Jenson Button - Life to the Limit: My Autobiography

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Text copyright Jenson Button, 2017

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For the old boy. Simply put I couldnt have done any of it without you. Not just because youre my dad, who I love dearly, but also because you were my best friend, my confidant and my inspiration then, now and for ever. Together every step of the way, we made our dream a reality. I love you and I miss you.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

8.30am

Finding my peace starts with a shot of coffee.

Ready, JB?

Thats Mikey, my physio, and he means for a run, although calling it a run flatters what we do. Its more like a little jog. Fifteen or twenty minutes worth just to get everything pumping that should be pumping. After that its time for a shower, get dressed, and then a hearty breakfast in McLaren hospitality before the serious stuff begins.

Its race day.

10am

I join the engineers and chief mechanic for thirty minutes of strategy talk about our pit stops, how many were going to make and when we plan to make them; our tactics; our qualifying pace compared to other teams; the successes and failures of the race before. Theres a buzz about the team, of course, a feeling of tension and a sense of heightened expectation. Me, Ive perfected the art of being relaxed but excited, a state of mind that Ive acquired with age and experience. It tends to descend on me during that first meeting and I greet it with the relief and gratitude of a dog greeting its master.

Qualifying is a different matter. No relaxed excitement on the Saturday, just nerves probably because Im not very good at the whole one-lap-fast-time demands of qualifying. Give me a race any day. Ninety minutes of planning, strategy and concentration, thats what I like.

After the first meeting, we have a second one, about the set-up of the car. An hour of that and I get dragged away to the paddock club. Every team has a paddock club, where sponsors and possible future sponsors mill around a hospitality area overlooking the circuit. I meet those guys, do a little speech, answer some questions about qualifying, press the flesh, and then return downstairs to meet fans in the pit lane.

And if you were to say that meeting sponsors and fans isnt the best preparation for a Grand Prix, then Id probably agree with you. But its part of what we do. Without sponsors and fans you dont race, simple as that. Either you suck it up, do your job and enjoy it, or youre Kimi Rikknen.

Midday

With the race just two hours away, Mikey and I have an early lunch. Honestly, we do everything together. Were like Ant and Dec, except you can tell us apart.

Lunch is chicken breast with dark-green salad and quinoa. Its the only meal of the weekend thats high in carbs the quinoa which I need to sustain me through the race. Its got to be food I know well so I dont risk an upset stomach.

After that I take part in the drivers parade, where we perch on the back seat of road cars and are driven around the circuit, waving at the crowd. When thats over someone sticks a microphone in your face so you can say a few words for broadcast to fans at the circuit.

Up until now I would have been wearing the normal team gear of trousers and shirt, but after the parade I go into the tiny drivers room, where I pull on fireproof long johns, followed by a fireproof top (with the sponsor logos on, in case your suit is only zipped halfway), followed by the suit itself (which I only zip halfway) and then my boots.

12.30pm

Back upstairs, Mikeys ready in the massage room with some tunes playing: Rage Against the Machine, Kings Of Leon, Pharrell Williams, whatever we fancy for the next forty-five minutes of warming-up and stretching.

Mikey and I are usually pretty chatty, but its about now that the conversation dries up, and I start to get my focus on, thinking about the race, especially the start of it, and looking forward to getting in the car. Everything before that is just build-up. Im not saying its tedious, but its duty-stuff; its what you must do as part of the privilege of racing in Formula One. There comes a point when you just cant wait to get in the car. And that point is now.

1.30pm

After a trip to the toilet I go to the garage, where the car awaits, the real star of the show, a temperamental prima donna tended to by mechanics and engineers in bulbous headphones.

I collect my earplugs, balaclava, gloves and helmet from the top of a toolbox at the back. The earplugs are not the normal earplugs youd wear to block out the sound of your partners snoring; they have several functions. First, yes, theyre earplugs, to prevent hearing damage; second, theyre earphones so I can hear instructions over the team radio, and third, theyre a G meter, which allows the team to check the level of G-force youve been subjected to. If youve hit something, for example, they can check the data and be better able to make a judgement on whether or not you should compete in the next race.

Next comes the balaclava. I run a wire from the earplugs out of the balaclava and then, when I put my helmet on, plug the lead from the earplugs into it. The mic for the talkback is in the helmet. Im wired for sound. My visors up.

Next I grab the gloves but dont put them on just yet. I climb into the car. My only superstition is that I always get in from the right-hand side. Dont ask me why I do that.

Strapping-in is quite an operation. We use a six-point harness, which means you have two straps that come up between your legs, two around your waist and then two over your shoulders, all clicking together into a middle piece. The two between my legs I do up myself; the other four a mechanic does for me.

That feel all right? he says. I wriggle, adjust and give him a thumbs up.

Now the headrest goes in. It has a quick-release mechanism so they can get me out fast if something goes wrong. After that comes the wheel. It slots on, solid like a Tonka toy. I pull on my gloves. My visors still up.

Okay, JB, were going green in one minute, says my race engineer, which means theyre waiting for the all-clear to start the car. Around me the crew are ready to remove the tyre warmers.

We go green, they start the car, and a noise like World War III breaking out batters the garage walls. Now we are subservient to the engine. All of us are at its mercy.