How Schumacher joined F1's elite

Twenty-five years, a whole quarter of a century ago. That's how long it's been since a particular Formula 1 landmark I will never forget. In the creeping mist of memory, I can't say it seems like yesterday - because it doesn't. But certain images in my head remain as sharp and vivid even now.

So what happened in August 1992? I turned 18 for one thing, and supposedly became an adult. Except I wasn't. That would take some years. My ex-wife would probably say I'm still waiting on that one.

Back then, I was bumbling through the summer, earning a pittance in a cafe while cramming Victorian literature and blindly trying to get my head around Old English poetry ahead of my imminent departure for university. Everything was ahead of me.

Outside of my personal bubble - but not too far outside - one Nigel Mansell finally clinched the world championship he so deserved, at the Hungarian Grand Prix and with five of the 16 races to spare, thanks to the dominance of his Williams-Renault FW14B.

I'd applauded him to an easy win at Silverstone the previous month. But as he bellowed in delirium on the Hungaroring podium, my youthful enthusiasm for Red Five had already waned - at my grand old (coming of) age. I was pleased for him, and relieved he'd achieved his life goal, but to me it would have meant more had he won it in 1986 or '87.

By now, I'd come to appreciate the privilege of being alive to watch Ayrton Senna instead. He'd never been too popular on British spectator banks, even when he was at beloved Lotus. The haughty arrogance, the ruthless streak and sense of entitlement just didn't appeal to fans nourished on the traditions of gentlemen Jim Clark and Jackie Stewart.

But for me, the incessant downpour of Silverstone 1988 had begun to wash away my wall of hostility. Senna was brilliant that day, on another plane to the rest, including Alain Prost - who I revered. One McLaren drifted out of a race with an apparent whimper, as the other imperiously sailed across the puddles.

Four years later, as Mansell savoured the 'gizmo'-laden superiority of his active-ride Williams (but notably failed to fully credit it), I found myself captivated by the side story that would surely become the banner headline in the years to follow. Senna had a new rival, cast in his own image. And even from my distance, you could tell he knew it.

From that blistering quali run in the mean, green Jordan at Spa a year earlier, Michael Schumacher had been lauded as the New Messiah. Sure, there was hype. But there was substance inside the dry ice.

He was as hard to like as The Master, too: must have been something about the haughty arrogance, the ruthless streak and sense of entitlement...

How we'd chuckled when Derek Warwick chased him through the paddock in the Jaguar/Mercedes sportscar days and, to the glee of a delighted Jean-Louis Schlesser, threatened to put one on that protruding chin across a physio's table in a team truck. Schuey, as the British press liked to call him, had baulked Del Boy in qualifying - and probably deserved a dose of West Country wrath.

But through 1992, it could not be denied: the momentum was building, in tandem with the growing force of the 'yellow peril' Benettons. It was only a matter of time.

That time duly followed, on August 30 at Spa-Francorchamps, where it had all began exactly a year and 16 races previously.

And perched on a tuft of grass on the steep bank at Pouhon sat a bedraggled 18-year-old, cold, hungry but in thrall to his first foreign grand prix.

Why did I do it? A couple of months down the line, I'd pine for those pounds that had been sitting in my building society account. The meter in my damp digs at uni didn't feed itself. But how could I really regret that 18th birthday present to myself? Spa had been all I could have hoped for.

Schumacher made a mistake and ran off the road. As Brundle went past, Michael spotted blisters on Martin's rear tyres. Canny. Characteristically so...

And as time passed I'd come to realise the significance of what I'd witnessed: the first of those record 91 GP victories. Back then we'd known he was special - but I could never have known just how.

A Page & Moy coach from Victoria station at dawn, a choppy ferry crossing (the Channel Tunnel was still being dug) and the journey to a hotel in Brussels. Yes, Brussels. I had no idea it was miles from Spa... Why would I?

I travelled alone on my big adventure, but some fellow passengers took pity and allowed me to tag along for dinner. So I had mussels - in Brussels. Well, it kept me amused.

Spa was magnificent, of course (once I got there). Memories include: actually witnessing Perry McCarthy complete a lap in the Andrea Moda; picking my way through trees to watch on the outside of Blanchimont (wow); for some reason, choosing to be the only spectator to watch Andrea Montermini win the Formula 3000 race on the inside of the Kemmel straight (fast, but a rubbish view).

Oh, and then there was the crash behind me in the amazing model shop at the top of Francorchamps village as my backpack got caught on a display. I walked out the door at pace and didn't look back.

Pouhon was a good choice for race day - but it was packed. The tuft of grass was all I could find, but it offered more grip and padding than the loose shale and stones surrounding it.

A green Formula Vauxhall won a morning support race (I had a clue it was Oliver Gavin, but could only confirm it when I picked up Autosport the following Thursday), and then I settled down to wait for the GP.

The proper rain came after the start, when Senna got the jump on Mansell. Ayrton gambled, as he knew he had to that season to beat the Williams. He stayed out when they all pitted for rain tyres - but it didn't pay off. As I found to my increasing discomfort, the weather didn't improve and when he did stop he rejoined 12th - out of contention.

Mansell led from Patrese, Schumacher and the other Benetton of Martin Brundle. I assumed my first trip to Spa would witness another win for the champion-elect - but then it all changed.

Schumacher made a mistake and ran off the road. As Brundle went past, Michael spotted blisters on Martin's rear tyres. Canny. Characteristically so.

That insight only came from his mistake, but then he used it to his advantage. The early change to slicks just as the rain stopped (up at Pouhon, I gave a little cheer) handed him the lead. Williams pitted Mansell and Patrese too late, then a cracked exhaust thwarted Nigel's chase for the lead. Schuey's first win was sealed.

Back on the coach to Calais, I tried - and failed - to get comfy in my dampness. But still I had that warm glow of happiness one gets from a glorious day at the races.

But at the port, we stopped... and didn't move again for 12 hours. A channel storm stopped our crossing and I spent an unpleasant night cramped in my seat. We finally docked early the next morning.

I knew I had enough change in my pocket for my train from Victoria - but nothing more. A fellow traveller took pity and bought me breakfast. Home beckoned at last, and I was mighty happy to reach it.

Schumacher could never have known (and probably would never have cared) about our shared - but utterly different - experience of Spa '92. As with me, it all lay before him: Imola 1994, the hobbled chop at Adelaide, Jerez '97, the Ferrari glory years... and that stupid, heartbreaking skiing fall.

Ninety more chequered flags would fall during his checkered time on the tracks. But that first time, all those years ago - well, like anyone who shared it - I'm honoured to remember it for him.