Steve Matchett - The Mechanics Tale: Life in the Pit-Lanes of Formula One

Steve Matchett has spent the last twenty years in the engineering business, working as a qualified mechanic for both Ferrari and BMW, before joining the Benetton Grand Prix team in January 1990. As a member of the pit crew he participated in exactly one hundred Grands Prix for Benetton, a career which culminated in winning the Formula One Drivers Championship with Michael Schumacher in 1994 and both the Drivers and Constructors Championships in 1995.

He was in the Imola pits during the ill-fated San Marino Grand Prix which claimed the life of Ayrton Senna, and in the same year was engulfed in the flames of the infamous Hockenheim refuelling fire when Verstappens Benetton dramatically exploded.

His first book, Life in the Fast Lane, was published in 1994. Since then he has continued to write about Grand Prix racing, contributing to the Sunday Times, the Telegraph, the Guardian, Gentlemens Quarterly, On Track, F1 Racing and Autosport. He has finally managed to escape the Formula One pit-lane and now lives in western France.

My sincere thanks to my publisher Michael Dover, my editor Marilyn Inglis and to Claire Wedderburn-Maxwell, the in-house editor at Weidenfeld & Nicolson, for making it happen.

Thanks once again to Steven Tee, the photographers and staff of LAT Photographic for their polite and patient assistance during the research and choosing of the pictures.

Many thanks also go to Alistair Watkins of the FIA for allowing me back into the pit-lane; and to Matt Bishop of F1 Racing; James Baker of Autosport and Jon Gunn of On Track, for helping to keep the wolf at bay and, of course, to Tony Dodgins for making the initial introductions.

Finally, a very special thank you to Sarah Rouche for proof-reading, chicken, guidance, wine, support and for her wonderful resourcefulness in such difficult conditions.

It was 23 May, the eve of the 1998 Grand Prix de Monaco, and I had been invited by a company called Airtrack, Grand Prix travel agents, to give an after-dinner talk in Monaco about the years I spent working as a race mechanic with Michael Schumacher and Benetton Formula, and how we had finally managed to overturn the dominance of McLaren and Williams to win three Formula One World Championships. Indeed, how we had done it was a very good question. How had we done it? For me, Benettons success in the mid-nineties had been quite magnificent to behold, although our grand accomplishments were destined to be but a few fleeting moments in the grand scheme of things, a few brief seasons of greatness. Then all too swiftly, the spell was broken and we quickly found ourselves back in the real world back with the also-rans.

Like a thrown stone, we had taken the Formula One pond by surprise and the ripples had rocked the establishment, disturbing the calm order of things just for a moment then the waters had settled again after 19945. Things were back to normal and McLaren and Williams resumed fighting for first-place honours. After Benettons brief interruption, normal service has once again been resumed.

The Monte Carlo Hermitage is one of the most luxurious hotels in the world, and there I was, Steve Matchett, motor mechanic, a glass of bright champagne in hand, relaxed and enjoying the splendid terrace garden, and about to have dinner there too. Before 1990 I had never even dreamed of visiting Monaco, let alone the very notion of dining in one of the Principalitys most famous hotels; not only that, ten years ago I hadnt so much as laid a finger on a Grand Prix car. Now less than a decade later, I was a published author and an ex-Formula One World Champion mechanic, a one-time winner of the Monaco Grand Prix, arguably the most prestigious race in the world, and the holder of the 1995 Constructors Championship. Five years ago I couldnt speak a word of French and now I live in France. How odd, the twists and turns of life.

I stood leaning on the garden wall, sipping my wine and watching the world go by on the road below. For the third time in less than thirty minutes the white 246 was stopped by the security guard at the entrance to the car park near the casino. Really, the driver must have suspected another rejection after the first refusal, but he had driven off, circled round and tried again, and now again. This time the parting was far less amicable: the security guards posture and the fact that he had removed his black shades to talk to the driver made it quite clear that he didnt want to have to tell him again. While this exchange was in progress, the red F40 slipped alongside hardly noticed and into the car park; a discreet beckoning finger from the security guards friend was all it took. Both cars had seemingly identical, long and blonde passengers on board. I couldnt be certain from where I stood, but I suspected the 246 had failed to pass muster with the doorman because it still sported the original Dino insignia; certainly there werent any Prancing Horse stickers on the front wings, the addition of which is normally the first sign that the owner wants his car to be recognized for all its worth. Look mate, Ive told you before, no Fiats in here, not tonight! Now go away! The doorman wasnt to know, but the Dino was as much a genuine Ferrari as the F40 the 246 was just blessed with a more subtle and elegant dress sense.

The overnight train from Bordeaux to Nice hadnt been quite as chic as commuting by Ferrari, but it was infinitely more affordable; the girls alone looked like theyd cost a small fortune to keep amused, let alone the insurance and service bills of trying to run an Italian sports car. Ownership was out of my league, not that it bothered me; I had some pleasant memories of working on Enzos cars. That was enough; besides, I knew how temperamental they could be without having to have one parked in the barn to remind me.

My train wasnt really a sleeper there was no in-cabin loo or washing facilities, no privacy at all: the cramped, six-berth compartments were fitted with couchettes, just a small bunk, a blanket and pillow. For eight sleepless hours, as the train lurched and rumbled along the eastbound tracks, five of us had stared into the darkness while our room-mate snored and backfired his way through western France and along the dawn coastline of the Cte dAzur. It had been a bright, early morning when I climbed from the train at Nice and caught the aged and rattling shuttle service to Monaco; but that was hours ago. Now as I stood on the terrace, the sun had tired and the lights on the opposite side of the harbour were much brighter than they had been just five minutes before. The air was still warm, carrying a little salt from the ocean as the breeze rolled inland, up and over the casino and hotels, and onward through the town, until it finally climbed the mountains behind the Principality, circling high overhead, then back out to sea where it would begin its cycle all over again.