Why identifying a driver shouldn’t be so hard – and how a borrowed helmet led to fit of fury

If, say, I was to ask which of the two Alpine drivers has the yellow T-cam, would you know what I was talking about, never mind firing off the answer as soon as one of the blue cars comes into view?

In the grand scheme of user-friendly Formula 1, you’re supposed to use the flash of neon yellow on the camera cover as a means of instantly deciding who the driver is.

In truth, you don’t have much choice. The driver’s number, lost in a swirl of corporate colour, is difficult to find when the car is stationary, never mind when passing at speed. And don’t dare suggest having the drivers’ names in block capitals and stuck somewhere useful – like on the sides of the cars they’re sitting in.

There would be outrage over anything that would interfere with – and I quote from a recent document in F1’s fundamental plan – “the leverage of scarcity, global exposure and regulatory stability to create value from intellectual property and marketing rights”.

In other words, don’t dare mess up corporate liveries that help make money and add to the estimated £3billion net worth of each F1 team. An old-fashioned concept perhaps, but nowhere within this fiscal verbiage can you find the word ‘entertainment’, or anything similar.

In a moment of official largesse, someone recently gave thought to improving the spectating experience by trialling what turned out to be a daft idea. Not only was it unworkable, but it also demonstrated how little those in charge of this mobile wealth fund truly understand the needs of race fans spending hard-earned cash on either a grandstand seat or a pay-per-view contract.

There is little ambiguity about who was driving the #21 Matra at the 1968 South African Grand Prix

Photo by: David Phipps / Sutton Images via Getty Images

You may have missed this, but an F1 person in their infinite wisdom suggested placing a driver’s name abbreviation (the three letters seen on the official timing screen) on each side of the camera box. On Oscar Piastri’s McLaren, for example, you had the letters PIA. About 50mm high. This was as useful as a teacher being expected to discover a new pupil’s identity by reading the name tag sewn to the inside of their school sweater.

Crash helmets, barely visible within the depths of a cockpit and its halo, are no help either. And even if they could be seen clearly, the days of a unique and striking design representing a driver’s signature disappeared some time ago when helmets began to look like the work of runners-up in a painting competition for five-year-olds.

But nothing is foolproof, not even when drivers used the same actual crash helmet – never mind colour scheme – for at least one season. It could cause trouble, as witnessed on the weekend of the 1959 French Grand Prix.

He stationed himself on the pitstraight and, flourishing a red flag, jumped in front of errant boy-racers

A bit of context. Rather than make do in the barren paddock behind the pit boxes, F1 teams chose to use garages spread across the nearby city of Reims. Practice was held on Thursday and Friday, leaving Saturday free to prepare for Sunday’s GP.

Having carried out extensive work on one of its five cars, Ferrari decided to test it on the 5.2-mile circuit. This would not be a problem since the Reims-Gueux track consisted of major roads which, of course, were open as normal for general use. Naturally, the car would be driven there and back on the N31 rather than messing around with a transporter.

The circuit came under the control of Raymond ‘Toto’ Roche, a formidable man who took great pride in his work. It was his aim to keep the recently resurfaced roads as unsullied as possible for Sunday’s race.

Gallic motorsport panjandrum Roche, here striking an imposing figure at the 1960 French GP, was not to be trifled with

Photo by: LAT Images

He did not take kindly to locals in their Simcas and Renaults using ‘his’ track as a theatre for their racing driver dreams. As a deterrent on Saturday, he stationed himself on the pitstraight and, flourishing a red flag, jumped in front of errant boy-racers. This applied to all motorists. Including, it seemed, F1 drivers.

Roche was startled when the Ferrari Dino 246, carrying race number 22, blasted into view, overtaking all and sundry. He brandished his flag – to no obvious effect. Indignation turned to outrage when the car appeared for a second time.

An attempt to stand in the way of the Dino ended with Roche leaping to one side while trying to hit the driver on a crash helmet that clearly belonged to Dan Gurney. When the Ferrari roared into view once more, Roche was beside himself with rage. Nothing would do but for the deeply offended Clerk of the Course to seek out the Ferrari garage in Reims.

Roche found Gurney and began to berate him. When the startled American said he hadn’t sat in a racing car since the previous day, Roche registered that Ferrari #22 had been entered for Olivier Gendebien. Roche’s confusion and anger intensified when he eventually found Gendebien – who explained he had been by the hotel pool all afternoon.

It was only then that Phil Hill stepped forward and explained he was the apparent culprit. As the only driver present in the garage, and with no plans to drive that afternoon, he hadn’t brought his kit. Hill had borrowed Gurney’s distinctive dark-blue helmet, set off on the test run in Gendebien’s car, and triggered this outburst of official indignation and mistaken identity.

Were he still with us today, Roche would be irritated beyond belief since he would have great difficulty recognising each driver. Unless, of course, he could tell a yellow T-cam from the leverage of scarcity, global exposure and regulatory stability.

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A hapless Gurney (here in his own car) was initially berated after Hill borrowed his helmet for a test run in Gendebien’s Ferrari

Photo by: LAT Images