cloudy
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| posted on 13/3/07 at 04:20 PM |
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What's it like to drive a Formula One car?
Found this on the net, a good read!
Slight problem here: I can't breathe. Since the buckles on my harness were done up, I've been suffocating. It's agony and, according
to the Jordan mechanics, my face has just turned purple. How the hell am I going to spend an hour and a half in these conditions, with my heart racing
at 180 beats per minute and in a cockpit the size of a pigmy's coffin? I feel very fat (I'm not, honest). If I wasn't so excited,
I'd make a deal with myself to give up hamburgers tomorrow.
My Nomex balaclava is getting creased under my helmet. Can I reach it and have a good scratch? No, better not. I've never seen Schuey do that.
My legs are numb; I'm only average height, but I feel like I'm busting out of here all over. I try to flex my thighs, but fail. There
simply isn't room. As a distraction, I rest my hands on the steering wheel. Weird. It's as though I've suddenly been propelled into
the images of a TV camera. To my left and right, the huge tyres are smouldering away at 80 degrees Celsius under their heated covers. The digital
dashboard shows information that I don't understand. It's the formatting of all the electronic systems, apparently - everything from
gearbox to differential control to brake balance. I don't think I'll worry too much about that.
I'm not scared. Well, at least, I don't think I am. More just ... incapable. I repeat to myself over and over, like a mantra, the advice
that Jean Alesi gave me a few days ago: "Work the clutch, get into first and then ease off. There's no need to rev it up too much. The car
will move off by itself." Sounds easy, but...
The engine is still silent. I mime Alesi's advice. First, the clutch. Er, where is it? Oh yes, on the steering wheel. Two paddles, one each side
- a bit like horn-pushes on a road car. The feel of these paddles is very supple, almost reassuring. There's no point in using both at once: one
is enough. The choice is yours. Or mine, in this case. Above them are the gearbox activators. Up is on the right, down is on the left. On the steering
wheel, there are a host of buttons I won't have to touch; they get the engine going. There's just one I will have to use: the green one
for neutral when I come back to the pits.
The Jordan is still attached by its umbilical cord to two micro-computers. This cable also feeds electricity to the car, which is vital because the
battery, behind the seat, is ridiculously small. The computers are constantly analysing a load of parameters and temperatures. The slightest anomaly,
which flashes up in red on the LCD screens, prevents starting. No problem for us, though: the V-10 A14 has been pre-heated to exactly 50 degrees
Celsius for exactly 25 minutes by an external pump. After that, the Peugeot engineers started it and revved it for exactly four minutes by using a
little joystick attached to their PC. They tried out all the gears, and checked the power steering. Engine temperature was raised to exactly 80
degrees Celsius, and the engine turned at 6000rpm for 10 seconds. Exactly.
Once the oil level has been checked, the V-10 is ready to roar. As a precaution, the men from Peugeot have tweaked the engine mapping to regulate the
power delivery. They give me a rev limit of 12,000rpm. "Move up a gear as soon as the red button lights up at the top of the dashboard,"
is the advice from Jean-Marc Liaume, one of three technicians from Peugeot at this test. I'll try to remember that.
In any case, why bother trying for just another 4000rpm-odd, getting towards 17,000rpm and tempting fate? The main thing is to get this
million-dollar single-seater back to Eddie Jordan in one piece - and, of secondary importance, not to kill myself in the process. EJ was a bit worried
about accident insurance: before getting behind the wheel, I had to promise that I wouldn't sue him if I ended up dead. If you see what I
mean...
For the time being, my mind is busy trying to eradicate the sneaking feeling that my first attempt to start this monster will be a total disaster.
The driving position is utterly unfamiliar. My feet are strangely high, and the steering wheel is surprisingly near my chest. My arms aren't
outstretched but are bent at the elbows at a 45-degree angle. Big surprise: you can't go from lock to lock without taking your hands off the
wheel, which I thought was de rigueur in all racing cars. You need to give the wheel another quarter-turn. The only pedals are the accelerator and the
brake (which the drivers, who have worked their way up through karting, apply with their left feet). Oh, and you can't see the end of the
car's nose. My field of vision is limited to the windscreen and the antenna, which are just in front of me. Although they are quite far from my
face, they are at eye-level and block the view. Great.
My shoulders are squeezed hard against the high cockpit sides. These reinforcements, which block my field of vision on both sides of the car,
contribute to a feeling of confinement. It's that pigmy coffin feeling again. I feel about as comfortable as I would do in a broken-down lift.
The Peugeot technicians give each other the sign, and the tyre covers are removed. A Pug man leans over to actuate the ignition button on the dash,
while another one plunges the starter into the rear of the car near the gearbox. In just a couple of seconds, the Peugeot is screaming. It's as
though some nutter is trying to attack the back of my helmet with a pneumatic drill. I'm thinking my heart is going to burst through my chest.
I'd love to be at home in front of the telly. Honest, I really would.
The umbilical cord is cut. I go for the right-hand paddle. Keep the revs up, but not too many, release the clutch and ... stall. I feel ridiculous.
In fact, it's not really my fault. The mechanics failed to point out to me that you should engage first with your left hand and change up with
your right. So what I've just tried to do is pull away in second. Oops, sorry about that, lads. Another delay.
When the time comes for the second attempt, there's a problem: the V-10 is no go. The generator from the Jordan truck has provided too little
power and the battery has gone flat. I've got to jump out of the car for it to be stripped down and have the conked-out battery, which is no
bigger than a box of cigars, replaced. It takes me ages to get out of the car - about 30 seconds. Even then I nearly break the rear-view mirror and
the antenna in the process. A real driver has to be able to get out of the car in less than five seconds, by the way...
At last, it's time to strap myself in again. We're ready to go. I think I know how a human cannonball feels while he's waiting for
the match to light the wick of the cannon to which he's attached. Back on with the ignition. Back off with the tyre warmers. Back on with the
engine. This time, I get into first and check the dashboard display. Yes, got it. I caress the accelerator like I'm stroking a Rottweiler: at
7000 revs, I ease off the clutch paddle. The car splutters. I press more firmly on the right pedal ... and the Jordan scorches away. This is it.
I'm actually doing it.
Seven hundred and fifty bucking-bronco horses, and I'm in 'control' of them. I take the first corner with care. Then, when the car
is all-square again, front wheels dead straight, I give it a tiny bit more welly. Into second, then third ... this ain't so bad. I've
still got plenty of straight ahead, so ... why not? I squeeze the throttle down another inch, and then it happens. That extra squeeze was a bad idea.
I'm travelling at around 160km/h, but even then the wheelspin is i-n-c-r-e-d-i-b-l-e! The yellow beast leaps forward diabolically, as though
hurled by a gigantic catapult. Everything vibrates and goes mad. The landscape dances around in front of my eyes and the Silverstone scenery suddenly
looks like Renoir. On speed.
Corner- already. It's Copse. Bloody hell. Brake! Change down. Hoooweee!, got round it okay. There's no time to look at the instruments,
so I change up by ear. As soon as the V-10 hits the rev-limiter, I go up a cog. The gears go in like lightning: it takes less time for an F1 car to
move up through its seven gears than it takes a sportscar to move up one. No point declutching: I keep my foot down and let the electronics take care
of the rest. Fantastic! ·
Changing down is the same: the tiniest pressure exerted on the left paddle provides the juice required to move down into a lower gear automatically.
Steering is easier than I'd expected - given all my visibility problems. Granted, the end of the nose is out of sight - but this isn't
really a problem. You drive by the position of the front wheels. Or I do, anyway.
Let's see how good these brakes are. A firm push ... er, powerful. And this when they haven't even got hot yet. They never will reach
their proper temperatures either, because I'll never push quite that hard. I hurtle past the pits and the team show me an arrow signalling
it's time for my first stop.
I bring the car to a halt in front of the pits, hit the neutral button, and the mechanics reverse me in. Just like on a race weekend. "I think
a rabbit over-took you on the first bend," one of them says as I switch off the engine. Thanks a lot, mate. Straight away, Tim, the boss of the
test team, kneels down beside the car. He asks me if everything's okay then just smiles as he listens to my ultra-enthusiastic comments.
Round two. Suddenly, there's that sledge-hammer scream as the V-10 is re-ignited. Now, get that start right again. Clutch, first, revs,
paddle... Yep, done it. We're away. Let's try a bit harder this time. Maybe even overtake a few rabbits at Copse.
Here it is, let's brake a bit later. Yes, much faster this time, turn in, clip the apex, run out to the rumble-strip. Sheer bliss. Pure,
unadulterated grip. The whole lap is bliss. And I'm definitely quicker. Now we're in the Luffield complex, and I change down to first. Too
low. I pop it into second in the middle of the bend. Another bad move. The car flicks sideways like greased-lightning. There's no coming back
from there, and I spin in a puff of smoke. Idiot.
Not knowing what to do, I sit still in the cockpit. A tow-truck appears soon after and pulls me back to the pits ... to the hearty applause of the
mechanics. My next set of laps will be much smoother. I promise.
Last chance. I remember a bit of advice a friend gave me this morning: "Enjoy it, Stéphane. Don't forget to enjoy it. " I know
I've embarrassed myself, but I'm damned if I'm going to pussy-foot around. I'm in a Formula 1 car, for Chrissakes!
No earplugs, right foot down, big wheelspin, now maximum acceleration, the lot. Go for it. And I do. At least I try. But it's impossible to get
used to the H-bomb response every time I goose the right-hand pedal. When road car testers talk about acceleration pushing them deep into the
driver's seat, they're talking crap. Sorry, but it's true. This is real g. My flesh is stretched back across my cheekbones; my eyes
hurt. This isn't acceleration - more like a natural disaster! A straight 10 on the Richter Scale.
Enjoy it, Stéphane. Floor the throttle, feel that catapult, smell the smells, see the sights. Above all, listen to that V-l0 sing. Concentrate on it,
savour it, let it pop your ear-drums. And never, ever forget it.
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mookaloid
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| posted on 13/3/07 at 04:33 PM |
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Can I go next please?
"That thing you're thinking - it wont be that."
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DarrenW
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| posted on 13/3/07 at 04:37 PM |
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its a bit like my car really! I bet not many F1 drivers have felt the full force of the Pinto!!!!
That is an exciting read. Ive tried to get into a Benetton car before, no chance!! They are so tiny in the cockpit.
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Hammerhead
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| posted on 13/3/07 at 04:41 PM |
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I'm off to the Melbourne GP on Sunday, got grandstand tickets on the start/finish straight! possibly not the most exciting seats in the house
but they were free
Then off to the mercedes party after the race.
Very excited - wonder if they'll let me have a go?
(end of hijack)
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James
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| posted on 13/3/07 at 04:44 PM |
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Nice post.
Did 2/3 seasons at Mclaren.... didn't manage to sit in one the whole time. 
[Edited on 13/3/07 by James]
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"The fight is won or lost far away from witnesses, behind the lines, in the gym and out there on the road, long before I dance under those lights."
- Muhammad Ali
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scoobyis2cool
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| posted on 13/3/07 at 04:44 PM |
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quote:
Originally posted by Hammerhead
I'm off to the Melbourne GP on Sunday, got grandstand tickets on the start/finish straight! possibly not the most exciting seats in the house
but they were free
Then off to the mercedes party after the race.
Very excited - wonder if they'll let me have a go?
(end of hijack)
You bugger, I was there last year for the full 4 days and it was heaven Unfortunately that was the end of my travels as I had run out of money and
I had to come home shortly after
Have a good one, it'll be awesome! (Oh and I doubt they'll let you have a go but you never know your luck  )
Great article cloudy, where did you find it?
Pete
[Edited on 13/3/07 by scoobyis2cool]
It's not that I'm lazy, it's that I just don't care...
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speedyxjs
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| posted on 13/3/07 at 04:54 PM |
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quote:
Originally posted by DarrenW
its a bit like my car really! I bet not many F1 drivers have felt the full force of the Pinto!!!!
No they would probably laugh at you if you said that
How long can i resist the temptation to drop a V8 in?
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cloudy
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| posted on 13/3/07 at 04:55 PM |
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No idea where it was from originally but I found it on http://www.billzilla.org/carindex.htm
Also if you have a grand or so to spare:
http://www.lastminute.com/lmn/pso/catalog/Product.jhtml?CATID=105938&PRODID=341105033
James
[Edited on 13/3/07 by cloudy]
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Ivan
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| posted on 13/3/07 at 06:05 PM |
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Great article - must be beyond anything we mere mortals can imagine 
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lsdweb
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| posted on 13/3/07 at 09:05 PM |
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Just getting in and sitting in a single seater is an accomplishment in itself! It always scared me about the size and how vulnerable you feel in a
crash, but that soon disappears when you get it going (and my experience is only of Formula Renaults!).
Can't wait to get mine finished even though it feels like a very tight glove!
Wyn
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bob
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| posted on 13/3/07 at 10:26 PM |
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Agree
I got stuck in eddie irvines (one of) F1 car at the Jordan factory in 1994,two guys had to take a load of bodywork off and help me out
It is just awsome sitting in the car as you are almost horizontal, also those mirrors are probably of no use at all.
Apart from the embarasment of getting stuck in the car i had a great day at the factory. and at the track for a full test session watching everyone
but ferrari who dont show and pacific who didnt want to waste parts.
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