Remembering Jenks

At times, he could be dogmatic. He disliked Hockenheim, refused to report on the Hungarian Grand Prix, nor did he attend a Japanese GP. He had firm views and he voiced them.

He left us for Autosport but, sadly, illness soon intervened and now a unique personality, an immensely respected writer in the racing world, is lost to us. Almost to the end I continued to receive his erudite letters from his cottage near Odiham, Hampshire, which was ‘typical Jenks’. His like will never… well, it won’t. I and so many others have lost more than a friend. His books, articles and our memories of him will live on as the finest obituary anyone could have. Rest in peace, old friend, and dream of fast cars and all those circuits.

Bill Boddy

Jenks always said he had to live until he was 100 because he still had so much still to do. He also said he would never retire from work because, in his mind, he’d never really started it. Yet somehow, his death last month at the age of 75, ten months after being incapacitated by a stroke, almost came almost as a relief to those of us who remembered him firing on all cylinders. It would be no exaggeration to say that Jenks was pretty much the single-handed inspiration to a generation of motorsport writers. Nigel Roebuck, Eoin Young, Maurice Hamilton, Simon Taylor, Doug Nye and myself were among those who, for want of a better expression, fell under his spell.

For almost forty years, his Grand Prix reports and features made Motor Sport compulsory reading for anybody aspiring to a career in motor racing journalism. We all envied his off-beat, rather bohemian existence. In April, he would set off to the continent, variously at the wheel of his Lancia Aprilia, Porsche 356 or E-type Jaguars, to report the Targa Florio road race. And he wouldn’t return to Britain until after the Italian Grand Prix at Monza.

Of course, we all revered him for his co-driving exploits with Stirling Moss in the Mille Miglia, the reports of which have rightly assumed the status of religious tracts to racing fans the world over.

In 1955, having committed the entire 1000-mile route to a 17ft long sheet of paper which was encased in a little metal box which he scrolled past a perspex window – the ‘bog roll holder’ as we all affectionately came to refer to this tailor-made artefact – Jenks kept Moss guided by a series of pre-agreed hand signals for the entire ten-hour marathon which they won brilliantly.

In 1956 and ’57, he again partnered Moss in the Maserati team, but a trip down the side of a mountain and a broken brake pedal weld scuppered their chances of a repeat victory.

Twenty years after his famous victory, Jenks and I set out with Motor Sport managing editor Michael Tee to retrace the route in a Mercedes 450SL saloon. We flew to Stuttgart with Moss, visited the Mercedes test track and then, while Stirling returned home, we drove down to Brescia and relived the whole magic experience.

It was the first of many pleasure trips – ‘boondoggles,’ as Jenks always called them – which we enjoyed together. Increasingly, I got stuck with the role of ‘troop leader’, arranging cars and doing the driving, while His Nibs sat in the back like some sort of Indian Potentate, enjoying all the fuss. They were good times.

He was also one of Ayrton Senna’s passionate fans. While the rest of us fretted about whether or not he should have shoved Alain Prost off the track at Suzuka, or whatever, Jenks saw the Brazilian driver in a straightforward light. Always absolutely fascinated by what made a star racing driver tick, he could often be seen, late on a Saturday afternoon at some Grand Prix or other, deep in conversation with Ayrton.

For his part, Senna always treated Jenks with great courtesy and careful consideration, listening patiently as the little bearded gnome rattled out his theories about the ingredients required to be a topline competitor. Jenks was really delighted one year when a Christmas card arrived from Ayrton inscribed “To Friend Jenkinson”.

Mind you, at times he could be a prickly old so-and-so. David Niven once said that one of Errol Flynn’s favourite pastimes was to strike up a conversation with two strangers in a bar and end up engineering a blazing row between the two of them, while sitting back and watching the fun. When feeling liverish, or just plain mischievous, Jenks would often take a leaf out of Flynn’s book and set you up a treat with his deliberately contrary lines of argument. And we always fell for it, hook, line and sinker.

Jenks didn’t come to many races during the last few years of his life, and I began to detect that his interest in contemporary F1 matters was waning ever-so-slightly towards the end. But he always found something to make him chuckle. After returning from Adelaide in 1994, just after Damon’s notorious coming-together with Schumacher, he rang me, chortling with delight.

“My motorcycle pals have been giggling about that collision,” he said. “I mean, him a former motorcycle messenger, used to dodging in and out of traffic. They’re all saying ‘oh no, Damon, you didn’t see the Volvo coming up in the bus lane!”

Jenks had a wide range of interests. Grand Prix motor racing, motorcyle trials-riding, old cars and a passion for jazz. He was basically a loner who carved his own furrow but, if he liked the cut of your jib, he would allow you to come along for the ride.

As one who was privileged to meander along at his shoulder for almost two decades on the Motor Sport bandwagon, I shall miss him enormously. As indeed will thousands of motor racing enthusiasts who were devoted to his writing.

As Stuart Turner once said; “I believe that at any public meeting, there should be somebody at the back shouting ‘Balls!’ at the top of his voice. And I think Jenks has done this very well for our sport.”

It’s given to few people to live life absolutely on their own chosen terms. But that’s what Jenks did, pretty well from start to finish. Those who knew and cared for him should be thankful for that.

Alan Henry

The world of motor racing has lost a very special person. A man who spent all but 10 years of his life studying, writing about, competing in and generally being involved with our sport. I can’t remember when we first met, but it must have been nearly 50 years ago when he was winning World Championships with Eric Oliver and I was having fun in my 500. Jenks was always interesting and controversial, intelligent and amusing. Only two years ago at the Goodwood Festival, my wife was helping him in and out of the SLR. As he was struggling a bit, she offered to hold the little gizmo he had in his hand. It was the 17ft ‘bog roll’ routefinder he had used in the Mille Miglia in 1955. Refusing to give it up to Susie, he said, “it isn’t that I don’t trust you, dear, but I know who trained you!”

Here was this lovely, weird little man holding on to his most precious belonging, the way a child holds a security blanket. There are so many amusing stories about Jenks, and I hope they will be told so that he will be remembered as one of the sport’s characters.

Stirling Moss