Jackie Stewart: the Final Lap

It was supposed to be a glorious 100th - and last - grand prix for Jackie Stewart. Then tragedy struck. In this extract from his new autobiography, Winning is Not Enough, the three-time world champion recounts his final days in F1

It's 1973. Jackie Stewart has already scored his 27th grand prix victory, at the Nurburgring. He has clinched his third world championship in five years for the Tyrrell team. Now he is heading for his 100th GP, the US at Watkins Glen, in the knowledge that it will be his last. Only three people - team boss Ken Tyrrell and Ford's Walter Hayes and John Waddell - are in on the secret that he is retiring. Stewart has chosen not to tell his wife Helen, nor friend and team-mate Francois Cevert.

The Canadian Grand Prix had been a frustrating weekend because I finished fifth in a race I could have won, and Francois injured his ankle in a collision with Jacky Ickx. That meant he would have to hobble around on a pair of crutches during the break we had planned to take before the US Grand Prix a fortnight later.

We flew to Bermuda and checked into a beautiful hotel. These days remain vivid in my mind as one of the all-too-rare moments in my life when I could switch off the engines of the rocket ship and simply relax.

There was a fine restaurant in the hotel, and every evening we dressed for dinner in a collar and tie. The atmosphere was wonderful, the food was excellent and, while coffee was served, Francois would get up and walk across the dance floor to a large grand piano, where he would sit down and play Beethoven's Piano Sonata No.8 in C Minor, commonly known as Pathetique. It was his favourite piece of music and, as his fingers danced, I recall looking around and seeing everybody, particularly the women, looking completely enchanted.

Friday's practice went well. Chris Amon was in the third car, and the three Tyrrells were running so well that Francois and I returned to the circuit on Saturday morning confident that we could dominate the qualifying session.

Sitting there in his car on that bright sunny morning, with his helmet on and his visor up, Francois caught the eye of Helen, who happened to be sitting on the pitwall, and he winked at her - one last, unforgettable wink.

What happened next?

Well, all three Tyrrells were out on the circuit, with Francois, Chris Amon and me each working to put in fast laps. I drove around past the pits, through the right-hander and a second right-hander, up to the fast left-hander at the top of the hill and there, on the brow of the rise, as I started to turn left into the section known as the 'Bridge', I saw a marshal frantically waving double yellow flags. I slowed down to a crawl and started to see the debris strewn across the track. It looked like the sight of an air crash, but there were just enough pieces sufficiently large enough for me to realise it was blue debris; in fact it was Tyrrell-blue debris.

I saw Chris walking along the side of the track. He glanced at me, and I pointed at him and gave him a quizzical thumbs-up sign. He shook his head and wagged his finger, as if to say, 'It's not me'. If it wasn't him then it had to be Francois. My heart started to pound and I immediately pulled over, climbed out of my car and started running towards the wreckage.

I arrived, and stared in disbelief and horror. I immediately realised that there was nothing anyone could have done. The Tyrrell was wedged into the tangled remains of the metal barrier, its nose pointing down and the cockpit facing towards me. There was smoke and steam, and a stench of oilÉ and there, still strapped into his seat, was my team-mate, my protege, my friend, my younger brother. He was dead.

I honestly don't know how long I stood there, less than two feet from this horrific scene, but I eventually turned away and walked back to my car. Should I have stayed with Francois? That is a question I have asked myself thousands of times over the past 34 years. Maybe he was unconscious, maybe I could have waited there and talked to him and maybe even been there when he breathed his last breath. I don't know. I'll keep wondering.

The Tyrrell team decides to withdraw from the US GP following Cevert's accident.

The team's decision to withdraw was accepted and, amid the trauma, I suddenly realised my motor racing career had come to an end. At last there was no need to keep my decision to retire as a secret.

'Where's Helen?'

'She's gone back to the hotel with Norah [Ken Tyrrell's wife],' somebody replied.

So, alone I made my back to the Glen Motor Inn and found her in our room. Helen was sitting on the edge of the bed, and I told her we had decided not to race the next day. Still standing and looking straight at her, I said, 'As of this moment, I am no longer a racing driver.'

'Now,' she replied through her tears, 'we can grow old together.'

I have no idea how long we sat there on the bed, holding each other, crying our eyes out. It felt as if I had had to be so strong and clear-minded at the track, trying to make sure everyone was all right, working out how the accident had happened, but finally, alone with Helen in that hotel room, everything came pouring out - the agony and grief for Francois and the relief that I had somehow survived my racing career.

We spent Christmas of 1973 as a family at home in Begnins, and Helen and I were touched when our son Mark asked if he could have some money because he wanted to buy us a Christmas present. He was only five years old, so Helen took him down to Nyon, where he decided he wanted to go to a record shop.

With Helen waiting outside, our young son walked in and, hardly tall enough to reach the shelves where the records were displayed, eventually picked out an album at random just because he liked the look of the glossy cover. He took it to the counter, had it gift-wrapped, paid for it and emerged tightly holding the bag so his mother would not see the present.

Francois Cevert had been extremely close to Helen and he had told her that, if anything ever happened to him, wherever he was, he would make sure that somehow he would send us a message or some kind of sign to let us know he was all right. Imagine, then, how we felt when, on that Christmas morning, just eleven weeks after his accident, Helen and I opened the present from Mark, something chosen completely at random by a five-year-old child, and discovered it was a record of Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 8 in C Minor, commonly known as Pathetique.

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