Johnny Herbert - What Doesnt Kill You...: My Life in Motor Racing

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First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright Johnny Herbert and James Hogg 2016

Cover design by Richard Ogle/TW
Photographs Getty

Johnny Herbert has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473542464
ISBN 9780593078389

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To Rebecca, Chloe and Aimelia

THERE IS A much-used but totally ridiculous saying that goes Never ASSUME, because when you ASSUME, you make an ASS of U and ME. Rubbish, isnt it? The reason Im including it is because when it comes to me and motorsport, people nearly always assume that I either come from a family steeped in automotive history, or, at the very least, have a father who was an out-and-out petrol-head and who had me karting from the age of one. Not true, Im afraid. My dad was neither a Keke Rosberg nor an Anthony Hamilton. In fact he was, and still is, Bob Herbert, a retired electrician from Essex who, until Id been karting a few years, didnt know a carburettor from a carbonara. I suppose that makes an ASS out of U (although not you personally) but not ME. You see, I told you it was rubbish.

In all seriousness, theyre absolutely right to assume Ive got form, as the vast majority of professional and even amateur racing drivers will have been influenced by family somewhere along the way, and usually quite early on. Indeed, at the time of writing, I cant think of one driver on the F1 grid who isnt a product of either some premeditated parental enthusiasm or, more directly, racing genes, nor can I think of too many whove come before. If the passions there it rarely gets a chance to skip a generation, which is why so many racers have some kind of motorsport family tree.

I, on the other hand John Paul Herbert, born 25 June 1964 was the first member of my entire family the Romford Herberts or, on my mum Janes side, the Ingatestone Coxes to have taken so much as a passing interest in motorsport, let alone made a career in it. In fact, and this is Gods honest truth, before I won my first trophy in karting back in the mid-seventies, the closest any of us had ever come to enjoying success on four wheels was when I unexpectedly rocked my pushchair from one end of the garden to the other, impressing not only my speechless parents but also several of their friends. There were no trophies that day though, just a few cries of How the bloody hell did he do that? We all have to start somewhere, I suppose.

Irrespective of how you actually get involved in motorsport, there is one thing we racers all have in common, regardless of standard or the number of wheels involved, and that is a vivid and unforgettable recollection of the first time we sat behind (in my case) the wheel of a kart. You dont have to be a Lewis Hamilton or a Valentino Rossi to appreciate that feeling, and Id hazard a guess that many of you reading this book will now be grinning like Cheshire cats as you recall yours.

My own experience is still breathtakingly vivid, to the point where I can still remember what people said to me and what they were wearing. Im not going to bore you with that of course (although flares and wide collars were definitely at play), but what I will tell you is that the month was August, the year 1971, and the location a disused airfield just outside St Ives in Cornwall.

We used to go to Cornwall a lot when I was a child and I remember it used to take us about seven hours to get there. Seven flipping hours! These days you can probably do it in about four, with a bit of luck and a following wind, but back then there were far fewer motorways, and cars, although often brimming with character, were, shall we say, often somewhat underpowered. I dont know what the record is for saying Are we there yet? on that particular journey but between my younger sister Sarah and me we must have gone well into four figures. Mum and Dad used to be ever so patient. Sometimes wed get as far as Basingstoke before they started swearing at us.

The reason we started going to St Ives, apart from it being hundreds of bloody miles away on the other side of the country, is because my dads sister Sheila and her husband Pete had started working down there and so we used it as an opportunity to visit them. They were running an old karting track that had been built on the runway of the aforementioned disused airfield and we stayed in a holiday complex just a short walk away. I say track, it was just a few old tyres that had been fashioned into a standard snake-like circuit and I dont recall being especially drawn to it. It was something new, though, so one afternoon while we were down there I thought Id ask Dad if I could give it a go.

Yes, all right, he said. Watch yourself, though. Those things look bloody dangerous.

After taking absolutely no notice of him whatsoever I went to see my uncle Pete and he set me up in a kart. The thing is, because I was so small he had to put four or five big cushions behind me just so I could reach the pedals. It must have looked ridiculous, and it certainly wasnt the last time it would happen. God bless Health and Safety 1970s style!

Once again, I dont remember feeling particularly excited or anything, it was just something to do. Id probably do this for a few minutes, get bored, then go for a swim or kick a ball around with my dad. I recall Uncle Pete explaining how the kart worked and telling me all the dos and donts, but even though I can recollect what he said I didnt actually take any notice of him. Yes, Uncle Pete. No problem, Uncle Pete. Typical seven-year-old boy, I suppose. Then, once Id given him the thumbs up and he was happy, off I went.

You know what its like when you ride a bike for the first time without stabilizers, the sensations of excitement and freedom you feel from being able to do something on your own? Well, thats exactly how I felt on my first few laps in the kart, the difference being that I never needed the stabilizers. The feeling I got through my hands, my arms, my toes, my legs, and even my bum, was just very natural. Straight away I felt completely at home, and within just a few laps I had instinctively begun to gauge not only the strengths and weaknesses of the kart but also the grip of the tyres. I also took the racing line, or something there or thereabouts once again, courtesy of instinct. I didnt have to