Jack Lewis: the F1 driver turned sheep farmer

“I wasn’t worried about hurting myself. I did, however, regularly ask, ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ That’s not good, especially when you’re doing 150mph in the pouring rain at the old Nürburgring.

“Yet, perversely, I always did better at circuits perceived to be dangerous. That was because I was confident I could drive very fast and still not run off the road. While the guys who would stick their necks out to be fast at airfield circuits were thinking, ‘Shit, this is dangerous!’ and backing off, I wasn’t. At places like Pau, much less forgiving than Monaco, I did disproportionately well.

“Adrenalin shouldn’t overcome fear when you’re racing regularly, because you’re in control and concentrating hard. What’s exciting is when you go into a corner and think, ‘Shit, I’m going too fast!’ You mustn’t hunt that excitement. That’s how you get killed.”

“He should have picked up Brooks’ baton – instead he grasped a shepherd’s crook”

It’s apt that Jack had his best F1 moment against Brooks. At the time of Monza, Tony was a Grand Prix away from concluding a career that was the epitome of unflurried, accurate speed. Jack – fast, polished, unobtrusive and accomplished, according to the journalists of the time – should have picked up that baton. Instead he grasped a shepherd’s crook. Indeed, he rarely did the expected. Given his father’s background, it would have been logical to race on two wheels.

“I grew up on motorcycles,” Jack says. “The funny thing is, I never wanted to race them. Money wasn’t my motivation for racing, but I wanted to do it properly, which meant doing it full-time, which meant earning a living from it; I felt cars would give me a better opportunity of doing that.”

Speculation must always come before accumulation, of course, and luckily Jack Rex Snr, ‘Pop’, who had raced bikes pre-war, was happy to support his only son’s – and his own – ambitions. So, as soon as Burgess tipped Jack the wink about not waiting for the Brands school’s prize-drive carrot dangling hazily in the future, the Lewises purchased Ivor Bueb’s Cooper 500. And Ted Jeffs, an ex-Norton mechanic, was employed to prep and tune it.

Jack took immediately to the buzz bomb, finishing fourth in his first race, at Mallory Park. In his second, at Brands in April, he performed a handstand-with-car that got him on the front page of a national newspaper.

“That was a weird championship,” admits Jack. “At the lesser races I’d be at the front; at the races which didn’t clash with a big F1 or sports car event I’d be back in the pack. But that was all good for my education.”

As was his subsequent stirring first season of F1. So why didn’t he graduate?

Jack was being linked to the second seat at Cooper – freed up by Bruce McLaren’s promotion following Brabham’s departure – by the end of 1961. John Cooper had had a quiet word – but no official offer came. Instead Maggs, the reigning European Formula Junior champion (jointly with Jo Siffert), got the gig.

“I was told later that Bruce had nobbled my chances,” says Jack. “He’d finished third at Monza, but I’d been catching him towards the end [the gap was 12 seconds] and perhaps he thought that was too close for comfort. If he did nobble me, I can’t criticise him. There’s no point saying ‘After you, Claude’ in racing. Anyway, I wasn’t blameless: I wasn’t sufficiently focused. I knew I’d be in F1 in 1962 whatever happened. I suppose I felt things were going to work out fine no matter what.” They didn’t.

The wily John Cooper, who would have lost a wealthy customer had he signed Jack, suggested a Cooper-BRM for 1962. But the usually closed shop of BRM surprised everyone by offering the Lewises a semi-works package: a 1961 chassis fitted with its new-for-62 V8, and help with entries. It sounded great.

“It was a nightmare,” says Jack. “I loved the car – better handling, more grip, smoother to drive than the Cooper – but the engine was hopeless: its top end was adequate, but it was useless low down. The works engines were on injection, we were on carbs – perhaps that was it. Oh, and the crankcase kept cracking.”

Jack salvaged something from Pau – third, a whisker behind Ricardo Rodriguez’ ‘Sharknose’ – but after failing to qualify at Monaco, the BRM was returned, as was Pop’s £7000 cheque, and the T51 had to be dusted down.

Jack’s mood wasn’t improved by the fact that he had been quicker than three works drivers at Monaco – Trevor Taylor (Lotus), Jo Bonnier (Porsche) and Maggs! – yet they had been allowed to start. He felt he should no longer have to rely on a word to the organisers from Wolfgang von Trips (as at the 1960 German GP), or the donation of a spare entry (by Centro Sud boss Mimmo Dei at the 1961 Italian GP), no matter how kindly meant were their actions. He felt he deserved better. Sadly, in an outdated car, matters got worse. His nadir was the French GP at Rouen. Having just been lapped by Graham Hill, Jack missed his braking point and punted BRM’s number one out of the lead.

“The season was a disaster,” says Jack, “even the Welsh bit. We’d renamed the team Ecurie Galloise because we had a Welsh sponsor lined up – but even that fell through. I felt we had completely messed up. The BRM situation hadn’t helped, but nor had losing Ted [to rival privateer Tony Marsh]. Our preparation suffered.”

After a wheel fell off at September’s Oulton Park Gold Cup, the Lewises called time. Jack didn’t know it, but he’d contested his last race.

“I was disillusioned, but that wasn’t the prime reason for stopping,” he says. “Pop said we couldn’t afford to go to the next step. He reckoned I’d built up a reputation and that I’d be able to go and get a drive, if I wanted to.”

This was a surprising and sudden change of heart for Snr. It wasn’t much more than a year since he’d given Jeffs the go-ahead to build the Lewis F1 car. (He got as far as its chassis, suspension and bodywork before feet got cold and it was sold). The harsh truth was that Pop had cut the purse and apron strings at precisely the wrong time. He should have done it when Ken Tyrrell offered to run his son in Formula Junior.

“I’m sorry to say that Pop kept that from me,” says Jack. “I always felt he was going racing just for me – but my mother told me much later that he had wanted to do it anyway. I guess he was living vicariously. I’m sure he’d rather have his son driving for him. And I was happy to drive for him – he was taking me into F1, don’t forget. So I might not have accepted Ken’s offer. But it would have been nice to have had the choice.”

Maggs didn’t turn Tyrrell down. It was the making of him, a springboard to a sturdy first season of F1 with Cooper: fifth in Holland, second in France, third in South Africa.

“Tony was a good driver,” says Jack. “But in my own mind I know that those results could easily have been mine.” This is no idle boast – but Jack admits that he didn’t work at it. “I was lazy, I guess. When I stopped, I didn’t decide there and then never to race again. It was meant to be a sabbatical. My father was looking to semi-retire and had this big idea about living in the mountains. He bought a large house which had a farm attached. He asked if I fancied running it. ‘No, not really.’ But we bought some sheep… It just happened.

“Mum had been brilliant throughout my career: timekeeper, no fuss, stiff upper lip. But it became clear to me how much more relaxed she was when I wasn’t racing. Plus I discovered I didn’t need racing to be happy. Sheep farming [and breeding Arab horses] proved pretty interesting, and I stayed there for 14 years. I just didn’t make a big effort to carry on racing.

“I don’t have any regrets. You only have regrets if you think about something, and I don’t think about motor racing unless prompted. Yes, I might have had an illustrious career. But equally, I might have been killed the next weekend.”