mature man in a sensible job.’

That night I went back to Rosanne and told her about my conversation at work. We thought about it until late into the night and agreed that we would only be young once. If we didn’t at least try to make it in racing we would have to live with the regret for the rest of our lives. Every element of the discussion brought us back to the same answer – we had to go for it.

The next day I went into the office and handed in my notice. My boss almost fell off his chair. He really hadn’t expected it. I said to him, ‘Look, I’m young and I’ve got to give racing a try. I’ve got all my engineering qualifications, so if it doesn’t work out I can always come back here or to a similar place.’

He was quite good about it and I think he could see that I meant it. So I walked out of the door and left my job behind me. There was no turning back, we had taken the plunge. I was now a professional racing driver. It was a strange feeling as I drove home that night. I was satisfied knowing that I had made the right decision, and nothing would shake me from my belief that I was going to make it. But I knew it was going to be tough and I had just given up a healthy source of income. When I told Rosanne we smiled at each other. We had taken charge of the situation. From now on it was down to us.

Three weeks later I broke my neck.

Many people are faced with that difficult choice between doing something they love or playing it safe and going for the secure, tried and trusted route. Some decide, like we did, to go for it. Others choose the safe route and perhaps encounter a degree of regret later in life. I don’t know what advice I would give someone faced with that choice. It depends on so many things. You must have the talent, of course, and you must be able to focus totally on one objective. But more important than that, you must believe in yourself. When Rosanne and I look back we wonder what gave us the strength to carry on believing at times.

I broke my neck in my first race with the new car. It was at Brands Hatch and the chequered flag had fallen to end the qualifying session. I was on my slow-down lap when I came up behind a car going much more slowly. The track surface was mostly wet, but there was a single dry line which we were both using. Rather than hit the slower car I swerved and immediately the car became loose on the slippery surface. I went off backwards and in the ensuing accident I broke two vertebrae in my neck.

The accident at Morecambe had been pretty frightening, but this was worse. I was actually paralysed for a few hours and the fear you experience when you cannot feel your arms and legs is truly shocking. I looked at the X-rays of the broken vertebrae and shuddered. The doctors had very serious expressions on their faces as they told me that I was lucky not to have permanent paralysis.