Classic Cars & Practical Classics.pdf

TYRRELL 021Driving on theshoulders of giants,Ivan unleashes theTyrrell’s mighty V8Just behind the driver’s seat, on the rear cockpitbulkhead, the manufacturer’s tag identifies this green1983 ex-works Formula One Tyrrell as chassis 012-1.Next to the Union flag and the Italian national flagare two names – Ian Simmonds, the car’s currentowner, and Michele Alboreto, the legend.Ian has already put in a few laps to check the carand warm the engine and I am waiting impatientlywhile the oil settles, things mechanical ‘rest’ and theheat permeates the engine and gearbox internals. I’mthinking the car looks stunning in its original, immaculate greenBenetton colours when at last Ian Simmonds gives me the nod.I step over the sides on to the seat and, with hands on the cockpitsides for support, I do my best Nureyev impression, point toes southand slither both feet down under the steering rack, which intrudesacross the base of the cockpit. With feet so far forward, I wonderhow I’d extricate myself from a frontal shunt with trapped orbusted ankles. Stupid, I won’t prang it, so I push such thoughts outof my head. I am ensconced, snug as a bug in a rug and about todrive a 500bhp car weighing 540kg. I feel good.The carbonfibre Stack instrument pod has a line of warning lightsand four switches along the bottom. One unmarked, the otherslabelled Pump, Main and, on the extreme right, Ignition. To my leftare the main fuel supply cut-off and the Start button. On the right,the master switch and the fire extinguisher button. There is a Stackrev counter calibrated to 13,000rpm with no red line and the suedeMomo wheel has a Dymo reminder ‘3700rpm Second’ for the pitlane speed limit. I look forward and clock the big fat slicks.Philip Gee is Ian Simmonds’ mechanical guru and the Tyrrell ishis baby; I sense his concern as he leans in to pass me my helmetand balaclava. As I pull on my gloves he asks, ‘Okay?’ I nod.‘Right.’ Philip pulls the Willans straps so tight, my crotch feelslike it’s trying to hide somewhere behind me. ‘Comfy?’ he asks. If Itry to answer it will probably be in a falsetto, so I nod again. Philipmoves the ignition switch to ‘On’, hits the fuel pump and looks atme once again with an enquiring smile. I give him a thumbs-up andhe presses the button. I have clear instructions – feet off, hands off.‘Okay!’ he yells, as perhaps the greatest masterpiece of a FormulaOne engine ever, the mighty 3.0-litre Cosworth V8, fires up intourgent life. Even through my earplugs and helmet the unsilenced,raucous scream is truly amazing. The car is now a living entity. Mypulse rate quickens, a final thumbs-up, Ian and Philip step back, Idip the heavy clutch, slip the stubby lever across the gate, then leftand back into the slot for first.In my head is a collage of 1983. Watson and Lauda at McLaren;Arnoux winning at Hockenheim; Mansell third at Brands; theappearance of Damon Hill and Ayrton Senna; when Piquet beatProst. But most poignantly, the late Michele Alboreto’s win atDetroit in a Tyrrell 011 – the 155th and final win for the CosworthV8 engine, just like the one that is right behind me now.83