Back home again from Austria, the most important thing on our minds, apart from repairing and strengthening the broken rear suspension, was to make some money. On the August Bank Holiday weekend, Rothmans, in conjunction with John Webb, who owned Brands Hatch at that time, had decided to stage a unique race. The concept of Formula Libre (anything goes) was not new. In my early spectating days there was always an F. Libre race on nearly every race programme; usually the last race of the day. Absolutely any type of racing car could enter. However, this race was a bit special. It was to be called the Rothmans 50,000, referring to the prize money, as I recall. The thing was it was a very long race, 312 miles. Even now, no single seater car ever races that far other than at Indianapolis, and things were no different then. Grand Prix racing had no refuelling in 1972, so no grand prix car would do 300 miles.
The race was originally conceived 18 months earlier, but met lukewarm reaction then, so it was shelved for a year. Even then the fact is that the race attracted only a fraction of the expected entry. There was much arguing between the F1 teams and the organisers, (how times change !!!) about starting money and prize money. In the end, only 7 F1 cars showed. There was one Lotus (Emerson Fittipaldi), one McLaren (Brian Redman), two B.R.M's (Howden Ganley and Jean-Pierre Beltoise), Frank William's March (Henri Pescarolo), David Purley's March and us.
Peter had entered the car for this race, and we got on with organising how we were going to refuel the car. The simple fact is that it would have to be the 'upturned-can-straight-into-the-fuel-filler' ploy. Our fuel filler was right behind the drivers head, and we would probably have had to remove the cockpit surround (4 dzus fasteners) in order to get to it. There is no doubt that Brands expected a much better entry than it got. The race was on during one of the two weekends between Austria and Italy, so it was a bit hopeful. If my memory serves me right, Lotus went for refuelling, but McLaren and B.R.M built wide, pregnant-looking machines with greatly increased fuel capacity so as to go the full distance without stopping. The B.R.M's had room for 62 gallons !! You can imagine how they handled, can't you ? Should you ever see a picture of one of those cars, you will now know what it's all about.
In addition, there were a number of F5000 cars (big Chevrolet engined cars - equivalent today I suppose to F3000.) Some F2's, one or two with extra tankage, and one Lola-D.F.V sports car. Very disappointing for the organisers, but good news for us, because we felt confident that we could outrun a lot of them, and if we got to the finish it would mean decent cash - possibly enough to take us off to Monza two weeks later.
As an aside, I realise now that we would have looked pretty silly at Monza. There were no chicanes there in those days and poor François would have been left miles behind on those long straights when eased the throttle as the rev counter arrived at 9000 r.p.m.
There were two days of practice, and during the first day, the engine stopped. Here we go again !!! In the paddock, we found that a steel shaft which drives the fuel metering unit had broken. Not a great problem, except that we didn't have a spare. No matter, a couple of quick phone calls to Northampton, and one would be waiting to be collected from Cosworths that afternoon. But who would go for it ? The decision was taken that I should go, given my perceived knowledge of the highways and byways of England. Then, another idea formed in somebody's (not my) brain. François could drive me up to Cosworth's, thus relieving me of the strain of the journey. What a wonderful idea !!! We all took the now-familiar drive back through the Dartford tunnel to our base, and while Peter and Roger set to, stripping down the top of the engine to gain access to the broken part François and I set off. Little did I know it, but I was about to embark on THE MOST frightening hour of my life.
You must bear in mind that this was Friday afternoon. Traffic in London was not as bad as it is now, but by any standards, it was a very busy time. Our route would take us up through Chingford and on to Waltham Cross; I was making for the M1 in as direct a way as I could. Now I seem to recall mentioning François' old B.M.W before. It was, no doubt, a fine car - but it wasn't new, or even vaguely new. From the moment we set off, the ride was hair-raising. Remember, this was a French-registered vehicle, and as such was left-hand drive. I was in the front passenger seat, which put me facing the oncoming traffic, every time he decided to pull out and overtake whatever happened to be in his way. Which he did, often….. The fact that something was coming in the opposite direction made little impression on François, from where he was sitting, he couldn't see it. I could, and did with frightening regularity. The problem is that you just can't keep your eyes shut all the time.
Now don't get me wrong here; François was, (no doubt still is) a terrific driver. Typically full of confidence, and with excellent judgement. It's just that I was staring juggernauts in the face while he was still moving out to pass. I'm not saying I was getting used to it, but the dents in the dashboard were beginning to subside when I noticed that he appeared to be pumping the brake pedal each time we had to slow down rapidly, (i.e. about every 30 seconds.) I glanced sideways at him, and received the all-purpose Gallic shrug which translated to “No worries.” But I WAS worried, especially when he began to use the hand-brake as well as the pedal to avoid running into the car in front. I put up with it as far as Waltham Cross, and then absolutely demanded that he stop. When we looked under the bonnet, the brake fluid in the reservoir was boiling. “It does that,” he informed me. “Yes,” I said, “and it's doing it now.” I am not an assertive person by nature, but I flatly refused to go any further. We turned around and motored VERY carefully back to the garage.
I suspect that Peter and Roger thought I was making a fuss about nothing, but then they weren't there ! As part of the help given to us by the Ford Motor Company, an Escort van had been lent to us to use for the race weekend. Another couple of phone calls arranged for me to collect the part from the home of a Cosworth employee who lived near the Santa Pod raceway. I set off, in a fairly sedate manner, happy in the knowledge that I would get there and back without being frightened stupid. Strangely enough, although I am by no means a fast driver, once on the M1, with the speedo needle on 70-75 mph, I seemed to be passing EVERYTHING. It was only some days later that I found out that the van had a non-standard differential fitted, and the speedo was not accurate. We tested it out a few days later. I drove my Hillman Imp at 50 mph, and whoever was driving the van said that it appeared to be about 38 mph. I shudder to think what sort of speed I had been doing on that Friday night.
When I returned to the garage with the new part, I was sent home to bed, while the others fitted the part and built the engine back up again. The following morning saw us back at the track.
I don't remember how many laps we did during the Saturday afternoon practice session, but soon, we had mechanics from other teams running to tell us to bring him in quickly as something was wrong with the engine. Being experienced, they had noticed it before us. We got the 'IN' board ready, but as we hung it out, François came past the pits with smoke pouring from the back of the car, and the engine sounding flat and horrible. After being ignominiously towed back….yet again, (this was becoming a habit at Brands), we found the back of the car, and the rear wing covered in Mr. Duckhams best. François got out of the car, and sadly, was never again to get back in.
What had happened, for those who understand these things, was that a small circlip had failed in the bearing which connects the con-rod to the piston. This had allowed the piston to move sideways and in its up and down motion, had split a cylinder liner. Hence all the oil in places where oil should definitely not be ! The other mechanics said that it had sounded 'wrong' for a few laps, but that old inexperience thing had bitten us once again.
The saddest thing was that it meant the end of our deal with François. It was all a bit unfortunate, as we did not part on the best of terms. François' deal was for 5 races, and he had done only one. However, our deal was for a sponsorship of £ 40,000, and Peter reckoned we had seen only £ 10 - 12,000 of it. François was adamant that he couldn't bring any more money, so that was the end of that. Adieu, François.
For the first time in over eighteen months, now we really were depressed. We took the engine out of the car, and carefully stripped it down. Every part was carefully placed in a tray, and then we thought about the future. We certainly could not afford to have it rebuilt, and McLaren would not want it back in its current condition. What to do ? Well, the first thing was to get it to a engine rebuilder. We took the parts up to Race Engine Services, and left it with them on the understanding that if we could actually afford to have it rebuilt sometime, we would let them know, and they would then carry out the work.
Enter David Purley. When we were at Brands for the 50,000 as I mentioned earlier, one of the entries was a March driven by David Purley. David's Father Charlie was the owner of the Lec Refrigeration Company, and he had been paying for David's racing for some years. Charlie Purley was contacted, and a deal struck in which we would prepare the car for David to drive in the end-of-season 'Victory' race at…….oh no……Brands Hatch. It sends shivers down your spine, doesn't it ? The deal was simple; Lec paid for the engine rebuild, and a respray, and really, that was about it. Still, it got us running again. The car look splendid in its new dark blue and red colours, and we managed a reasonable day's testing on the short circuit at…..
well, you can guess where, I'm sure !
It was at this time that we discovered how drivers can vary. Within ten minutes of getting in the car for the first time, David had punctured a rear tyre (on a scaffold pole in the old paddock); accidentally ripped his visor off as he was leaving the pits, and returned after about 2 laps with the gear lever knob in his hand. In addition, as his feet were obviously bigger than François' he had to rip the sole off his driving boots to stop them snagging on something in the footwell. In truth, he had more mishaps in 10 minutes than François had in all the miles he drove the car.
During the qualifying session for the race, he came into the pits waving a screwdriver in the air that he had found rolling about down by the pedals. To this day, I can't explain how it got there. I know I was chief suspect, but as sure as I know it was me that caused the oil leak in Austria, I know it wasn't me who left the screwdriver in the car. It could have been nasty of course, and David was very safety conscious (surprising considering he was a paratrooper who fought in Aden.) At the 50,000 he had a very nasty moment when the throttle stuck open on his March, and he nearly had a biggy. This made him nervous of any car which did not have a 'kill-button' to cut off the engine. We fitted one on the steering wheel; bad move !!
The steering-wheel kill-button certainly killed off the Connew Formula One effort. David had qualified at the back, with a lap half a second slower than François managed at the Grand Prix. Nevertheless we were in a buoyant mood on the Saturday night. Unfortunately, I woke up on the Sunday morning feeling awful. I had suffered with an ulcer since the age of 20, and I think the strain and irregular hours of the previous 6 months had finally caught up with me. I really could not face even getting out of bed. I got a message through to Peter, and the team went off to the race without me. Maybe something deep in my sub-conscious knew that the whole thing was doomed to failure yet again. Ironically, guess who had turned up with a brand new March for the race. You've guessed it, François. Sadly, Brands was no friendlier to him now than it had been when he was with us, as he demolished the car on his first lap in practice. It probably didn't handle as well as the Connew !!
In order for the button on the steering wheel to work, it had to be wired into the car's electrical system. Naturally, there had to be some play on the wires, and they were wound around the steering column in order to keep them out of the way. David set off on the parade lap, and as he turned into Hawthorn's Bend out the back of the circuit, one of the wires caught on something, and as the steering-wheel turned, it yanked the wire out of the switch. It did its job mind, it killed the engine. The car rolled quietly to a standstill. The F1 Connew Ford ended its career parked sadly and silently by the circuit on which it had had so much ill fortune.
Having missed the race, I also missed the final irony. Peter and his gallant team were so hard up that Peter had to write a cheque for 12½p to pay the toll back through the Dartford Tunnel ! The last month or so had been a period of work without wages. We knew that if we managed any decent sort of result, a deal with Lec might have followed for 1973, so we didn't mind working for nothing. John Webb of Brands Hatch did pay Peter a sum of money for being 'good triers', which was very nice of him as he really didn't have to do it. This gave us a bit of cash, and helped Peter pay off one or two bills, but for me, with responsibilities, this sadly had to be the end of the road.
In the final part of this story, I will relate what happened to the Connew in 1973.