Goodwood Festival of Speed

Next Friday July 12th I shall be at the Chater's Motor Books Goodwood's Festival of Speed all day long, signing copies of my book.  You could ask: "Why the link with motor racing?"

Stepfather Louis Stanley was the domineering character who was the boss of BRM (British Racing Motors) with my wonderful mum Jean Stanley (she was the daughter of A. Owen who started Rubery Owen. the large motor engineering company of Darlaston).

In the book I recount tales from my childhood from the motor racing days of the 1950s and 60s.
Here's a bit about my memory of Aintree race course (the British GP was often held there in those days) in the days of Harry Schell.

This is me with Graham Hill when he was practising at Goodwood for the Easter meeting. . I was allowed in the pits .. The pit area is rather different these days but no less dangerous!

An extract from my book, Conspiracy of Secrets 

An earlier meeting at Aintree motor circuit is etched in my memory because of its ironical nature. On that day Stepfather risked all our lives however years later he became well-known in his fight to improve motor racing safety.

On the first practice day he marched my siblings and myself round the course, where he stopped at various places. He sat for hours on the tiny seat, absorbed with the viewfinder of his Leica, practising moving the camera in synchronisation with the car as it flashed by.

During the afternoon practice session he would want to be at a position near the track, where there were no spectators to disturb the swing of his camera. As the cars started to appear for practice, we walked around the course and based ourselves at the end of the Sefton Straight near the Melling Road. In front of us were some rusting poles, bending in unison, when the brisk wind blew across the undulating land. 

I jumped out of my skin when the first car came hurtling towards us. I tried to make my legs run for my life but the shrieking of the tyres and the engine cackling transfixed me. I closed my eyes, as the driver appeared to head straight for me and thrashed with the gearstick. After he had disappeared around the double-twisted turn, I turned to find Mum, equally terrified, pulling at Stepfather's jacket sleeve.

“We can’t stop here, we’re right in their path. I have to take the children to safety before another car comes.” 

“You’re my wife. You’re not going anywhere without me.”

“I think the children are frightened and there’s nothing to stop the cars coming straight into us.”

“Don’t be wimps”, he shouted at us, trying to be heard above the noise of the next car approaching. “This is an ideal place for photographs of the cars in action.”

The noise abated and he rasped in his usual way: “Come on, darling, there’s nothing to fear, they're just making a lot of noise. You’re not taking the children away. We’re watching expert drivers here. They know what they’re doing.”

Mum made more protestations, but all he said was, “There is this protective line of poles in front of us. Come on. You’ll soon get used to it.” He was clearly enjoying himself.

He turned to me and said, “This is something to tell your friends about at your primary school.” 

How little he knew me! I rarely told any of my friends about my home life.

As the next car stormed towards us, I noticed the driver had difficulty controlling the rear wheels as the back of the car swayed into the chicane. I gripped Mum’s hand tightly– it was cold.

She tried one more time to lift her voice above the scream of the next car:

“I'm sure this is far too dangerous for us all….”

“Don’t be silly, dear, this is fine,” not lifting his head from the viewfinder. “You’re getting an amazing view from here. You’ll soon get used to the cars coming straight for us.”

In the silences, I listened for the distant rumble of the next car as I searched the horizon for what appeared to be a tiny black fly that climbed the hump, before it came bearing down on us at over one hundred and eighty miles per hour. I grimaced each time, but I no longer closed my eyes, as I was fascinated by the cars, often with one or more of their wheels off the ground.

From a distance all the cars appeared to be the same colour and shape as they sped towards us, and I could only identify individual cars when they were upon us.

Mum and I felt more reassured when we recognized the BRM was out on the circuit with Harry Schell, our charismatic driver, at the wheel. Stepfather continued to concentrate on his photography as we watched our hero find the last possible braking point before drifting through the double bend.

Mum, with stopwatch in hand predicted when the American would appear over the brow of the hill. It seemed less alarming now we had the BRM to watch. At the allotted time I scanned the horizon for his car. Then, there he was, the uneven surface jostling him from side to side as the car bounced up and down. As he approached, I anticipated the noise of the jangling gears and screaming brakes but I did not expect the gesture! Harry raised his gloved right hand and gave us a big wave!

“Did you see that?” I yelled over the screech of the departing brakes.

Mum was as amazed as I was. Stepfather had missed the excitement as his capacious nose was still pressed tight into the sights of his camera.

The lap time of one minute thirty seconds appeared more like one and a half hours as I waited for Schell to reach the top of the small incline again. Finally there he was, bearing down on us, this time I was ready with my hands in the air.

As more cars joined the practice session the noise became continuous, so conversation was only possible during brief pauses between cars. The pungent aroma of the shredding tyres hung in the air and I could taste the spent fuel.

Finally the session was over and the track was quiet. My legs were like jelly. My mother, obviously relieved, was full of chatter.

 “Oh, Harry Schell is such good fun isn’t he?" she chirped. We all agreed. "Fancy, having the time, on that corner, to give us a wave!”

Back in the paddock, Harry was grinning, happy with his practice times for the day.

Mum congratulated him, “That time is brilliant for the first day. Fancy having the time to wave at us on the Sefton chicane, the fleas, (a term she liked to use for us children) really enjoyed that. You've made their day they can’t stop talking about it.”

“Oh that’s all part of the fun,” he replied, “but I was also trying to warn you. That’s a treacherous position to watch, if any of us had lost control, like a car did last year, we would have ploughed straight into you.”

Suddenly Stepfather had slunk away. Mum stuttered, “but there’s those iron protective railings.”

“They'd fall like a pack of cards. That’s not any protection for cars, that’s for the horses. They wouldn’t stop a Hillman Minx at ten miles an hour.”

            

After our experience at the end of the Melling Straight we never watched from unprotected corners again but motor racing in those days was lethal. In those days drivers died. It was a common experience for those you knew to die or be injured so horrifically they never raced again.

My mother and stepfather in the paddock when they were joint managing directors  of BRM.
Tony Rudd, chief engineer, is beside Graham Hill with the mechanics in their white overalls with the family company logo on their chests.