Graham Hill: The Gentleman Driver

In the bar of Arkley Golf Club, a thirty-minute drive from London, a shock wave could be felt, similar to a bomb explosion. John Hardie, president of the club, was sitting with a few friends having their last Guinness. They hurried outside. It was dark, quite cold and so foggy that you could barely see five metres. Everything was quiet. The men couldn't make sense of what had happened and went back into the warm parlour. Fifteen minutes later, the visibly agitated police officer George Porter stormed in the door. He said that there was reason to believe that an aeroplane had crashed nearby. Had they noticed anything? You bet they had! Porter ran out onto the golf course with his torch and after a while saw a blazing fire in the distance. "I found the remains of an aeroplane in flames, along with the bodies. Not a pretty sight. The few minutes I was alone here on this frosty November evening were very eerie," he said in an interview.

John Hardie and his friends arrived at the scene of the accident shortly after Porter. Porter's colleagues from the police, fire engines and ambulances arrived after them. Finally, the press arrived, led by Dennis Signy, a reporter for The Times. None of them knew at the time that the pilot of the twin-engine Piper PA-23 Aztec - he could later only be identified by his teeth - was one of England's greatest national heroes, a legend in his own lifetime: Graham Hill, Formula 1 World Champion in 1962 and 1968, and to this day the only racing driver to win the Triple Crown, victories in Monaco, Le Mans and Indianapolis. Five members of his Formula 1 team Embassy Hill were also on board: driver Tony Brise (only 23, one of the most promising British racing talents), designer Andy Smallman, team manager Ray Brimble and mechanics Tony Alcock and Terry Richards. None of them survived. Ironically, Hill, a passionate golfer, died in the place where he loved to hit his balls. He was on a first-name basis with John Hardie. And not just with Hardie. Dennis Signy, the Times reporter, was a friend of Graham Hill. The two grew up just a few houses away from each other in London's Hendon neighbourhood, and when Hill was a big star, Signy naturally got exclusive interviews.

The plane had been approaching Elstree Airfield. At 9.19pm, Hill was informed by the London Terminal Control Centre that visibility at Elstree was one thousand metres. Just two minutes later, at 9.21 p.m., the next radio message: "Visibility only eight hundred metres." At the same time, however, the aircraft was cleared to descend to four hundred and fifty metres. Anything below that would be at the pilot's discretion. The alternative would have been to land at Heathrow. In the final moments of his life, Hill was probably relying on the instincts he had acquired in the highest class of motorsport. Perhaps he thought: "What the hell, in the rain, in the spray of a Formula 1 crowd, you can't see a thing. In comparison, this is child's play. But by 9.28 pm at the latest, he was dead. Graham Hill had misjudged the height. The Aztec, whose landing gear and landing flaps were already extended, grazed a tree top, collided with other trees, turned to the right, hit the ground with its wing and exploded. At around 10.30 pm, all radio and television stations reported his death. An entire nation went into shock. It was 29 November 1975, a Saturday.

What made things even more tragic was that Graham Hill had announced his retirement from active racing just a few months earlier. He wanted to restrict himself to his role as team principal - to the delight and great relief of his family: his wife Bette, the first lady among drivers' wives, his daughters Brigitte and Samantha, and his son Damon, who equalled his father by winning the Formula 1 championship in 1996. Damon was fifteen when his father died. "Death was omnipresent in my childhood. Formula 1 was terrible back then, a bloody sport. I remember often thinking that my father wouldn't be here next Christmas, or even next week. Part of me was impressed that my father was something special and did something dangerous. But I didn't want him to die," Damon said in an interview with the Guardian.

Graham Hill. The unique one. The unmistakable one. The prototype of the gentleman driver. Narrow, neatly trimmed moustache. Hair combed back at an angle with a little brilliantine. Parting on the left. Large nose. Outside of the racetrack, only to be found in a jacket and tie, usually with a pocket square, even at home. Not particularly tall, 1.73 metres, but strongly built. He didn't look like one of the fastest men in the world, more like the perfect Sherlock Holmes actor. He always looked ten years older than he actually was. He had an unusual gait, a slight left turn and a bit of a limp. In addition, his left leg was noticeably bent outwards. There were reasons for this dating back to the winter of 1947, when the fog played a fatal role.

First things first: At the age of eighteen, Hill was involved in a violent brawl in a pub. We don't know how badly he beat up his opponent. Graham himself, however, suffered a hernia. In severe pain, he rode his motorbike, a 1936 Velocette, to a London hospital and underwent an operation. Everything could have turned out well - if the newly recovered rider hadn't immediately got back on his bike in the snow, ice and fog to make the 170-kilometre journey to Cheltenham, where he went to college. He crashed into a parked car shrouded in thick clouds of fog and lay unconscious. Luckily for him, it was only a fracture to his left thigh, albeit a complicated one. So straight back to hospital. Three months of bed rest. Then two months in an iron brace and crutches. But the doctors had messed up. During the healing process, the leg shortened despite the support and bent further and further outwards. As a result, Hills' spine became curved, which is why he suffered from constant back pain from then on.

But that was not all: seven years later, he also suffered a serious injury to his left foot. Hill was now working as a car mechanic. He wanted to sit in an Alfa Romeo parked on a steep hill that needed to be repaired. His left leg was still outside with the door open. Somehow he managed to get the Alfa to roll backwards. His left foot, for whatever reason, was upright, heel down, toes up. And now the left front wheel rolled over the foot that remained in this position. A passer-by rushed to help and brought the Alfa to a halt. The foot never healed completely and always felt a little numb. What does all this tell us? Firstly, there was nothing to suggest that someone with such a physical impairment could ever become a racing driver. Secondly, he would never have been granted a licence today. Thirdly, with his damaged back, he wouldn't have lasted two laps in today's tough Formula 1 cars. Fourthly, his triumphs should be rated even higher in view of the events described above.

There was another argument against a career as a racing driver: Graham didn't get his driving licence until he was twenty-four. He had no interest in cars, his sporting interest was rowing and he was a member of the London Rowling Club - one of the best stroke men in the eight. The club's logo, eight white oar blades on a dark blue background, adorned his racing helmet (including Damon Hill's) until the very end. He had no idea what he would do for a living. His father, a stockbroker, knew someone at instrument maker Smith's. Graham began an apprenticeship there with little enthusiasm. He did his military service in the Royal Navy. After completing the required two years, he returned to Smith's - with even less enthusiasm.

One day in 1953, a colleague threw him a copy of the trade magazine "Autosport" with the words "This is what you should do". There was an advert for the Universal Motor Racing Club based in Brands Hatch. You could drive four laps in a "real racing car" under the guidance of an instructor for one pound. Why not, said the bored instrument maker, you could give it a try. At Brands Hatch, there were a few soapbox-like Formula 3 cars with 500cc motorbike engines, and by the end of the four laps, he knew he wanted to be a racing driver. He would have loved to buy one of the rickety monoposti straight away, but he didn't have the money. He came up with the idea of offering his services as an instructor to the racing school, and indeed the young Hill, who had never driven a single race in his life, became an instructor at the racing school that very day. If he did his job well, they promised him, he would be allowed to take part in a race. He resigned from Smith's Instruments, received unemployment benefit and commuted by bus between London and Brands Hatch.

A little later, he saw Colin Chapman sitting at one of the tables in a café near Brands Hatch. He got over himself and asked Mr Lotus if he had a job for him as a mechanic. Again, his boldness was rewarded. Chapman said yes and paid him a pound a day. This soon became a full-time job for nine pounds a week. In 1956, Hill was allowed to compete in various races in a Lotus Eleven, which he had worked hard on. He won four times. Chapman was impressed and made him a fully-fledged Formula 2 driver in 1957. However, the Lotus 12 with the Coventry Climax front engine was not competitive against the rear-wheel drive cars from Cooper.

On 18 May 1958, a twenty-nine-year-old stood on the starting grid for the Grand Prix in Monaco with shaky knees. Penultimate place (not qualified: a certain Bernie Ecclestone in a Connaught-Alta). It was also Lotus' debut in Formula 1, as Chapman had adapted the Type 12 from Formula 2 to the regulations of the highest racing class. Hill retired with a broken half-shaft. At that time, Lotus still had a fairly amateur team, the material was prone to defects and finishes were a rarity. This did not improve in 1959 either. The five Lotus works cars failed nine times without the drivers being at fault. Graham Hill had had enough. In 1960, he left Lotus and signed with BRM (British Racing Motors). Colin Chapman was not amused. He would have expected more gratitude from the man he had enabled to enter Formula 1. And then Hill said something that hurt Chapman's honour: "When your rear wheel overtakes you, you know you're in a Lotus." Chapman, even though he later took Hill back on, never really forgave him for these words. Signing the BRM contract allowed Hill to buy a large detached house adjacent to a park in the London borough of Barnet. Five years earlier, he didn't even have money for his wedding, which the bride had to pay for. Today, a blue plaque is attached to the front of the house - the correct address was, funnily enough, Mill Hill, 32 Parkside: "Graham Hill 1929-1975 - World Champion Racing Driver lived here 1960-1972".

BRM was definitely the right choice. Hill became world champion in 1962. The decision was made at the last race in South Africa. Sir Alfred Owen, the team owner, a British industrialist, flew all the way to the Prince George Circuit in East London. He wanted to see his compatriot become the first Englishman to win the world championship trophy in an English racing car. (The first English world champion was Mike Hawthorn in 1958, albeit in a Ferrari). In South Africa, the heat was monstrous and the BRM mechanics spent the entire race weekend drinking beer. There were empty bottles all over the pits. Sir Owen stumbled over one and landed awkwardly. But what could he complain about? His men were drinking like sailors, but still came out on top in the end. (Imagine a horde of drunken Red Bull mechanics today and what Helmut Marko would say.)

In 1964, it looked as if Hill ( ... )

→ Read the full interview in rampstyle #35 "There Is No Substitute"