CHAPTER 21
In 2017 it was a great honour to be included in the photographic exhibitions and books of two very talented women. The first was on International Women’s Day in March, when in Dublin Castle Beta Bajgart showed her series of beautiful portraits of strong and inspirational women at work. There was a firefighter, a pilot, a chess player and many more, including myself, posing beside a car dressed in full motoring gear. The book, A Woman’s Work, is a beautifully presented coffee table book, which I cherish.
The other exhibition, ‘Portrait of a Century’, was held in the National Museum of Ireland, Collins Barracks, and was opened by the President, Michael D. Higgins. Kim Haughton was the photographer who had the brilliant idea of seeking out people with a connection to Ireland. Each photograph represents the birth year of the person portrayed and spans 100 years, from 1916 to 2015. I was honoured to be asked to represent 1937, the year of my birth. A magnificent book of the photographs was produced, which not only includes many famous people, but also children and others not in the public eye. I was so flattered to be included in both of these books and sat back, very pleased with myself, thinking, if nothing else occurs this year, I am happy. But my life doesn’t seem to work like that and a chance meeting was to set me off on an exciting and unexpected adventure.
It’s funny how things happen. When I was introduced to James Boyer, a gorgeous Frenchman, I never would have thought that the brief conversation we had would put me in the public eye again. At the age of 79, I was to become the oldest person ever to drive in a Formula 1 car.
I met James, marketing director with Renault, at a dinner in the Powerscourt Hotel in Enniskerry, at the 2017 Irish Car of the Year Awards. We chatted about this and that, my experiences of my rallying days, and he must have been impressed because a few weeks later I got a call from Paddy McGee, country operations manager for Renault Ireland, who said he had been speaking with James. They had decided between them that it would be amazing if they could make a documentary of me driving a Formula 1 car to celebrate Renault’s 40th anniversary. ‘Would you be up for it?’ he asked.
It was 40 years ago that Renault introduced the first Formula 1 turbo engine at the 1977 Silverstone Grand Prix and truly an occasion for celebration. I laughed at Paddy’s suggestion and said, ‘That really is a fantastic idea. It would be a miracle if you could make that happen. But you know me, if you can organise it, I’m up for anything.’ I never thought for one moment that he was serious.
The French Grand Prix in 2018 was held at the Circuit Paul Ricard at Le Castellet, near Marseille, where Renault Sports’ base is situated. Renault had formed a partnership with Winfield Racing School, which was offering motorsport fans a chance to take instruction and drive racing cars, but I never once thought I might be one of them. They were offering to give me, a 79-year-old woman, ex-rally driver, ex-most things at this stage of my life, the chance to drive a Formula 1 car and be the star in a documentary. How could I refuse?
Colin Hickson, head of Light Entertainment with Publicis Worldwide in London, the oldest and one of the largest marketing and communications companies in the world, was chosen to organise and implement the making of the documentary. Colin is a charming man, and when he telephoned to ask if I would like to bring someone with me I immediately thought of my friend June Miller. She is the ideal companion, the perfect person to travel with – we both like a glass of wine and share the same sense of humour. All the travel and hotel arrangements came by email and everything was organised seamlessly. Someone telephoned to ask for my measurements for the driving suit. I have one, I told them, but it had Ford written all over it, so that wouldn’t do. I think it was then that it hit me that this was for real: I was going to be fitted for a new driving suit, I was going to drive a Formula 1 car and I was going to be filmed doing it. What had I let myself in for?
June lives in County Meath, which is close to the airport, so I went to stay with her on the night before we left for France. She was excited and really looking forward to a few days in France and the adventure ahead of us. I wasn’t so sure. Some of my other friends wouldn’t have enjoyed it because it was too much like hard work – for a start, we had to get up at 2.30 a.m. to go to the airport. As usual, my bracelet went clang, clang as we went through Security. Thank heavens that machine couldn’t pick up the noise of my heart thumping in my chest at the thought of what I had agreed to. Was I mad? Yes, I suppose the answer has to be yes, but I could never resist a challenge and getting older hasn’t changed that.
When we arrived in Marseille we were collected by a driver and taken to the hotel, about an hour’s journey away. The Hotel du Castellet is truly magnificent. We met up with some of the people involved in the making of the documentary and had lunch in the luxurious surroundings of the hotel until the car came to take us to the Circuit Paul Ricard. So far, so good! When I stepped out of the car, I could see the faces of the young mechanics and I imagine they were thinking, is this oul wan really going to drive one of our Formula 1 cars, or is someone having a laugh? I certainly wasn’t laughing because by this stage I was getting nervous. But there was no way I was going to chicken out. I’m here now, I said to myself. I’m going to do it, even if it kills me.
When we arrived at the circuit, the first person I saw was Alain Prost, the famous Formula 1 champion. I had met him before years ago and I thought, there is no way he is going to remember me. But I was wrong; at least I think I was. He came towards me, ‘Oh Rosemaree, I haven’t seen you for so long,’ he said in his lovely French accent. I don’t know if he really remembered me or if people had told him who I was, but in any case it was wonderful to be made a fuss of by such a great man. When we had our photograph taken together I had to bend down as I towered over him. Alain is about 5’4” and only came up to my shoulder. He is exactly the right size for a Formula 1 driver; there is not much room to spare inside those cars!
As I looked around, I was really chuffed when I saw the initials RS all over the place: on the cars, on the side of the trucks, on my driving suit, everywhere. I said to Colin Hickson, ‘How wonderful that they have gone to the trouble of putting my initials on everything!’ He laughed and said, ‘Sorry, Rosie, that stands for Renault Sports.’ Silly me, the ego was out of control!
I didn’t drive at all that day, but instead was shown around the marvellous grandstand, which seats 4,000 spectators, and introduced to the mechanics and the rest of the crew, who were making the documentary. They fitted me for a seat belt, which comprised a six-point harness, which can be released with a single hand movement, in case you need to get out of the car in a hurry. There were forms to be filled in and I noticed the one which said that the maximum age for a driver of a Formula 1 car was 65. I pointed to that and Colin assured me it was OK, they had cleared it with the circuit officials.
Everything was so well organised and everyone was so kind and welcoming that I thought my anxiety levels might improve, but when we went back to the hotel that night to have dinner I just took three mouthfuls of soup and had to excuse myself and go up to the bedroom. I couldn’t eat. It had been a long day and, while I couldn’t stomach any food, I also needed to rest if I was going to do justice to the mission I had undertaken. Thankfully, I fell into bed and went straight to sleep. The car came to take us to the circuit early next morning and I was up and ready for action. We had breakfast of coffee and croissants as the drones and helicopter flew overhead, movie cameras following my every move. I was the centre of attraction and I must say I loved that. When you get to my age, it doesn’t happen too often!
Charlie, the track manager, a really lovely woman, brought me down to get dressed. The Winfield driver suits were on one side and the Renault ones on the other. Boxes and boxes of helmets, suits, underwear, gloves in every size were stacked up. Anyone coming to the track to practise would be well kitted out. First, I put on the fireproof underwear, then the suit, which was black with yellow stripes with a high neck – it made me look quite slim, which was great. The red boots were next and then the balaclava, gloves, and finally the helmet was selected. There were lots of takes and retakes and the film crew seemed to especially like my pulling on the gloves and flashing my long red nails. Someone said I should be careful they didn’t come loose and fall off. I had to explain that they were all mine and I never went near a manicurist, but looked after them myself. The eyelashes had been attached, I told them, but not the nails. All the time I was dressing and being filmed, I just hoped they didn’t see my heart jumping out of my suit, and once again I was thinking, why had I agreed to this?
All suited and booted, I was ready to be introduced to my instructor, Tom Crooke, who was an absolute darling. He was a very patient and considerate man and I was happy to take instruction from him – I needed every bit of help I could get. I climbed into the Clio RS, a lovely little car, and sat beside him as we drove around the track and he showed me the bends. Tom had walked the track the night before and put cones on the apex of the various corners. ‘When you see two red ones, brake immediately,’ he told me. We did about four laps and he said, ‘Can you remember all that?’ I replied, ‘You say nothing and I’ll call the bends as we come up to them,’ which I did: ‘Sharp right, hairpin left,’ and so on. Remembering the turns was no problem to me. It was just like in the rallying days when we would do a recce and have to remember where all the twists and turns would occur when we did it for real.
That was the easy part over and everything was going well. The next stage was to drive in the Formula Renault single-seater, which has about one fifth of the power of the Formula 1 car, but looked pretty much the same. Getting into the car was an ordeal in itself; lifting my legs and stepping over those side pods was the first handicap. It was the most inelegant thing ever and I hoped they would cut that bit out of the film. Once I was in the car, I had to sit and slide myself further and further down. As I slid down into position, all I could see was the little steering wheel shaped like a bow and the instructor explained to me that the gears were behind the wheel, up this way and down the other. I had to take all this in before I even started to physically drive the car.
Another very senior track official, Yves, drove in front of me in the Clio to ascertain how well I was able to navigate the bends and pronounced me competent, which was a compliment coming from such a high-ranking executive. I believe that if he had not given his approval the whole thing would have been a non-runner.
I did about six laps and it was decided that I was perfectly capable of getting behind the wheel of the actual Formula 1 car. There was a briefing room upstairs and a video which showed me everything all over again. Everyone did all they could to make sure I was ready for the experience and I really appreciated that – I wasn’t exactly afraid, I just wanted to get on with it. I was about to put my leg into the car when my good friend Pauline Gullick came around the corner and into the pit lane. The organisers had kindly brought her over, and when she saw me she burst into tears. Not sure why. Maybe she thought this was the last time she would see me alive!
The organisers were hoping that the Guinness World Records would have been there, but they had left it too late to get them, so it didn’t happen. What would the entry have been: the oldest person to drive a Formula 1 car and survive? Jolyon Palmer, who is a gorgeous young man, very tall and charming just like his father, Jonathan, a Formula 1 driver, who I knew in the old days, suggested he would carry me on a special attachment they can put at the back of another Formula car. That was the only thing I said no to; I was going to do it on my own and if I made a mistake there was nobody to blame but myself. At the back of my mind I was thinking about the cost of building a Formula 1 car and the expense involved if I did it damage.
The whole process of getting into the car began again and those mechanics and everyone else were so kind as they helped the old lady into the driving seat once again and I wiggled my way down into the car. A brace was put around my neck and the helmet was pulled very tight. My legs are so long and to say it was a snug fit would be an understatement! There was little leg room and even less arm room, but with the small steering wheel that didn’t matter too much. ‘Push down further,’ one of the mechanics said. ‘If I go any further, my feet would be coming out of the nose of the car,’ I replied. They adjusted the seat belt and it was so tight that it felt as if the car and I were welded together; snug as a bug in the proverbial rug.
The mechanics wheeled me out of the garage into the pit lane. My helmet was adjusted and plugs put in my ears because the noise those cars make is unbelievable. I also had this contraption in my ear so that the instructor could talk to me as I went around. You have to kind of imagine where the front wing is as you are so low down in the car, your vision is impeded. The mechanic put his finger on the wheel and asked could I see it? ‘I can, just about,’ I replied, and that was good enough.
Pauline needn’t have worried; there was a safety car on every corner, and if there was an accident, I was assured that they could be with me in 40 seconds. As well as that there was an ambulance and doctors at the ready. Just before I went out, a senior mechanic, Josh, leaned in the car, pointed down and said, ‘Have they told you about this little red button?’ I shook my head. ‘Don’t touch it,’ he said as I put my hand towards it. ‘If the car bursts into flames, just pull it.’ That really helped my nerves. Apparently, it activates a suppression system, which spreads fire retardant foam around the chassis and engine.
I had been told by everyone that a lot of first-time drivers, including Jeremy Clarkson, stall the car and even those who have driven it before do it too. I was determined not to make that mistake and I think that’s what impressed the mechanics, who had witnessed so many amateurs struggling. Tom was talking into my earphones as I started out. I could hear his voice in my ear: ‘You’re in first gear, let the clutch out gently, gently.’ I did that and then I misheard his next instruction. He was saying, ‘Press down on the accelerator,’ and I was coming off it. I quickly got that right as he yelled again, ‘Down, down,’ and away we went.
I was off! It was exhilarating and the nervousness left me once I got going. A little camera was attached to the left-hand side of the car, which is fine when you are looking straight ahead, but when I went into a tight left-hand bend it blocked the track from sight. It was a slight handicap, but the least of my worries. I loved every minute of it and I am not saying it was easy but all my experience over the years stood to me. I had to concentrate on the driving and listen to the instructions coming into my ear, which is not easy: the car is going so fast and your brain just has to keep up.
After about 15 laps the red flag was waved for me to stop. I turned the engine off and the car drifted in. It was over!
What a wonderful experience, and I would do it again if I had the chance. I know now that driving a Formula 1 car is not a big evil thing that will gobble me up. It is such a safe circuit and I felt secure and trusted the pit crew and everyone involved. When I was in the car, I wasn’t frightened. It is second nature to me and I could see the people in the pit lane on the periphery of my vision, and the one thing I kept thinking was, don’t make a fool of yourself. Of course, everyone asks what speed I went; I know it wasn’t that fast, but I wasn’t looking at the speedometer to find out.
When I got back to the pit, as two lovely young men were helping me out of the car, I said, ‘Get me out of this goddam coffin!’ I’m sure they will cut that out of the film; at least I hope so. As I stood up, my knees were knocking and I was so happy to see before me a semi-circle of around 50 people, all clapping, hugging and cheering me. It was a very special feeling; I think they must have thought I would never do it and they appreciated the enormity of what I had achieved. I felt so happy that I had not disgraced myself. I think I could get used to driving a Formula 1 car very easily and maybe go even faster next time.
We had lunch upstairs in the gorgeous restaurant, where there were photographs of past and present drivers on the wall. Still in my suit, I was smiling all the time, like a cat that had got the cream. We did some more filming and Pauline was interviewed. The two of us sat in the corporate box like motor racing royalty. When we got back to the hotel I needed a drink, and so I had a glass of wine and then another and went upstairs for a rest before dinner, but the adrenaline was still coursing through my body and I couldn’t relax.
To finish the day, the whole team climbed into cars and went down to a restaurant in Bandol for dinner. As I sat, surrounded by all the people who had made this happen, it came to me what a momentous event it really was and I was just delighted that I was able to do it for Renault. I got a text from James Boyer of Renault, who had set the whole thing in motion, saying, ‘You seem to be having great fun.’ I replied, ‘Thanks, still alive, but heart-stopping.’