John Aston - Driven: An Elegy to Cars, Roads & Motorsport

Our life is not our life, merely the stories we have told about our life. Told to others but mainly to ourselves

Julian Barnes, The Sense Of An Ending

First printed in paperback format in July 2019.

First published in ebook format 2019 by Veloce Publishing Limited, Veloce House, Parkway Farm Business Park, Middle Farm Way, Poundbury, Dorchester, Dorset, DT1 3AR, England Fax 01305 250479 e-mail info@veloce.co.uk web www.veloce.co.uk or digital.veloce.co.uk.

Ebook edition ISBN: 978-1-787115-71-2

Paperback edition ISBN: 978-1-787114-43-5

John Aston and Veloce Publishing 2019. All rights reserved. With the exception of quoting brief passages for the purpose of review, no part of this publication may be recorded, reproduced or transmitted by any means, including photocopying, without the written permission of Veloce Publishing Ltd. Throughout this book logos, model names and designations, etc, have been used for the purposes of identification, illustration and decoration. Such names are the property of the trademark holder as this is not an official publication.

Readers with ideas for automotive books, or books on other transport or related hobby subjects, are invited to write to the editorial director of Veloce Publishing at the above address.

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CONTENTS

Introduction

Most of life, maybe, is only time served

Graham Swift, The Light of Day

Its a grand thing to get leave to live

Nan Shepherd, The Quarry Wood

If writing a book is an ego trip, then the trip that I have taken in Driven is a much longer one than I had anticipated. In mitigation, I have a lot to say, as you might expect from someone who has been fascinated by cars, driving, and motorsport since 1967 the year when I realised that Fords Le Mans winning GT40 Mark IV was even sexier than Sandie Shaw, if equally unattainable. I have two consuming interests, angling and driving, and as I have already written two books about the former, it was time to indulge in the latter again. Does any author ever write the introduction to a book before they write the book itself, I wonder? Perhaps a writer with more self-discipline than I have might do so, but I believe that the best journeys dont need a map and so, when I started writing on 1 January, 2017, all I had was a single sheet of A4 with some scribbled ideas on chapter themes. I wanted to be able to ad lib down a side road whenever I felt tempted, which, with my not-so-iron willpower, turned out to be rather often. I was not surprised that the trip turned out to be longer than I had expected, and what the hell if some of those turnings were culs-de-sac?

This is a very personal book, as I wanted to reflect what Barack Obama called the messy, contradictory details of our experience, and to include my own biased, infuriatingly inconsistent, and subjective opinions rather than bombarding you with too much of the sort of information you could find out on your iPhone in seconds. The 15 chapters have three broad themes: autobiographical stuff about cars and driving; opinion pieces on topics including Ferrari, motoring journalism, and motorsport; and finally, a series of accounts of the motorsport events I attended between April 2017 and March 2018. I bemoan the fact that what used to be called Grand Prix racing (which then became Formula 1 before the almost universally abbreviated F1) is assumed by the man on the Clapham omnibus to be a synonym for motorsport in general; it really isnt anything of the kind, as my year-long odyssey embraced not only circuit racing contested by cars as diverse as Thirties Bugattis and this years model BTCC racers, but also drag racing, speed hill climbs, rallying, rallycross, sporting trials, autograss, Time Attack, and banger racing. The spectacle varied from the thunderous brevity of Top Fuel dragsters at Santa Pod to the slo-mo scrabble of Austin Seven Specials on the Lakeland Trial, the venues ranged from Goodwoods top table to York Raceways rebel cool, and the people I encountered ranged from the hail fellow well met old stagers of Shelsley Walsh to the tattooed lads and lasses in Autograss. My accounts of events were not meant to be the sort of detail-heavy reports you would find in the specialist press, so youll look in vain for fastest laps and qualifying times, but instead I have described the look and feel of the day, even its smell and taste, those things which you might first mention to the friend who asked how it was. Thats why I can remember the red kites soaring over Harewood, the opening lap of a Formula Ford race through Coppice Bend, the spooky howl of a Williams Renault FW 14B at Village, and the flat white and bacon sandwich at an early morning Silverstone, with a whole summer day ahead of me.

My favourite Niki Lauda quote came in his crisp reply to the journalist who had told him that the German Grand Prix of 1976, in which Laudas near fatal accident occurred, had not actually taken place at all, as its running order had not counted at the races restart.

Okay then, so tell me, what the fuck happened to my ear? Lauda replied.

In Chapter 10 and Chapter 11, I wonder about what the fuck happened to my sport, and I then suggest how Grand Prix racing (I dont answer calls from Mr F1) might change direction in future. Yeah, its a vain hope and not everybody will listen, and God knows I have been out of step for years with some of the F1 demographic (as they probably call themselves). I cant identify strongly with a fanbase which, on one website, devoted 60 pages to the great grid girl debate but only two pages to marking the death of Le Mans and Grand Prix winner, team owner, technical innovator, and all round good American, Dan Gurney. For all that, Grand Prix racing is still the greatest show on earth, even if I argue that it was even better during the years between 1985 and 1995.

You will learn from this book that my admiration for Lotus founder, engineering genius, and out of the box thinker Colin Chapman knows few boundaries, and I am not alone, as two of the most gifted racing car designers of all, Gordon Murray and Adrian Newey, are also disciples, as well as being Elan owners, as I once aspired to become. Their adherence to Chapmans gospel has been exemplified in the succession of designs that have dominated Grand Prix racing since the early Seventies, the time when, at 18, I first saw a Formula 1 car in action. As a result, my life underwent a seismic change and, nearly 50 years later, I am delighted to report that I still havent recovered and am still enjoying the aftershocks. Chapmans added lightness mantra is not only the reason why I still regard the 1962 Lotus Elan as the definitive small sports car, but also why I owned Caterham Sevens from 1997 until last year, when my creaking back made a transition to an MX5 more of an urgent imperative than a choice. But even then, despite Mazdas funky Jinnba Ittai philosophy, it was Chapmans Elan that inspired the MX 5, and on the right road I can still sense the delicacy of touch and immediacy of response that makes up the Lotus DNA. If only my MX5s driver could add some lightness too ...

But even though I adore the giant killing antics of a lightweight Lotus, a full fat racer with a howling Ferrari V12 or a bellowing Chevy V8 can leave me speechless, breathless and, rather too often of late, embarrassingly close to tears. There is something elemental, almost atavistic about the appeal of the fast and noisy racing cars that have held me in their thrall for so long, and even at 65 (and how the hell did that happen?) my fever shows no signs of abating. Sevens apart, I am slightly more grown up in the road car arena, as my enthusiasm for steroid pumped 2-tonne SUVs and thuggish premium brand saloons is held well in check. Admit it, if a brute like a BMW M4 were in human form it would have a buzz cut, carry a baseball bat and almost certainly fail a drug test. Tell me Im wrong, as Jeremy Clarkson has asked rhetorically, and rather more than once.