Masterclass at the ’Ring

Being a World Champion racing driver was only one attribute of a widely talented and inquisitive man

Having followed the late Phil Hill’s racing career since I was a kid, and having been privileged to count him as an immensely respected and valued friend since the 1970s, I’m just one of an enormous number of people worldwide to have been really saddened by his recent death at the age of 81.

Phil the man was even greater than Phil the World Champion racing driver. His interests were incredibly diverse, ranging from motor cars of any age and period, through classical and mechanical music, antique clocks, steam trains, and so much more.

During his frontline racing career he was regarded by many as a hair-triggered bundle of nerves. Phil used to take this on the chin – grinning “Yeah, well, that’s just the way I am” – but one could sense he was just saying that to avoid the lengthy explanations which might explain the real processes inside.

Over the past few years I have been – regrettably too slowly – crafting together with him and his pal Steve Dawson a biographical book centred on Phil’s fabulous colour photography through the 1950s into the ’60s, in which he shot people, places, things (and cars) “…to show the folks back home”. The beautifully preserved images are simply stunning, but over the years it has become crystal clear how much Phil’s self critical nature and natural modesty shaped his often quivery public persona. Can you imagine an F1 World Champion, three-time Le Mans winner, three-time Sebring winner, double Buenos Aires 1000Kms winner, double Nürburgring 1000Kms winner etc actually sitting on the starting grid, wracked by doubt, thinking to himself, “What the deuce am I doing here among all these professional drivers? Am I good enough to be here? Am I going to kill myself – or them? I’m really just a mechanic…”.

Many who were at Brands Hatch for the 1967 BOAC 1000 recall Phil being almost tied in knots with nerves as the winged-wonder Chaparral 2F he shared with Mike Spence stood on the grid. Yet Phil and Mike won that race outright – and Phil (elated) let that become his farewell race as a frontline driver, quietly refusing further offers to retire on that high note.

In 1978 I spent a week with him, photographer Geoff Goddard and the Road & Track boys at the Nürburgring, preparing track tests of Mercedes-Benz museum cars for the American magazine. We had the short Sudschleife circuit to ourselves. It hadn’t been updated to meet Formula 1’s emasculating demands and remained as wild and shaggy and wonderful as the old Nordschleife had once been, when Phil became the first driver to lap it in under nine minutes. I did many laps of the Nordschleife that week, and asked Phil to take me round, but he would not. “I don’t want to drive on it now,” he said. “I’d rather remember it just as it was.” I learned then at Phil’s knee much of what made pre-war Grand Prix and sports cars tick, and his 10-minute explanation of how to set up GP car drum brakes was in itself an absolute masterclass.

One night there we dined in Adenau’s Wildenschwein hotel, where the staff all treated him like royalty, remembering his 1000Kms wins and lap records from way back. That night was different, because inquisitive Phil had just bought himself a Wimshurst static-electricity machine which he was eager to investigate. He set it up on our table, adjusted its wands with their electrode spheres closer together, and began winding the friction-disc handle faster and faster. The machine began to hum and buzz, then a lightning bolt crackled between the spheres. Phil wound faster and faster, peering at the effect intently through new half-moon glasses on the end of his nose. Lightning danced and crackled between the spheres. The waiters backed away. We all felt the hairs on our arms rising. “I’ll be darned” murmured Phil approvingly, absolutely absorbed. I think we all had our hair standing on end by this time, the dancing bolts were lighting up the entire dining room, and the staff had taken cover. Then this lovely man shook his head, glanced around at our white faces, and giggled. “Isn’t that just great?” Indeed it was.

And so – believe me – was he.