Schumacher's F1 debut

When I left England for Belgium, it was with some considerable sympathy for Gachot, whose sentence seemed absurdly harsh in these slap-on-the-wrist times for rapists and muggers. But there were those at Francorchamps who seemed to think spraying CS gas into someone's face comparable with parking on double yellow lines. And this, too, was palpably absurd.

Once into Belgium, I was not alone in finding some of my sympathy for Gachot's plight dissipated by the ludicrous outrage of some of his countrymen. 'God Save The British - and Gachot' was the legend on a popular T-shirt. There were demonstrations and petitions and daubings on the track, which bordered on the ludicrous. This was hardly a John McCarthy situation, after all.

'Nothing wrong with CS gas,' said one haughty lady in the press room. 'I have some myself. It's not against the law.' Not in Belgium, we accepted, but wasn't that rather missing the point? In most countries, a scotch last thing means a good night's sleep; in Saudi Arabia it's 50 lashes.

Much play was made of the lenient Belgian treatment of British thugs following the Heysel disaster six years ago - 'We were good to the British, and this is how you pay us back.' This line of argument went nowhere with the British press corps, most of whom felt the Belgians got it wrong on that occasion, too.

I believe those behind the campaigns did Gachot no service at all. In marked contrast to the hysteria was the quiet dignity of Kate Palmer, Bertrand's girlfriend, who understandably looked tired and at her wits' end as she thanked people for their messages of goodwill. Many of us felt profound disgust as the beleaguered girl was callously turned out of the press room by FISA's officious new press officer. If anyone worked constructively for Bertrand's good over the weekend, it was Kate.

More than anything, though, it seemed ironic that Gachot should miss Spa, and his first opportunity to race there in a competitive car. But his enforced absence left the door open for Schumacher, and Michael positively burst through it.

A friend of mine, who covers sportscar racing, called me at the beginning of last week. 'I'll bet you,' he said, 'that Schumacher qualifies in the top 10.' I nearly accepted the wager, but by mid-morning on Friday rejoiced that I hadn't.

Last year I watched on satellite TV the sportscar race in Mexico. It is not, I confess, a category of racing which much interests me these days, but I do recall being highly impressed by Schumacher's confidence and precision as he threaded the Mercedes-Benz through traffic in the torrential rain.

It may seem ridiculous already to speak of him as 'a special talent'. But just once in a while you get a feeling about a new driver, an impression that this is the start of a major career. It was there with Villeneuve, with Prost, with Senna. And I - together with nearly everyone else at Spa - feel it there with Schumacher.

This quality is more easily discernible, I grant you, when the newcomer gets his Fl start in a car worth driving. Gilles, Alain and Ayrton were perhaps fortunate in that respect, but each had laid claim to the opportunity with his performances elsewhere. It is the same with Michael now.

I always find it interesting to observe a new driver's manner out of the car. Some are jumpy, some unnaturally calm, and some have it just right. Schumacher at Spa reminded me of Mika Hakkinen at Phoenix earlier this year, looking immediately as if he belonged in the Fl pit lane, but not as if he owned it. Once in the race car he was confident, smooth, devastatingly quick. And all weekend he had no complaints for his team. They liked that. And he was quick today, not tomorrow. They liked that, too.

Before the war, there were German aces in proliferation, most notably Rudolf Caracciola, Bernd Rosemeyer and Hermann Lang, each of whom won the European Championship, as it then was. But in terms of drivers, Germany has had a thin time of it these last 40-odd years. During the great Mercedes-Benz years of 1954 and '55, the company's outstanding drivers were Stirling Moss and, above all, Juan Fangio, with such as Karl Kling and Hans Hermann playing strictly supporting roles.

Wolfgang von Trips, the elegant count, won brilliantly for Ferrari at Zandvoort and Aintree in 1961, but lost his life at Monza, the World Championship beckoning. He knew nothing of cars, save how to drive them, but that he knew well. Later, Hans-Joachim Stuck had his moments in Grand Prix racing, but in reality Germany had to wait more until the mid-'80s for a new star to emerge.

Stefan Bellof came into Formula 1 with Tyrrell, in 1984, and what we need to remember of him is that, in a year which also saw the debut of Ayrton Senna, he was not overshadowed. Everyone recalls that Senna was catching Prost for the lead of the rained-out 1984 Monaco Grand Prix when it was prematurely stopped, but how many remember that, at the same time, Bellof was catching Senna?

Martin Brundle, his team mate of the time, recalls Bellof as perhaps the fastest driver he has ever seen. 'On pure speed,' he says, 'Stefan was the nearest driver to Villeneuve, I'm sure.'

We never saw the greatest days of Stefan Bellof, of course, for he died before them. In the autumn of 1985 his Porsche 956 crashed at Eau Rouge, here at Spa. It seemed, for his countrymen, that German motor racing had died with him. Perhaps, here at Spa six years on, it has been born again. Michael Schumacher's Belgian Grand Prix lasted less than a lap, but it hardly mattered. Already we had seen enough.