Every Split Second Counts - My Life with Fast Carts, Fast Women and F1 Superstars. Martin Hines
told them to go ahead, but he forgave me when he realised how much we would save in the long run.
I was excited about the business but, if I’m honest, at that stage it was more a way of earning enough money and creating the time so that I could drive. I had quickly realised there were two sorts of karting: one for the general public who just wanted to have some fun, and the other for a small, elite group of serious racers. I wanted to be in that set. They looked the part, they had the right overalls, the right kit and their karts went faster than others, including mine.
These boys were nearly all the sons of wealthy motor dealers and didn’t seem to do a lot of work, spending most of their time hanging around a second-hand car showroom in Warren Street. The leader of the pack was Bobby Day, whose dad, Alan, had the biggest Mercedes dealership in the country. Bobby had film-star looks and the attitude to go with them, and his mates weren’t too dusty, either. They included Mickey Allen; Bruno Ferrari, whose family connections meant he was never short of a bob or two; Buzz Ware, who earned his money making supermarket trolleys; and a lovable rogue, John J Ermelli. Buzz and Jon Jon were to become two of our first works drivers and we remain good friends to this day.
I knew I wasn’t as good in a kart as they were, but I reasoned that, like them, I had two arms, two legs, two eyes and certainly as much bottle, so there must be a way I could catch them up. I had one great advantage: I had plenty of access to Rye House and, even with my aptitude for mental arithmetic, I can’t begin to work out how many times I drove round that track, always trying to go a bit faster. It’s interesting that some people are drawn to karting because they are engine junkies, never happier than when they have a spanner in their hand, tinkering with this bit or that. Sometimes I feel they enjoy that more than the driving. I like fiddling with engines but the thing that has always given me the biggest buzz is to have my kart go faster than everyone else’s and, as the business progressed, I also wanted to sell more than the competition. Nothing gave me greater satisfaction than coming away from a meeting having driven the fastest lap of the day on one of our karts. Even when I lost a World Championship on the final lap one year, the disappointment was less because I’d driven the fastest lap.
I had a massive desire to succeed and, unlike some of the other kids who dropped by the wayside, I would not let myself be put off by setbacks. In those days I occasionally drove a gearbox kart with a 197-9F Villiers engine and, in one of my early races round Rye House, my engine blew when I was in second place. Back in the pits I realised the cylinder was going nowhere. Then I remembered that the trusty Bond had the same type of engine, so I worked frantically for the next hour and a half and transferred the Bond cylinder into the kart and raced it in the final. Unfortunately, that blew, too. I now had no kart and a car in bits and had to phone dad for a lift. We soon had both kart and car back in working condition and, despite the expense, he wasn’t at all upset that I’d blown two engines; in fact I think he was quietly proud that I’d shown some initiative.
I’ve never been much of a believer in the theory that some people are born with a steering wheel in their hand. I think the most important ingredient for success in motorsport – and in life – is what goes on in the six inches between your ears, or, for us bigheads, seven inches. Of course, it helps if you have some natural talent and it can be impossible if you have a handicap that means some things are just physically beyond you. But for most of us the key is having the drive and determination to put in the work it takes to succeed and to learn from our mistakes.
The best example I’ve ever seen is Ayrton Senna, who I first met in those early karting days. I’m convinced that, if Ayrton had decided to be a tennis player, he would have won Wimbledon; if he’d chosen golf, he would have shot 60 round St Andrews. I remember him flying model helicopters for relaxation but still his mastery of them was just incredible. He could have been brilliant at anything he decided to do, because he had that mindset. Second was failure to him and he made sure he covered every angle to ensure he would succeed.
I was determined I would become a top kart driver. I would find out what time the good drivers were testing and slip out behind them, following them round, checking which lines they took, where they braked and when they hit the power. Then I’d go out on my own and try to replicate what I’d learned, always looking to shave a fraction of a second off my previous best. Finally, I knew I was ready to take them on.
It took me a couple of years to start winning but I eventually found myself accepted by the in-crowd. At last I enjoyed a taste of their glamorous lifestyle, joining up with and driving against the Warren Street Boys and their young pretenders, who included Glen Beer, Dave Ferris, Trevor Waite and a couple of guys – Barry Cox and Dave Salamone – who even went on to star as Mini-Cooper S drivers in the original Italian Job movie with Michael Caine. They claimed they were cast because of their good looks but if that had been the case, surely I’d have been chosen!
The reality was that Dave was acting as chauffeur to actor Stanley Baker, who was one of the producers on the film, and Dave’s dad had a dealership, so was able to provide the Minis. After filming was over Dave offered me one of the cars – ‘just a few dents and scratches but only about a thousand miles on the clock’ – for £500. I turned him down and still have sleepless nights thinking about how much it would be worth now. Later, he offered me a BMW M11 with the M11 number plate. He wanted about fifteen grand for that and, again, I said no thanks, thus throwing away a potential profit today of around £485,000.
Fortunately, my driving was better than my eye for a bargain and people started to notice I was winning races. Eventually, I was chosen as one of the seven-man team to represent England in Belgium, which meant I could wear the coveted green helmet with the red, white and blue stripes down the middle. I couldn’t have been prouder.
Crisps and a Silver Coke Bottle
I was always eager to learn, and my first trip as a member of the England team was another stage in my karting education. We were racing on a tight, twisty track that really tested our ability to focus, but I quickly realised one driver had mastered it better than the rest of us. This was the first time I saw François Goldstein, one of the greatest drivers of all time in any format. He went on to win five 100cc World Championships, a record that stood for many years until one of my factory drivers, Mike Wilson, went one better. I learned a lot by watching François race, especially about concentration. Over the years I noticed his parents would be in one particular place in the grandstand and every time he passed them he would give a brief signal. It had nothing to do with the race: it was just a discipline to ensure he was constantly thinking about what he had to do.
The weekend in Belgium went well and I thought I’d done enough to impress team manager Doug Jest and the rest of the RAC bigwigs. I enjoyed being an international but, as happens so often in my life, my habit of opening my mouth before engaging my brain threatened to get me thrown off the team. On the ferry going out, we’d all stocked up with far more duty-free cigarettes than we were allowed so, when we packed up to go home, we stuffed them into toolboxes and put them in the truck underneath the karts, thinking no one would bother to look there. Wrong! We arrived in Dover and were waved to one side by a customs officer. We explained we had been racing for England, thinking that would impress him. It certainly aroused his interest because he emptied out the truck and, of course, found the fags in the toolboxes.
For some reason I appointed myself spokesman, stammering out the first thought that came into my head: ‘Er, they belong to our team manager. He asked us to bring them back for him. We didn’t realise we had too many.’
That cut no ice and he confiscated the cigarettes. I was too naïve to realise that some probably took them home and smoked them or flogged them to pals, and for weeks afterwards I was crapping myself, fearing Customs and Excise, as it was then called, would turn up at the RAC and say, ‘We’ve got Mr Jest’s cigarettes.’
Fortunately, they didn’t, and I must have driven OK, because I remained part of the England team for about six