Rain and tyre choices - Awesome Australia!

I looked at my notepad yesterday afternoon and observed that it had two identical pages. The first, headed “Bahrain”, had nothing on it; the second, headed “Australia” was similarly blank. If you didn’t watch yesterday’s race in Melbourne and had read my harsh words about the sleep-fest in Bahrain a fortnight ago or any of the damning press comment about Formula One in 2010 since Bahrain, you would probably feel vindicated after reading the first sentence of this paragraph. You would feel reassured at not having wasted valuable sleeping time on a Sunday morning to sit through two hours of tedium. You would be hopelessly wrong.

The second page of my notepad is blank because I was unable to tear my eyes away form the television screen for long enough to jot anything down. There was so much intrigue and so much excitement in Melbourne yesterday morning that even the BBC commentary team were taken aback. Seasoned F1 commentator, Martin Brundle, exhaled hard at a manoeuvre where Lewis Hamilton dived on the inside and overtook not one but two cars. “Formula One is really, really boring,” he said sarcastically, “I hate it!”

In the absence of rain, perhaps there is something to be said for installing sprinklers around racing tracks and turning them on without warning to the teams or drivers. As the cars began their preparations at the start of yesterday’s race, the skies over Melbourne opened slightly and mixed everything up. Predictably, a crash at the first corner forced a safety car episode for the first four laps and tip-toe driving until the rain stopped.

Suddenly tyre strategy became absolutely fundamental. Everyone began the race on intermediate tyres – tyres with shallow grooves – but because the light rain only lasted a couple of laps, it then became imperative to select the optimum point at which to switch to slick tyres. Jenson Button came in earlier than most on lap six, taking a chance of a spin-out incident on a still wet track. He, not the team, made the decision to do this with 52 laps remaining and knowing fully well that he would have to make his tyres last for more than three quarters of the race distance until the finish. He did so expertly and, finding himself in second place behind pole-setter Sebastian Vettel, smoothly cruised his way round the circuit. The Gods were smiling on Button because, once again, Vettel suffered a mechanical failure and spun out into retirement. All Button had to do then was keep things steady until the chequered flag and, thus, achieve his second ever win in Australia in only his second racing outing as a McLaren driver. This was an emphatic Button-esque victory and he was delighted by it.

Lewis Hamilton in the second McLaren had a different sort of weekend in Melbourne. He started out having his collar felt by the Victoria police for “hooning” (Australia-speak for raising smoke from one’s back wheels by doing boy-racer spins) in his street Mercedes; a practice which is frowned upon by the cops down there. They impounded his vehicle and will probably charge him with dangerous driving. This would be understandable for any young man sitting in a sports car for the first time but for a Formula One world champion it goes beyond embarrassment. The incident and the subsequent opprobrium in the Aussie media probably upset Hamilton because his performance at qualifying on Saturday was mediocre at best as all he could manage was eleventh place.

Come race day on Sunday, in conditions which suited his driving technique perfectly, Hamilton drove like a man possessed. After a series of daredevil overtaking gambits performed on well nigh everyone who mattered – including world championship leader and arch enemy, Fernando Alonso – Hamilton found himself in a position to win the race by a couple more daredevil moves but was, puzzlingly, called in by his team for a change of tyres. Any chance of victory or even second or third place was thus stymied. Hamilton was furious after the race. He could not understand why the team had made the tyre change call at the time they did. His body language suggested that he wanted to say a lot more than “the team chose the wrong strategy”.

I think at times like these, Hamilton misses the calm guiding influence of his father, Anthony, with whom he has parted ways professionally in 2010. Anthony Hamilton would probably have put an arm round his son and reminded him of two things. First, there is a long way to go this season, so a cool head is better than a hot one. Secondly, Hamilton has bad history with tyre choices. Staying out too long on the wrong tyres cost him the championship in 2007. His team could well have had this in mind when they made the call. At the end of the day, Button made the right tyre call for himself and the team the wrong one for Hamilton. Button emerged victorious and that is all that has to be said about the matter.

We now have the makings of a championship battle-royal between two English team-mates. Button’s confidence will be significantly improved at having got a win under his belt so early while driving for McLaren - a team which he was accused of being insane for having joined as world champion. Hamilton now knows he has a real challenger in the garage adjacent to his.

There is a lot more to come this year. One can only hope that Australia and not Bahrain is indicative of what to expect.

Gitau
29 March 2010

From Hades to the Antipodes

There is a mecca of female beauty somewhere in Latin America. The Gods were in blithe spirits when they created the women there. They spoke among themselves and agreed on an approach which would surpass everything they had achieved everywhere else. Their method was novel: take the best attributes from each continent, slowly mix them up with a little spice and then steam-cook the mix over a few centuries. The result is hypnotic.

I chanced upon one such specimen in London many years ago in the form of the Venezuelan Venus, Paulina. She worked as a waitress in my local branch of Café Rouge in west London. I often went there for a light evening meal after work if I was hungry and couldn’t bear the thought of stepping into my insalubrious kitchen. One evening, while sinking my chops into a steak sandwich, the door to the kitchens opened and a waitress whom I had never laid eyes on before emerged into the restaurant area. She was so bewitchingly beautiful that, without my realising it, the sandwich fell to the floor and I found my shirt and tie suddenly soaked with red wine.

From that moment on I embarked upon a steady process of wearing the poor girl down. Not an evening would go by without me dropping in at the Café Rouge and offering my soul to Paulina. When I swore – with unsmiling conviction - to sever my large left toe, pickle it and give it to her as a gift, Paulina finally agreed to go for an evening out on the town with me. Things went rather better than I could have dreamed, for Paulina soon became a regular fixture of my Hammersmith flat.

One Saturday morning, after a late night of discussions with Paulina about the six main Ugandan kingdoms, a courier turned up at the flat to deliver a case of wine. He offered to help me carry the case into my room where, unbeknownst to the courier, Paulina lay sleeping with nothing covering her but her skin. Thankfully, Paulina slept like a log, so she remained undisturbed when the courier fell to the floor gasping at the sight of her. I dragged him to the main door and ordered him out but he wouldn’t leave. He instead stayed on his knees hugging my legs and tearfully begging to be permitted one more glance, however fleeting, of the sleeping Venezuelan beauty. He implored me to accept £5 for the privilege. I considered this briefly and accepted it.

It was then that the forces of Hades engulfed my will. I became a peep-show pimp. Every Saturday morning after that, I could be found outside my front door selling tickets to “a glimpse at paradise” at a fiver apiece. Word spread like wild fire. Soon queues of salivating blokes could be seen several times round the block and my pockets began to bulge with Beelzebub’s begrimed bounty.

The inevitable happened. One day, a ticket-holder was so overcome by what lay before his eyes that he dropped to his knees exclaiming “from this day I believe there is a God!” To my horror, Paulina chose that precise moment as her cue to awake. Her reaction was sufficient to cause me to be found, sozzled and swaying, on Hammersmith Bridge at 03:00 am on Sunday morning while contemplating intimate acquaintance with the icy, swirling waters of the mighty Thames below. As I wrestled with my thoughts, I felt a sharp tap on my shoulder and turned to face the snarling visage of an enraged local bobby.
“Listen son,” said the copper, “either leap into the river or go home but I am not missing the start of the Australian Grand Prix while you decide whether to kill yourself or not!”

The Australian Grand Prix has since occupied a special part of my brain that is awakened in March of every year. I can feel it twitching as I write this, for this weekend marks the silver jubilee of the Formula One Australian Grand Prix.

After the deflation of the stultifying, limpid excuse for a motor race in Bahrain, there is understandable anxiety felt in the hearts of many that the FIA got things wrong when they re-jigged the rule book. Like a cook who over-seasons his soup, the rule makers – justifiably – now stand accused of taking things a little extra bit that has proved too far.

As Paulina would, I am sure, testify, I am a generous fellow. I have, therefore, chosen to wait a little before drawing too many conclusions about 2010. Melbourne is too popular a destination and the Albert Park too stunning a racing venue to warrant unfavourable comparisons with the hellhole that is Bahrain. I am on record for being consistent in my loathing of the desert sand-bowl and fawning in my admiration of the sunny seaside track down under, so I am optimistic.

Australia should be a good race. The fast corners and near inevitably of an accident usually make for an exciting afternoon of racing. The thing to be remembered at this stage is that we do not yet have a clear picture of the relative competitiveness of the teams and the drivers. Testing was not done in identical conditions, so all we have seen thus far is one open event at which everybody could participate.

Applying the same reasoning, I would argue that, unless Fernando Alonso and Ferrari are extraordinarily lucky and manage to clinch three big wins in a row, things will shake down soon enough and drivers will begin to feel more comfortable. It is too early to predict how some of the big names will fare. Michael Schumacher will take at least a couple of races before he regains his rhythm after three years absence from Formula One. Similarly, Jenson Button will also need a little time to feel as relaxed as his McLaren team-mate Lewis Hamilton.

What we haven’t seen any evidence of yet is the rekindling of the pit-babe battles of 2009. Just before the start of the season Hamilton announced that he was back together with his Pussycat Doll – cynical career manipulation by Nicole to maximise global television exposure, I wonder? I haven’t heard anything of a split between Button and his lingerie model, so things look set for a resumption of hostilities. Bahrain wasn’t a sufficiently alluring location for the likes of the two glamour girls but I bet you they’ll have their designer frocks and sunglasses on track-side in Melbourne on Sunday.

It’s too early to give up on Formula One racing, so I think it reasonable to expect that you will,

Enjoy Melbourne!

Gitau
23 March 2010

Boring Bahrain 2010

While a trainee in the early nineties, my superiors introduced me to the world of haute cuisine to celebrate the successful conclusion of a large transaction. Dinner was arranged at Chez Nico, a posh French restaurant on Park Lane run by a bad-tempered Greek chef called Nico Ladenis. He had earned himself three Michelin stars but was more famous for ejecting people from his restaurant if he saw anyone attempt to season one of his expertly created dishes without first tasting the food.

I had heard about places like Chez Nico before but prior to then neither had the wallet nor the rarefied taste buds for fine dining. The thought of eating there was so exciting for me that I spent most nights of the preceding week smacking my lips and dreaming of untold pleasures. When the great day arrived, I imagined this burly, bearded fellow hovering over me with a meat cleaver and kept well away from the salt and pepper as I stuck my fork into my L’ouef au Boeuf et Fromage au Cognac. Perhaps my palate is too unsophisticated – after all I was raised on a diet of boiled maize and beans – but to my horror the food was bland and uninspiring.

Yesterday’s painfully dull race reminded me of that experience all too clearly. After all the anticipation of waiting five months, learning all the intrigue and seeing the driver line-up, to sit through one and a half hours of processional driving was just not what anybody had in mind for the first Formula One Sunday of 2010. The new rules were supposed to make races more exciting but they seem to be achieving the opposite effect if yesterday’s Bahrain Grand Prix is representative of their effect. Admittedly, the Sakhir circuit is a Formula One fan’s nightmare: ghastly location, ill thought-out design and desert heat. It could be argued that a suspension of judgement is the prudent thing to do this early on and I must agree that it is an argument that has its merits. Let’s wait and see what happens when we’re not watching cars in some Arab millionaire’s playground.

The only real on-track action yesterday was three quarters into the race, when pole setter Sebastian Vettel, found he was losing power because of a damaged exhaust and had to give up his lead to Fernando Alonso, Felipe Massa and then Lewis Hamilton. I don’t think Alonso will be overly troubled by comments about the boring nature of the race, for it gave the Spaniard an important psychological achievement: winning his maiden race for Ferrari and starting his new championship campaign with a victory. Alonso was, therefore, absolutely thrilled with his achievement. I haven’t seen him smile so broadly since 2006.

The most exciting television moment for me happened before the race. Martin Brundle, the ex F1 driver and BBC commentator was doing his usual grid walk when he chose to barge in on an interview with Fernando Alonso by a Spanish television station. Alonso was responding to questions in quick-fire Spanish when Brundle elbowed his way in amongst the crowd and stuck his microphone under Alonso’s nose while hissing “that’s enough questions, this is the BBC!” at the Spanish journalist. The hapless Alonso, who is well known for his “love” of the English, simply had to shrug and switch languages to satisfy the BBC man. Classic!

Three more races like we suffered yesterday will result in fans switching off their televisions in droves. Reading this morning’s race reports was a bit like reading the reviews of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s sequel to his record breaking smash hit musical the Phantom of the Opera. The show, Love Never Dies, which opened in London a couple of weeks ago has been so heavily panned by the critics that one wonders if it will stay open long enough to recover its costs. One critic aptly had this to say: “Love Never Dies? More like Paint Never Dries!” A bit like the Bahrain Grand Prix really.

Gitau
15 March 2010

The most exciting driver line-up gets fired up in Bahrain

Have you ever wondered what in the world would persuade a young, able-bodied man to give up his life willingly for a cause? Do you not feel flummoxed by the thought of a fellow strapping a few kilos of explosives onto his chest, getting on a train and blowing himself up along with several others? Or the guy who flies a plane into a high rise building? I admit there have been moments when I have felt an aching desire to leap off a bridge – particularly the time when Paulina, the statuesque Venezuelan beauty queen, threatened to disembowel me if she ever laid eyes on me again – but these have been very few, fleeting and by no means overwhelming.

Some have argued that there is contained in an obscure “holy” scripture a promise of seventy-two available virgins to ravish in paradise for the man who gives his life up for the cause but I have never been convinced by this fallacious line of reasoning. First, it ignores the motivation of women who blow themselves up. Secondly, it is hopelessly naïve. Anyone who thinks that a multiplicity of women is invariably good news does not know enough about women. If you are persuaded by this flawed thinking you might want to spare a thought for poor old Jacob Zuma. Despite having three wives and two fiancés at his disposal, the South African president still feels the need surreptitiously to seek solace in the arms of single young women to whom he is neither married nor engaged.

I think the answer to the mystery may lie in the human need for thrills. Never mind prohibition or bible-bashing prophets of doom, human beings will always find a way of getting pissed, high, stoned, spaced-out, slaughtered etc. Similarly, for some people, nothing can substitute the ultimate adrenaline rush one gets from pushing oneself to the limits of survival and saying “if I die doing this, what a way to go!” Formula One drivers fall into this category of human being. When they don their helmets so that all you can see are the whites of their eyes and strap themselves into machines so light, so fast and so exposed, you know that the adrenaline coursing through their veins could fire up a mini nuclear reactor.

Nothing else can explain what would cause a young man with bags of money, good looks and fame to choose to carry on racing Formula One cars after having achieved a world championship. You would have thought the thing to do would be travel the world, chase skirts and live life to the full. Most humans – certainly yours truly – see eminent sense in that line of thinking. Finnish Formula One world champion and champion lothario, Kimi Raikkonen, certainly did. But what about chaps like Lewis Hamilton, Jenson Button or Fernando Alonso? What – most puzzlingly – about Michael Schumacher?

Well, we are about to start ten months of discovering just why. After five agonisingly long and bitterly cold (for those of us in the northern hemisphere) months, the Formula One thrills begin again this weekend in Bahrain. I would normally be complaining loudly that my least favourite circuit has been selected as the venue for the opening race of the 60th year of Formula One racing but that would be discourteous. The driver and team line-up being served up for our delectation is probably the most exciting I have seen since I began watching motor racing.

The anticipation of watching seven world class drivers, each with an at least credible chance of achieving the world championship causes my nerves to tingle with elation. The first four - Jenson Button (McLaren), Lewis Hamilton (McLaren), Fernando Alonso (Ferrari) and Michael Schumacher (Mercedes) - are all world champions and have by all accounts almost equally competitive cars for the first time in many years. The chasing three - Felipe Massa (Ferrari), Sebastian Vettel (Red Bull) and Mark Webber (Red Bull) – are each about as eager to win their first championship as a chap emerging from a year’s solitary confinement and being presented with a nubile young lady to slate his thirst.

Which one will fortune favour? I am hesitant about bold predictions because there are, in the immortal words of former United States Secretary of Defence, Donald Rumsfeld, unknown unknowns; that is to say there are things about this year we don’t know we don’t know.

Two significant rule changes will mix things up in ways we cannot possibly predict. The first is a ban on refuelling during races. This means that Ross Brawn’s clever overtaking strategies involving expertly timed pit-stops will now be verboten. It also means that drivers will have to learn to cope with a car that gets lighter and quicker as the race draws to a close.

The second rule change is the premium now placed on race wins. The point scoring system has been re-jigged so that the top ten cars get points in the following order:

1st : 25 points
2nd : 18 points
3rd : 15 points
4th : 12 points
5th : 10 points
6th : 8 points
7th : 6 points
8th : 4 points
9th : 2 points
10th : 1 point

Put these two changes together in your head and the permutations become interesting.

If my life depended upon it who would I put my money on? It all depends on who gets an advantage earliest in the season. The chap who clocks up the most wins quickly will stand the best chance. Hand on heart I would go for Fernando Alonso. He has yet to live down the humiliation he suffered at the hands of Lewis Hamilton in 2007 and the frustration of having not had a competitive car for two seasons. He is now at the helm of a blood red Ferrari, a team with everything to prove after two misery-filled seasons.

It will not be easy, though. There are so many races – 19 – and so many drivers capable of winning them that it doesn’t take too much imagination to work out that the winning margin in November is likely to be very slim indeed,

There is a long way to go before then and a race in the desert to be savoured this weekend. I have little doubt you will love 2010 but first, open a bottle on Sunday and,

Enjoy Bahrain!

Gitau
12 March 2010