A race in Belgium and a changed world for McLaren

Waking up and staring into the barrel of a Belgian policeman's pistol is not my idea of a pleasant state of affairs - unless of course you suffer from constipation. I once experienced such misfortune at one of Brussels' main line railway stations and do not care to repeat the experience. Matters were slightly complicated, you see. I was in the company of three chaps as dishevelled as myself, the air hung heavy with the smell of a just-consumed-joint, bits of orange and banana peel littered the floor beside us and there was a large offensive looking knife lying by my side.

I had made the acquaintance of fellow travellers - some English lads - in a smoky café in Amsterdam and we had agreed to carry on with the revelry by taking a train further south to Brussels. Arriving in Brussels in the evening, the four of us thought it wise to seek a reasonably priced place where we could shovel some warm food inside ourselves before braving the streets in charge of cheap accommodation. We hauled our bags into lockers at the station and stepped out into the Brussels night. It was not long before we found a little Greek restaurant offering a dish of moussaka and two Stella Artois for less than five Belgian francs. Having sunk the first two Stellas, the temptation to sink a couple more and then a further couple more became irresistible. By the time we knew where we were it was midnight and we had nowhere to go to sleep. Still, four resourceful young, streetwise chappies can never be at a loss for too long and it was pretty much the work of an instant to reach consensus that the railway station floor seemed most inviting for the night ahead.

The policeman fired off a volley of angry questions in French at me at a speed of knots.
"Er, bonjour officer," I said, "lovely summer's evening, wouldn't you say?"
More angry French words.
"Your attitude surprises me," I said, "you wouldn't care for an orange would you? I have some to spare, you see."
More French - the anger now notching up towards furious.
"Now look here," said one of my English friends, "what exactly is it that you want, sir?"
"Passports!" yelled the red-faced policeman.
I handed him a locker ticket. "Our passports are safely locked away in a locker on this station. If you will stand me five francs - the cost of the locker, you see - I will happily retrieve them for you," I said.
The policeman turned to his colleague and said something which clearly indicated that he thought we were just a bunch of chumps.
He turned to me again. "When do you leave Brussels?" he said in perfect, if a little accented Queen's English.
"First train out of here, mate," I said.
"Make sure you clean up this mess and take the knife away with you. Knives are illegal in Belgium," he said. The pair then turned on their heels and left us a little shaken by the experience but whole nonetheless.

That experience and reading about the misadventures in the Congo of a truly ghastly monarch called Leopold and his equally vile underlings put me off Belgium completely. I didn't see any reason to go there or indeed have anything to do with the place. But there was a problem: Spa-Francorchamps. For a Formula One fanatic, the Belgian Grand Prix in Spa cannot, nay, will not be ignored. It is quite simply the most magnificent, most challenging circuit on the calendar. Tucked away in the Ardennes mountains to the east of Belgium, Spa has a microclimate of its own. It can be raining on one end of the race track and dry on the other. Nobody knows what the ideal set-up is for Spa because there is none. It is a circuit which shows greatness like none other because doing well there depends upon raw talent and intelligence. Tactical racing is useless at Spa. This is why Ayrton Senna and Michael Schumacher did so well there. Schumacher won six times at Spa and only once did he do it from pole position (in 1995 he famously came from 16th on the grid to win the race in the rain). I am all of a twitter as I write this. Spa does that to me. You will hear the words “Eau Rouge” mentioned a lot this weekend. I will say no more.

If you are reading this you are probably asking yourself what the devil is going on. Has Gitau been on Mars? You are probably feeling like a bulldog twirling around and salivating while a cruel master waves a juicy pork chop over him. No, I am not refusing to write about the elephant in the room. I just thought I might focus on the things that matter to begin with. But we are in strange territory, friends.

In the world of McLaren, it must be said, things are pretty thick. To be slapped with a $100 million dollar fine (the largest ever in F1 history) and denied all constructors' championship points is about as harsh as anyone could have expected of the sorry Ferrari v McLaren affair. The bitterness on either side is not surprising. The two teams have been at daggers drawn for a very long time. In the 1976 Spanish Grand Prix, James Hunt beat Nikki Lauda in a McLaren which had been rebuilt after a mid race crash (things were done rather differently then). Ferrari then, as now, went to court and got Hunt disqualified. This one, though, takes the biscuit. The financial penalty could prove disastrous for McLaren. Worse, the reputational damage is unquantifiable. I cannot see how Ron Dennis can keep his job.

I must admit to being very troubled. If McLaren are indeed guilty of using Ferrari's intellectual property - and there is no denying that Mike Coughlan's stupid wife did attempt to photocopy 780 pages worth of the Ferrari manual in Woking - deeper questions arise. My view may seem to be an overly legalistic analysis but it holds weight, I think. How did McLaren earn constructors' championship points? By the combined total of the points achieved in races by Fernando Alonso and Lewis Hamilton. But how did the two drivers earn those points? Well, driving McLaren cars, no less. I cannot, therefore, see how they can be permitted to retain their points and the team they drive for caused to lose the points it has earned. The two are inseparable. Further if the cars are loaded with unlawfully obtained proprietary information, they should not, in all fairness be permitted to be used. Putting it another way, it is the equivalent of saying that if a basketball player slam dunks balls using jet technology secreted within his shoes, his team should be denied the match win but the player should be allowed to continue playing in other matches using the same shoes. In other words, the whole thing is completely farcical. Whatever my feelings about Lewis Hamilton, in my view this is a disgrace.

My Belgian Grand Prix has been ruined by all of this. I am uncertain how to take it all in. I will do my best to enjoy it - perhaps in the company of a Leffe or one other of the million or so beers they brew in Belgium. I hope you will at least try to,

Enjoy Spa!

Gitau
14 September 2007

Ferrari humiliated in Monza

About ten years ago the BBC ran a special documentary about Ferrari, its history, traditions and ethos. At one point the BBC team spoke to one of the Ferrari test drivers and asked him what he thought of his job. The cloud that came over his face spoke volumes. He couldn't begin to fathom the sheer inanity of the question. At length he said "I have the best job in the world." He meant it. The worst job in Formula One currently belongs to Mr Ron Dennis. McLaren are facing greater turbulence as a racing team than they have ever faced in their history. At the behest of a very angry Ferrari, the FIA have re-launched the dirty tricks investigation and a hearing is to be convened in Paris on Thursday. Meanwhile the drivers are putting on a demonstration of superlative race craft such as has never been known at McLaren. Producing a 1-2 is difficult enough at the best of times. To do so in times like these and ahead of Ferrari at Monza is the stuff of dreams. Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant! Ron Dennis is faced with the joy of seeing his drivers perform at the top of their game and the nightmare of impending doom on Thursday.

Fernando Alonso deserved yesterday's win at Monza. His qualifying lap on Saturday was so much better than anyone else's that you could see he was as motivated to go for a big win as he has ever been. Lewis Hamilton, racer of racers, did all he could to snatch the victory from his prima donna team-mate but it was not enough. Yesterday was Alonso's day. You have to hand it to Hamilton for trying, though. If tenacity and a faultless belief in oneself were all that were required to win a world championship, Hamilton would have the winner's trophy in his cabinet at home already. From second place, he lunged on the inside and tried to outbrake Alonso on pole and Felipe Massa in third for first place. The lad's bravery is a joy to behold. Massa got ahead of him by shunting him slightly to the left and Hamilton found his wheels on the run-off area. Not giving up, he came round the outside and re-took second place from Massa. He then had to do an even more astounding move later. After the second round of pit-stops Hamilton found that he had been leapfrogged by the Ferrari of Kimi Raikkonen. Still, he didn't give up. In a move nobody expected - least of all Raikkonen - he came screeching down the straight two laps later from about fifty yards back and effortlessly overtook the Ferrari. Vintage Hamilton. The lad has restored my faith in Formula One. This is what we want to see!

The tifosi were not pleased. To be humiliated at home on the weekend when they were mourning the death of Luciano Pavarotti was not what they wanted or expected. That it was McLaren - the team Ferrari accuse of stealing their proprietary data - enhanced the severity of the blow. The boos and whistles directed at the McLaren drivers on the podium were, therefore, hardly surprising.

Ron Dennis's other problem is the world champion. Fernando Alonso now never shirks any opportunity to sling mud at his team. His views about his personal contribution to McLaren’s success have made him deeply unpopular within the team. I realised two things about McLaren yesterday. First, the team are extremely close-knit. Ron Dennis left the podium with the constructors’ trophy in his hands and received a roaring cheer from the assembled McLaren mechanics. They then assembled for a team photograph and you could see the real sense of camaraderie among them. In these difficult times they are giving each other strength. Secondly, by contrast with his team, Alonso has cast himself as a solo man. He now drives for Fernando Alonso, not team McLaren-Mercedes - a fact Hamilton does his best to demonstrate by only ever talking about doing well for the team, not himself. At each of his previous wins, Alonso has moved his car to the right, just underneath the pit-wall, and acknowledged the cheers of his team. He did not do that yesterday. When asked in the press conference repeatedly what he thought about the current goings on and the implications for the constructors' championship he made clear that his chief motivating influence is a third driver's title. I think Alonso's mind is made up. He will not stay another season at McLaren but wants to leave as world champion.

A chap who can say goodbye to any world championship hopes is Felipe Massa. I cannot help but feel sorry for the poor fellow. He qualified ahead of his team-mate and should at the very least have been third yesterday but in another cruel blow for Ferrari in Monza, the usually indestructible Ferrari gave up the ghost. The sight of Massa's stricken car creeping its way to his garage brought out the tears among the assembled Italians. It was a miserable Monza for them - one of the worst in many years. The worst news for Massa is that it now seems as though his job for the rest of the season will be to assist Kimi Raikkonen. Soul destroying stuff.

This whole dirty tricks business is an unwelcome distraction to a brilliant championship. I do hope it is sorted out and goes away at the end of this week. There is far too much excitement on the race track this season as it is. There are only 3 points separating the two McLaren drivers. With four races to go, the world championship could easily go either way.

Spa next weekend, here we come!

Gitau
10 September 2007

Monza: Italy's racing Mecca

Since that unsettling business with Bianca I have been wary of Italians. That last sentence cannot possibly make sense to anyone but myself. My apologies. Allow me to explain. I met Bianca at a work-organised social function some years ago. She had a lissom figure which suggested more salad than pasta, an acute eye for the most eye-catching fashion items of the season and - I supposed - a massive purse. We were sipping summer cocktails amid the splendour of the Turner collection at Tate Britain in London and chatting about everything and nothing. The conversation moved on to the non-contentious subject of Italian cooking which I professed to love. "But you know nothing about Italian food," said Bianca, her lovely dark brown eyes widening in earnest as she said this. "I do beg your pardon, my dear girl," I said, "are you suggesting that I am making this up?" "No," she said laying a soft, beautifully manicured hand on mine, "I mean you haven't tried food in the home of an Italian." Naturally, I wondered where this was going. "Come to my home for some real Italian food," said Bianca with a wink.

Bianca worked for the London branch of an Italian bank. When I got to the neighbourhood where she lived, I instantly thought it a good idea to brush up my CV and tout it to the Italian institutions dotted about the City. Ferraris were two a penny on Bianca's street. Seconds after ringing Bianca's bell, I was faced with a sight I was unprepared for. Standing before me was a severe looking woman of middle age. Her proportions were as follows: distance from heel to top of head - 5 feet, 6 inches; distance from left hip to right hip - 5 feet, 2 inches. I felt certain I was at the wrong address but closer examination of the woman's eyes told me that I was standing before Bianca's mother.

She waved me in without a word and I was delighted to be received in the hallway by a smiling Bianca with a bracing Campari for me in her hand. "Mum's cooking tonight," she said, "you're in for a treat!" Bianca had not mentioned anything about any mums before this. Not a word. I couldn't help thinking that an ideal treat for me would be for this excrescence of a mother to evaporate. My thoughts immediately turned to the theory put forward by my friend Rod (being a Presbyterian Scot of firm values, like the new British Prime Minister, Rod frowns at my tendency to go weak at the knees at the sight of a fine female specimen from the Italian peninsula and thinks me to be a foolish fop). Rod steers well clear of Italians. According to his theory, there is a zip at the base of every Italian woman's neck - she is slender and elegant until she gets married and then she rips open the zip and all hell breaks loose.

Dinner was served and we sat down to eat. That is to say, Bianca and I sat down while Bianca's mother stood to one side watching me like a hawk. First, she brought out an antipasti dish of anchovies, tomatoes and a few other assorted, toothsome bits. I knew nothing would go down worse than for me to seem unappreciative of the large woman's cooking, so I polished off everything on my plate and mopped up any dribbly bits with bread. With a feeling of great sadness, I sipped sparingly from the glass of delicious Nero d'Avola placed before me as I ate. Bianca, meanwhile, moved things around her plate and sipped elegantly from a glass of mineral water. I thought for a fleeting moment that the antipasti was the whole meal (and would happily have contented myself with it as I was quite satisfied). I soon had to correct that thought. Next, the woman brought in a vast bowl of steaming pasta and sauce and a generous side salad. I could feel the sweat dripping down my back as I wrestled with the food under the watchful gaze of this ogress from the darkest corner of Tuscany. Conversation with Bianca was limited. Wine sipping was abandoned. The task was an enormous one but the Gods were with me on that evening and I was equal to it. I undid my belt when it was over and leant back into my chair. To my horror the severe woman disappeared again. When she emerged she had in her hand an enormous oval plate and atop it a large T-bone steak surrounded by aubergines and various other bits. I fought hard not to break down. All thoughts of a carnal nature disappeared from my brain. All I wanted was to be lowered into a grave. When I eventually got up to leave, I had to steady myself against the wall and slither towards my underground station like a slug. Bianca and I never saw each other again. Even now, the thought of that scary woman makes me break out in a cold sweat.

Perhaps I am unfair. Perhaps the intention was not to murder me with food. The lady could just as easily have been attempting to give me an authentic Italian culinary experience, for the Italians are passionate about their food. They are also passionate about their cars and speed. No country in the world can reel off a list of illustrious racing car names like this: Ferrari, Lamborghini, Maserati and Bugati. No surprise then that the fastest circuit in the Formula One world is at the Autodromo Nazionale di Monza, the home of the Italian Grand Prix. Monza is one of the greats. It is a magnificent place. The speed of the circuit requires thinking drivers who know a thing or two about car set-up to do well there. The set-up for Monza is unlike that used anywhere else. It is every inch a driver's circuit. Miss this weekend's action at your peril.

Not only is Monza so special, it arrives at a point in this year's calendar when the end is so near and yet so far. In his dominant years, Michael Schumacher was already world champion by the time he got to Ferrari's home race but he raced there each time with the same determination as he raced in Australia at the start of the year. None of the four championship contenders has ever won at Monza and each has had four wins this season, so on that score alone, the race is too difficult to call. The man who deserves the world championship the most is Lewis Hamilton. I do not say this because I am partial - which I unashamedly am - but do so because of the Brit's consistency. He has only failed to be on the podium on two occasions and has finished every race. Such consistency of effort is deserving of the top reward.

But Formula One is never fair. This is the home of Ferrari, the blood red team. This is the place where the Italians come to see their boys show what it is to drive a car with the black stallion emblazoned on it. It is where they come to sing and wave red flags. Unsurprisingly, Ferrari have had more race wins at Monza than any other team by a very long chalk. Going by their performance in the stifling conditions of Turkey, I expect to see another 1-2 from Ferrari. I won't be too disappointed if I do. For one it is always a pleasure to witness the ecstasy of the tifosi. Also, it doesn't do Hamilton's chances of clinching the championship too much harm.

Giuseppe, my Italian delicatessen friend, is on notice to give of his best. "Spare nothing" were his instructions. He is yet to fail me. I am looking forward to Sunday. I am sure you are too.

Enjoy Monza!

Gitau
6 September 2007