When F1 radio messages were novel and revelatory, not a means to air a driver’s grievance

Gamesmanship in Formula 1? Tell me about it. I’ve had my moments. You doubtless saw manoeuvring at the Circuit of The Americas when a public-spirited Red Bull team member kindly removed an untidy piece of tape that someone from McLaren had stuck on the pitwall to assist Lando Norris position his car in the grid box?…

The paltry (in F1 terms) £50,000 fine handed down to Red Bull was a clumsy response to what was actually no more than a bit of skullduggery. If I was in charge of Red Bull at the next race, I would have crossed the grid and offered Lando a seat cushion to help the poor wee lad see where he was going.

In case officials miss any ‘foul play’, there’s always the radio frequency in which to loudly gripe about your grievance. It’s a development that was beyond F1’s wildest imagining in the mid 1980s, when the plug-in umbilical cord linking engineer to driver and car gave way to radio transmission and the snivelling support lines we have now. 

It was obvious back then that the ability to eavesdrop would greatly assist a journalist when discovering what was really going on – as opposed to the sanitised quotes delivered in a press release. But how? I heard about a plane spotter who listened to air traffic control by means of a scanner. These devices were prohibitively expensive in the UK, but I was told that the USA would be a different matter.

Shortly after arrival in Detroit for the grand prix in 1987, I had chosen my secret weapon in the local Radio Shack store. That was the easy bit. Discovering each F1 team’s radio frequency would be far trickier since I could hardly give the game away by asking them outright. Nor could I proudly display the scanner in the pitlane for all to see.

By a stroke of good fortune, my hotel was within the Renaissance Center, which overlooked the track. I spent the first practice session sitting in my room, watching the scanner do its work as it flicked back and forth through the wave band.

It was soon apparent that a team member needed to be speaking to the driver – or vice versa – at the very moment the scanner passed that particular frequency. Otherwise, you would miss the brief conversation. I became well-versed in the activities of local taxi and delivery companies. But time was marching on and I had no idea what was happening on the track. Then, a moment of magic. 

The McLaren tape is positioned – for now – on the Austin pitwall

Photo by: Ronald Vording

“OK, Ayrton. Let’s try the Bs. That might help the understeer.”

The room was suddenly filled with the booming voice of Peter Warr as the Lotus boss discussed tyre compounds with Ayrton Senna. Bingo! During the next two practice sessions, I caught a few more fish in the audio net. A couple of races later, I had most of the top teams. 

The trick, of course, was not to give the game away by quoting private conversations in my race reports. But at least I was well informed and could avoid the trap of looking foolish through erroneous assumptions.

This happy state of ‘knowledge is power’ lasted for quite some time before other journalists caught on and the teams, listening to each other in any case, began to encrypt their messages. In the meantime, there had been intriguing moments of listening pleasure.

Nigel Mansell provided regular entertainment with his constant chatter, particularly during the races when, if everything was going well, he would sing to the Williams crew

Nigel Mansell provided regular entertainment with his constant chatter, particularly during the races when, if everything was going well, he would actually sing to the Williams crew.

However, there was a puzzling development towards the end of 1987 when Nigel was fighting for the championship with Nelson Piquet. Qualifying was under way at Suzuka when a wordless but low, moaning sound came across the airwaves.

It transpired that Mansell had spun into the barrier and injured his back by crash-landing on top of a kerb. It gradually dawned on me that Nigel may have been in enough pain to rule himself out of the championship but, somehow, he had managed to bravely keep his thumb on the radio button in the immediate aftermath of such a bruising shunt.

The most bizarre moment of all came at the start of practice for the 1989 British GP when the Arrows of Derek Warwick failed to complete its installation lap. ‘Del Boy’ had simply disappeared.

Mansell’s post-Suzuka shunt moans were relayed over the radio

Photo by: LAT Images via Getty Images

“Where are you, Derek?” I heard a puzzled Ross Brawn intone. Then a pause before his driver replied: “Dunno.” 

“Whatd’yamean?” 

“Can’t find the entrance to the f*****g pitlane! I’m stuck somewhere.”

This was at a time when the track was flat-out through Abbey and into a left-right chicane just before Woodcote. When Warwick had driven at Silverstone a few months before, the pit entrance was actually the continuation of the straight leading from Abbey; in other words, a very fast entry.

Nobody had thought to tell Derek that the entrance had been shifted to the far side of the chicane. Warwick had steamed into what was now an escape road and become disorientated, not to mention stuck in a concrete-lined cul-de-sac. 

McLaren may think they’ve got their troubles, but there’s a massive difference between being a couple of millimetres out of position on the starting grid and the driver not turning up at all.

These days, they would complain – on the radio, of course – that someone must have hijacked their car. 

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Radio traffic in Formula 1 slanted for ears outside of the team? Surely not

Photo by: Mark Thompson / Getty Images