At least some colours of the day remain vivid: that red Ferrari’s shimmering gold wheels; the daffodil yellow of ‘Blocker’ Beuttler’s ‘Stock Exchange’ March; the bottle green of that bulbous Ensign; and the thrillingly sinister black, black, black of the JPSs, with their rear wings hung way, way, way out back. No photos – our Kodamatic was cruddy – just glowing flashbacks.
We watched LA’s Tony Rouff win the Formula 3 Final in a GRD, ahead of Russell Wood’s March and the GRDs of Alan Jones and Brian Henton. Apparently. Unfortunately, it passed me by.
Frank Gardner’s thunderous Camaro did not, however. How could it? He won the saloon encounter by a mile once fellow countryman Brian ‘Yogi’ Muir’s BMW CSL had gone pop. The massive accident that ended Dave Matthews’ career and smashed his Broadspeed Capri and Dave Brodie’s Escort to smithereens did pass me by, however. Or did we see the smoke from it rise over the other side of the circuit? Yeah, maybe we did.
As for the GP itself – well, all those cars disappeared, didn’t they? My hero JYS held a huge lead by the end of the first lap. Boy, he was good at that. Then came Ronnie, Reut, Denny, Cevert, Hunt – a big cheer! – Revvie, Regga, Emmo. Pause.
Nine-car pile-up brought the Grand Prix to an abrupt halt
Paul-Henri Cahier/Getty Images
I recall the gasp that shot along the line and I could just about see Roger Williamson’s wrecked works March that had popped out sideways from under the Daily Express bridge. Did a loose wheel bobble past us? I think so. And some dust swirled by.
The second start 90 minutes later lacked the anticipation and drama of the first, and the lulling rhythm that a chicane-less Silverstone allowed descended: until Stewart went missing – in a cornfield. Apparently. Then he appeared again. And disappeared again. And reappeared again, amid the leaders this time. “He’s a lap down!” shouted Dad. I still thought he might win.
Instead, of course, Peter Revson did. Both he and his McLaren M23 were unobtrusively steady: efficient rather than memorable. The latter was left to Hunt – cheers in response getting louder each and every lap now – as his charging white March, with yellow airbox borrowed from Beuttler, mixed it with the established names. I had a new hero. (Sadly, Corgi never did make a 1/32 of his 731 and so Hunt never did win any of my elaborately staged – I’d pause for lunch, naturally – ‘carpet GPs’.)
A diversion across the grass left Stewart a lap down
Grand Prix Photo
The meeting was running late and the crowd began to thin after the main race concluded. Tired of standing, we grabbed a seat in the grandstands: no jobsworths, no questions, no bother.
Mum, her nerves already shredded by the day’s events, leapt from said seat when some of the faster Formula Atlantics got into a tangle at the start: Ray Mallock, Steve Choularton from Hale Barnes – local to us – and New Jersey’s Jas Patterson. We stayed right to the end, though. We always did. Yet still it took an age to exit the car park and we arrived home gone midnight.
The frustration of that queue is what Dad remembers most about the day. Ask him about his first GP – the 1957 British at Aintree – and he can give you chapter and verse, however: the train journey there; Archie Scott Brown sliding a Lister-Jag through a damp Tatts; the bellowing Ferrari 801s being warmed up by the mechanics; the collective sigh as Stirling Moss pitted his misfiring Vanwall; the rising sense of anticipation as he flew through the field in team-mate Tony Brooks’ car; and being swept onto the grid – “My feet hardly touched the ground” – as the crowd surged forward to proclaim that maiden all-British victory.
Your first GP is special. That’s why I can remember so much of mine, even though I was not quite six at the time – Dad insists the trip was a birthday present – and it was 1000 years ago.
Author’s note: written without recourse to YouTube.