Nigel Roebuck: Fifth Column

"When this is over, I shall seriously reconsider whether or not grand prix racing is still what it purports to be: the pinnacle of sport and technological achievement. Unfortunately, this appears to be no longer the case, and if it is not cleaned up, Formula 1 will end up in a quagmire of plagiarism, chicanery and petty rule interpretation, manipulated by people for whom the word 'sport' has no meaning."

Jean Todt? Ron Dennis? No, the words are from Colin Chapman, uttered in Buenos Aires in 1981, after the 'twin chassis' Lotus 88 had failed to get through scrutineering, for the third race in succession.

It is 25 years ago this month since Chapman died, struck down by a massive heart attack, and sometimes I find myself wondering - particularly when a silly new rule is introduced - what he would have made of this or that in the world of F1 today.

To be honest, mention of the 'twin chassis' car always tweaks my conscience slightly, for it was I who blew the story before Colin was quite ready for it to be blown. One morning, in the days when I still worked on the staff at Autosport, I had a phone call from a man asking if I had any details of the forthcoming 'revolutionary' Lotus. I said no, I didn't. Well, would I like some?

Part of my job at that time was writing news every week in Pit & Paddock, so I said yes, of course I'd like to know more about it. A scoop was a scoop.

The man had given no name when he rang, and when I asked to whom I was speaking, he declined to answer. If I wanted to learn more about the Lotus 88, he said, I should drive to Norfolk, and meet him in a certain pub at a certain time.

"All right," I said, "I'll be there - but how will I know you?"

"Doesn't matter," he said. "We'll know you..."

All terribly John Le Carre, and I confess to feeling a buzz of excitement as I put the phone down. At this rate, it wouldn't be long before I could jump in a cab, and yell, "Follow that car!"

At all events, I duly drove to 'a pub in Norfolk' (whose name, incidentally, I have long forgotten), walked in, ordered a drink, and waited. And waited. Was this, I started to wonder, a scam? Had I driven 120 miles for nothing?

Then two blokes came over to my table, said hello, and sat down. This wasn't their local, they said, but some way away; for all that, they were clearly apprehensive, and constantly checked out who was in the bar. Finally, when they had relaxed a little, we ordered lunch, and, while there was no handing over of a 780-page dossier, one of my 'informants' sketched out the 88 on a napkin, explaining, as simply as he could, the principles of the new car.

How did they know all this? I asked. And why were they choosing to tell me? It wasn't too difficult to guess that they were disaffected ex-Lotus employees, and such proved to be the case. After an hour or so, they got up and left - making sure to take the napkin with them. And they never did give me their names.

Back in London, I wrote the story up, and tried to describe to the artist what I remembered of the sketch. Both duly appeared in the magazine on the Thursday morning - and by 9.30 Anthony Colin Bruce Chapman was on the phone.

He began quietly, as if simply ringing for a chat. We talked about the latest doings in the FISA/FOCA War (wherein Messrs Mosley and Ecclestone were still poachers, taking on the governing body), about the Comprex supercharger being tested by Ferrari, this and that, and then - as if it were an afterthought - he said: "Oh, by the way, where did you get that story on the 88 from?"

"Sorry, Colin, but I really can't tell you that..."

"Nigel, I'd really like to know..."

"I understand that..."

"Well, it doesn't really matter - it's all bollocks, anyway!"

"OK, but... if it's all bollocks, why are you so wound up about it?"

On it went like that for several minutes, and finally he rang off, furious. The next time I saw him, though, he turned on the famous Chapman charm: "Come on, it's all water under the bridge - you might as well tell me..." I never did, but I thought it amusing, not to say instructive, that he put others to work 'on the case'. Over time, several people, some with obvious Lotus connections, some not, tried to bring it up in casual conversation, but got nowhere. To this day, I have no idea who gave me the story.

Back in 1981 we were still in the era of 'ground effect', of course, wherein the car's underbody was shaped, rather than flat, and 'skirts', mounted on the lower edge of the bodywork, formed a seal with the ground, which made for phenomenal grip. For 1981, it was announced that sliding skirts were banned, that there must at all times be a minimum ride height of six centimetres. This was to be checked every time a car came into the pits.

For those of ingenious mind, of course, it was the work of a moment to find a means of circumventing the new rule. By the second race, at Rio, the Brabham BT49 - designed by Gordon Murray - had a hydraulic suspension system: at rest, the car passed muster at the ground clearance check, but at speed the hydraulic system allowed it to sink down, to a point that its (fixed) skirts were in contact with the ground. The system worked very well: at Buenos Aires Piquet walked the race.

Other teams protested that Brabham were, at the very least, ignoring the spirit of the new rules, and undeniably that was so, but then the governing body unfathomably decided that hydraulic suspension and fixed skirts were kosher, and overnight every other team was obliged to set to work on a similar set-up. Thus we had a farcical season in which every car in the race was 'legal' when stationary, strictly not so when travelling at speed. Barmy.

Once hydraulic suspension and solid skirts had been given the green light, the essential point of the Lotus 88 was lost, for Chapman had conceived it as a way of getting round the original rule, and now FISA president Jean-Marie Balestre had officially sanctioned another, simpler, means of doing that.

Chapman's design was typically innovative. According to him, the 88 featured two chassis, but in truth what it amounted to was a conventionally-sprung traditional monocoque, with 'floating bodywork', which would sink at speed, and seal with the ground. It was an elegant method of sidestepping the minimum ride height regulation, and potentially a safer one, too, but with the official acceptance of hydraulic suspension the car was instantly a white elephant.

As evidenced by the quote at the beginning of the column, Chapman was incensed when, prompted by his protesting fellow team owners, race scrutineers refused to 'pass' the Lotus 88, but it was actually a great relief to those who would have had to race it, Elio de Angelis declaring it the scariest, most unpredictable, car he had ever driven.

In time Colin forgot the 88, and in time, too, he even forgave me for writing the original story about it: "Bloody thing didn't work, anyway..."