The Observer

As we salute a modern British Formula One hero, we prepare to welcome back an old stager - dare I say it, a true motor racing legend.

Jenson Button's fabulous breakthrough victory in Hungary will do much to endear him to his growing band of fervent fans back home. But 'our Jense' has a long way to go before he hits the heights of popularity that Nigel Mansell scaled in the late 1980s and early '90s.

Now, this weekend, Nigel will make what is very likely to be a glorious return to his spiritual home, Silverstone. Time for his old fans to dust off their Mansell union flags, and prepare to punch the air and yell like they used to as 'our Nige' does battle again, in the Grand Prix Masters race.

The Mansell era changed how F1 was perceived in Britain forever. James Hunt had briefly inspired fan hysteria during his McLaren days in the 1970s - the can-throwing mob demanding he be allowed to take the restart at the 1976 British GP was a shocking first for motorsport. But it stepped up a few more notches once Mansell got into his stride.

The purists, of course, resented the 'football fans' who latched on to Nigel. They weren't true motor racing enthusiasts. This was just some crazy patriotic fervour that should have been kept inside Wembley, not allowed on to the banks of the old airfield circuit in Northamptonshire, they said.

An understandable reaction. The insular, relatively small-scale world that was Grand Prix racing was threatening to go mainstream - and more than just once a year at the British GP.

Fans invade the circuit at the conclusion of the 1992 British Grand Prix at Silverstone © LAT

Those same 'football fans' would latch on to Mansell's successor, Damon Hill, in much the same way. When his career ended, many of them turned away from the sport - without a blue-blooded hero to shout for, what was the point?

But those years of Brit mania, mixed with an incredible explosion of interest in F1 around the world, has led us directly to where we are today: a sport of proportions that would have been unbelievable to those Hunt fans back in '76.

It will be fascinating to see the reception Mansell receives this weekend. We've noticed at Autosport that there are a lot of people out there who still love him. At the Goodwood Festival of Speed last month, he drew large numbers to our stand when he came along to sign autographs - and he hasn't forgotten how to work a crowd!

Mansell won three British GPs at Silverstone - it was his backyard. But only one really sticks in my mind. Nigel Mansell and Silverstone will only ever conjure one image. You know the race I mean. It was 1987.

I was nearly 13 years old. Unaffected by cynicism or snobbery, Mansell was my hero. This was a guy who kept you on tenterhooks - there was always a drama wherever he went. And what a driver.

I'd gone through the usual routine, familiar to so many racing fans: wake up at 3am, a pang of anticipation, mum packs the cool box, head out into the dark, get in the car for the (pre-motorway) trek up to Silverstone (stopping off to throw up - often got car sick when I was young), hit a queue of traffic, finally spot the circuit (another pang of excitement), park in a field, traipse to the gate, find a spot right up against the fencing at Club or Stowe, settle down into my fold-up chair, and eat the first sandwich of the day. All before 6:30am.

The morning warm-up was always hugely thrilling. The first sight, and just as importantly, the first sound of an F1 car. That year I was at Stowe, just about at the braking point.

You'd strain your neck right and a missile would be bombing down the Hangar Straight towards you, the rear wing visibly straining under the loads, an explosion of sound and colour as it flashes past you, a violent change of direction into the corner and then wailing away towards Club. Heaven.

As race-time approached, the anticipation would build. I'd read my programme, my copy of Autosport, anything else I could lay my hands on that was Grand Prix-related. I'd sat in the same place for about six hours, waiting, watching the support races. Now it was time.

In '87, Mansell fever had already built a head of steam. The Williams FW11B, lightly revised from its '86 predecessor (linear rather than rising-rate suspension and a new diffuser the only significant developments), was the class of the field - and spiteful, cheeky, sneaky old Nelson Piquet in the 'other one' was the enemy!

They had dominated qualifying, of course. The supreme power of the Honda V6 turbo was perfectly on song at this super-fast circuit, and the new dogleg Woodcote corner only played to its acceleration strengths. Mansell recorded 189.418mph across the finish line in practice, and still had more to come before Copse.

Nigel Mansell signs autographs © LAT

But dastardly Nelson Piquet was on pole, the double champion determined to humiliate his hated teammate in front of Nigel's own people.

But at the start, wily Alain Prost slipped through them to lead into Copse. At Stowe my heart beat faster as the sound carried over the flat runways and the commentator's pitch rose in tandem.

But when they came past me, Piquet was in front, and Mansell was in the process of going past the McLaren too. That would be the last Prost would see of the Williams pair this afternoon.

They set a cracking pace - despite the dreadful fuel efficiency handicap that afflicted the turbo era. The aerodynamic sophistication of the Williams combined with the Honda V6 allowed for greater efficiency than its rivals - including Lotus, which ran the same engine.

Mansell stuck with Piquet, but what I could not know was that Nigel was in trouble. Within 10 laps, he was experiencing a vibration through the steering wheel - a front wheel balance weight was gone.

"The vibration got so bad that I literally couldn't see clearly," he told the press after the race. "I radioed the pits and told them I was going to have to come in at some stage. We settled on lap 35, and until then I just tried to keep as close to Nelson as possible."

It didn't stop him setting successive fastest laps on the 17th and 18th times around! The Herculean performance had already begun.

I saw some TV footage of the race recently, and the thing that struck me most was the speed at which Mansell entered the pits for his tyre stop. No speed limits then, of course, and the pitlane was packed with people. So dangerous. Mansell tore in and out in a frenzy. It's actually quite shocking when you have become used to the restraints of the modern age.

At Stowe my heart sank. Surely, this was it. Piquet was home and dry. I'd missed the '85 and '86 Brands Hatch races (family holiday clashes for both - unbelievable!) and now I was going to miss out on watching a Mansell win again. But then...

Mansell started to close in. With 30 laps to go, he was about half a minute behind. On lap 37 he broke the lap record - but three laps later Piquet, on his old Goodyears, broke it again. But Mansell was still on it.

Surely, it wouldn't be enough. But I began to count the seconds between them flashing by nevertheless. I began to cheer him on, as did everybody around me. Yes, it was like a football terrace - but that was no bad thing.

Nelson Piquet leads Williams Honda teammate Nigel Mansell in the 1987 British Grand Prix at Silverstone © LAT

Mansell later recounted the chase: "It was an extraordinary feeling. I drove maybe the last 20 laps at ten-tenths, right at the limit, and I don't really like to do that on such a quick circuit. But I knew that was what it was going to take to beat Nelson, and support like that [from the crowd] really inspires you.

"If Nelson had stopped for tyres earlier, when I first started catching him, I think he would have won, quite honestly. But he stayed out..."

That's because Piquet thought he had Mansell covered: "The tyres were still good with 15 laps to go. But during the last 10 laps they really began to go off in a big way, and I didn't expect that."

None of us could have expected what was to follow. From snatches of commentary from the Tannoy, I got an idea how many laps were left. If Mansell kept taking this amount of time out of Piquet's lead, it was just possible.

With 10 laps to go, the gap was 7.6 seconds - and still Mansell came. Each time they were out of my sight I strained to hear a word from the commentator to give me hope that Mansell was on him, that he had passed him. But each time at Stowe there was the number six Williams, followed ever closer by number five.

It was lap 63 (of 65) that it happened. I strained my neck one more time. Here they came, straight on at 190mph.

Mansell had ducked out to my right (his left), for the outside line and looked from my vantage point like he was alongside. But as the white, yellow and blue flashes blurred directly in front of my eyes Nigel jinked to his right.

As they hit the apex of Stowe, the fat rear slicks were inches apart, the red Canon logos on the white rear wings almost touching. And I realised this was the moment. I'd been in the right place, on the right day, to witness one of the great overtaking moves ever.

At Club, two older teenagers groaned. How close to each other they were I don't know. They didn't know each other. One day we would be friends and colleagues - but in '87 I had little in common with either of them. I was just a kid - and they were Piquet fans.

As the crowd around them erupted, they independently sighed in resignation. That whinging drama-queen burk was going to win.

The drama wasn't over, of course. Mansell had indeed been at the limit - and ran out of fuel after crossing the flag. The crowds invaded the track, Mansell rode pillion on a motorcycle - and got off to kiss the piece of Tarmac in front of me where the move had taken place!

Nelson Piquet © LAT

As I grew older, my enthusiasm for Mansell dulled. I was pleased when he won the world title in '92, relieved that he had finally achieved his goal, and I was thrilled as he took on and beat the Americans in Indycars. But the magic buzz I'd experienced that day in '87 was never quite recaptured.

When I joined Autosport and later befriended my colleagues who had been on the Club banking that day, I laughed as they told me how they had independently shared the same groaning reaction in the wake of that move. And I understood why.

Piquet was cool, he was anti-establishment, and he was a bastard. But that was not what I looked up to as a kid. I was swept away by the fervent tide of Mansell-mania, along with the football fans and the lager louts. And I'm proud of it.

Button has time on his side. He can still inspire the hero-worship of a Hunt, a Mansell, a Hill - and he sure can drive. But I'm too old, too ingrained in this sport to be swept away like that again.

I'll leave the hero-worship to a new generation of kids. That's who Button belongs to now.