Derek Daly

MY FORMULA 1 DEBUT (1978)

At that time there were still occasional non-championship Formula 1 races, including the BRDC International Trophy held at Silverstone in early spring. This race was an opportunity for teams to début their new cars and drivers without the pressure of a Grand Prix weekend. I got a call from ‘Bubbles’ Horsley, the Hesketh Formula 1 team coordinator, enquiring whether I would consider racing for them in the International Trophy. Because it wasn’t a World Championship Grand Prix, I didn’t need a Superlicence. I jumped at the chance.

That weekend I met various people who would be quite influential later in my career. Charlie Whiting, the future Formula 1 Race Director, was one of my mechanics. My team manager was Dave ‘Beaky’ Sims, who would move to America years later to run the Bettenhausen Provimi Veal-sponsored Indycar team that I drove for. Frank Dernie designed Hesketh’s car, and I would work with Frank four years later at Williams.

Just three years earlier, in 1975, David Kennedy and I were spectators at the International Trophy on the way home from Australia, and now I was about to compete in that very race. On March 19th, 1978, I made my Formula 1 début in torrential rain against Mario Andretti, James Hunt, Ronnie Peterson, John Watson and Niki Lauda amongst others. The unimaginable was actually happening to me! I had progressed from Formula 3 to Formula 2 to Formula 1 in five months. Pinch me, please.

Many Irish supporters came along to cheer me on. The race was sponsored by the Daily Express newspaper, which had large advertising banners scattered around the circuit. In an enterprising move, long-time supporters Larry Mooney and Don Kissane, both of whom raced at a club level in Ireland, ‘borrowed’ one of the banners and somehow bluffed their way onto the starting grid. They folded over the ‘i’ of ‘Daily’ and proudly sported a 15ft-long ‘Daly Express’ banner next to my Hesketh.

When the flag dropped I timed my getaway perfectly by rocketing from ninth place on the grid to second place by the first corner. If truth be told, I jumped the start a little, but back then there was no electronic timing to penalize me. The only car ahead of me at the first corner, Copse, was the McLaren of 1976 World Champion James Hunt, who had presented me with the Formula Ford Festival Trophy at Brands Hatch just over a year earlier. I followed him for a few more corners before making a daring move to pass around the outside at Becketts, the corner where I’d clashed with Stephen South only eight months earlier.

In an explosion of adrenalin and wheelspin, I was in the lead. It was hard to absorb and enjoy. On television, meanwhile, Ireland lit up as BBC commentator Murray Walker screamed that Derek Daly was leading his first Formula 1 race.

Halfway around the lap I was pulling away in the atrocious conditions. I got as far as Abbey curve, about three-quarters of the way round, when I arrived at a river of water running across the circuit. My wet-weather tyres couldn’t slice through the torrent and I began to aquaplane and skate off the track. Right behind me James Hunt did the same thing, as did Mario Andretti a lap later. We all spun off into the soggy, marshy, grass infield. James and Mario got stranded there but I managed to slosh through the mud to rejoin the race and get back in the lead a few laps later.

It was raining so hard that my visor misted up on the inside and I could hardly see where I was going. I was desperate to get additional airflow to the inside of the visor to clear the fog and the only way was to open one of the visor clips. A task that’s simple enough when stationary proved very difficult at more than 150mph in driving rain. I fiddled and squeezed and pushed as best I could, trying to get my thumb under the lip of the visor. Just a little airflow would have cleared my view immediately. A final push got the bottom clip open, but the visor suddenly fell across the eye opening of the helmet. It took me a few milliseconds to realize that my eyes were completely open to the elements. I’d opened the bottom clip with such force that the top visor mounting, which clipped over a plastic stud on the helmet, had also come off. Instead of being secured at its normal four positions, the visor was dangling by just one of its top mountings and I was being blinded by painful rain.

I had to come up with some sort of technique to stay in the race and a pitstop wasn’t an option. After shifting up through the gears following a corner, I would reach up with my right hand (the gearchange hand) and hold the visor in front of both eyes while steering with my left hand. When I had to hit the brakes, I would let go of the visor, grab the gear I needed, then steer through the corner with both hands while blinking furiously so I could see. This procedure worked for a while, but it was only a matter of time before the blinding rain blurred my vision so much that I went off the road. From the drop of the flag to my retirement, the whole race seemed like an out-of-control blur. Being young, brave and headstrong had stopped me making a pitstop to have the visor fixed, but at least I had been visible, at the front of a Formula 1 race.

After the race, Don Kissane and his wife Gloria gave me a small ornamental music box with a hand-written note on the bottom: ‘DD — first F1 — Don & Glo’. It still sits proudly on my office shelf today.

Tongues were certainly wagging, and someone somewhere was sufficiently impressed to grant me a Superlicence. Having had to turn down Theodore Racing’s Formula 1 offer, I now received one from Hesketh, starting at the Long Beach Grand Prix in California on the first weekend of April. In fact the Formula 1 and Formula 2 calendars didn’t clash so it now looked like I could do both

MY FIRST INDIANAPOLIS 500 (1983)

The Indianapolis Motor Speedway was, and is, arguably the best-known racetrack in the world, but I wasn’t too impressed at first sight because the place looked, well, a little dull. I expected more from a place with such a storied reputation. The concrete buildings looked old and the massive grandstands were rusty and dilapidated.

There was an infield section near turns one and two known as the Snake Pit. Fans would gather there to party while the race went on in the background. The Snake Pit was legendary around the world because it was an old-school, let-your-hair-down, American party environment. Fans would build their own scaffolding grandstands and set up outdoor living spaces to see and be seen.

The boys would make up signs daring the girls to ‘Show us your tits’ and many would oblige, to rousing roars and applause. If it rained, the Snake Pit became a mud pit but the partying still carried on. At the end of one memorable practice day, two girls got into an argument just outside the fence bordering our garage. It started with some verbal abuse followed by threats before the fists flailed. Soon they were on the ground with one of the girls on top of her adversary. She was particularly well endowed and her breasts tumbled out of her shirt and swung in all directions as she punched her opponent in the face. This was UFC cage-type fighting before it was conceived. Undaunted, she continued to grunt and punch until her opponent gave up. She then calmly placed her assets back into her shirt and walked away as if this was a normal part of any day out at a sports event. I thought, “God bless America.” I couldn’t have had a greater contrast to the yachts in the harbour at Monaco.

To feel dressed for the occasion, I bought an Indy 500 T-shirt. The team didn’t have a commercial sponsor, so whatever I wore was OK. All drivers who qualified for the race were loaned a Pontiac by a local dealer, Ray Skillman, an enthusiast who used Indycar drivers as part of his dealership promotions at Indy. This was my first prolonged experience of driving an American-made road car and it was certainly an adventure. The Pontiac’s build quality was terrible, the handling was dangerous, and it had just enough power to haul the groceries home. I laughed when thinking of the contrast between a Bentley at Monza and a Pontiac in Indianapolis. Life was definitely evolving through a different prism.

The drive to the track from downtown hotels went past old stores, closed stores, run-down gas stations, greasy fast-food joints, sleazy night clubs, strip joints and biker bars. The low-profile gems of the town of Speedway — the Indianapolis Motor Speedway is located in the city of Speedway — were perhaps its hidden assets, the magical fabricators who hand-built the fastest racing cars in the world (before the British took over) in what were little more than backyard sheds, all within a 20-mile radius.

To qualify for the big race, I would have to lap at over 200mph — much faster than I’d ever gone before. If I made a mistake, there was a concrete wall waiting to say hello — or sometimes goodbye. One of the first American journalists I met was Robin Miller. He was a local who had raced himself back in the day. After introducing himself, he said, “Let me give you a piece of advice — run. Run from the Wysards as quickly as possible.” Robin became a life-long friend, even after that vote of confidence.

During practice I struggled to break the magical 200mph barrier. Midway through the first week of practice, I was on a flier late in the day when the yellow caution light came on as I went into turn four. The yellow means slow down immediately. Because I’d nearly completed what I thought could be my fastest-ever lap, I decided to ignore the warning and continue. I flashed across the finish line at more than 200mph for the first time. The team was pleased, as was I, but when I drove down the pitlane a USAC (United States Automobile Club) official was waiting in my pit.

When I stopped the car, he just stood there staring at me. My mechanics were afraid to touch the car. The official walked slowly towards me and as he leaned into the cockpit he said, “Young man, I presume you saw the yellow light, so what excuse do you have?” My only retort was to confidently offer that I could see the straight was clear, so I wanted to finish the lap. He said, “Well, take the rest of the day off and consider the fine coming your way as something to help you remember and respect the Indy 500 rules in the future.” USAC officials were the bosses and there was no arguing. My lap, however, did make the front page of the local newspaper the next day as one of the top 10 fastest laps of the day. My mechanics were pleased — and I don’t remember who paid the fine.

On the opening day of qualifying, I was amazed to see 120,000 fans turn up — just to witness the qualifying action. I’d never imagined that so many people would gather just to see who would be the fastest man in the world that day.

Over the years, drivers nicknamed ‘Big Al’, ‘Uncle Bobby’, ‘Little Al’, ‘The Wop’, ‘Gas Man’, ‘Marble Mouth’, ‘Duke’,’ Emmo’, ‘The Flying Dutchman’, ‘Pancho’, ‘King Hiro’, ‘Salt’, ‘Spike’, ‘Black Jack’, ‘Rocket Rick’, ‘Gary B’ and ‘Mad Max’ walked, limped or shuffled down the pitlane to climb into steeds provided by flamboyant team owners called ‘Smokey’, ‘Chip’, ‘The Captain’, ‘Boom Boom’, ‘Mr 500’ and ‘Antonio the Great’. They drove car makes such as Duesenberg, Silent Sam, Sidewinder, Lotus, Whooshmobile, Yellow Submarine, Galmer, Lola, March, Eagle and Swift.

I was almost alone as a European back then because transferring from Formula 1 to the Indy 500 had never been a favoured career move, until I did it in 1983 along with Italian Teo Fabi. In years past Formula 1 drivers such as Jim Clark and Graham Hill came, raced and left, whereas I was the first European to come, race and stay. I really was the trailblazer as Fabi eventually departed but I made my home in America. Our exploits as two former Formula 1 drivers were followed closely and we both felt embraced from the day we arrived. What a change of scenery, what a change of lifestyle, what a change of culture.

Although I struggled to coax enough speed from my car — I qualified 28th out of a field of 33 with a four-lap qualifying average of 197.658mph — Fabi lit the place up on pole day with an electrifying run at 207.395mph, a record speed. When it was announced over the PA loudspeakers, the cheer could almost be heard in Italy.

Come race day, the crowd mushroomed into almost 325,000 people. The early-morning drive to the track meant navigating through tens of thousands of queuing cars, vans, trucks and hippie-style buses, some of which had been in line since 3am. We drivers were provided with police escorts and they made sure it was a memorable experience. My flamboyant motorcycle cop stood fully upright on the seat as he rolled through intersections along the famous 16th Street. What a sight — loud and proud and only in America.

Race day at the Indy 500 is unlike anything else in the world. The pre-race ceremonies are choreographed in such a way that you cannot remain emotionally neutral. The bands, the performances, the displays and the fly-bys are mesmerizing. Even today, more than 37 years after I last raced there, I still get goosebumps standing and soaking up the atmosphere right before the start. The Indy 500 is still officially the largest single-day sports attendance in the world.

My race lasted 126 laps, just over half distance, until my engine failed. I found the race itself absolutely spine-tingling. It was the most dangerous form of racing I’d ever experienced. Heartbeats were higher at Indy and when sensors monitored body functions of drivers in action, they showed that many of them held their breath in the corners because they were so scared. Four-time Indy 500 winner Rick Mears judged the four laps of qualifying the most terrifying experience of his life.

Many drivers died just trying to qualify for the great race. Internet imagery is littered with devastating crashes and fireballs from an era when racing cars had unprotected fuel tanks full of methanol. A racing driver’s greatest fear was fire and it seemed like they were everywhere in the 1970s. Eventually design changes moved the vulnerable fuel tanks from the sides of the cars to behind the driver’s seat, so that the whole car would have to absorb the energy of a crash before getting to the fuel tank.

Impact speeds were nothing short of explosive and there were many maimed drivers who shuffled or limped to their cars because of permanent life-changing injuries or were disfigured from severe burns. A drivers’ meeting at the Indy 500 often looked like the aftermath of a war zone. I was amazed at the urge felt by drivers to return to the track after near-death experiences. There was a gladiator myth to Indy and you just had to come back, because you couldn’t let the track win the battle.

It’s hard not to become immersed in the history of this great race when there are ghostly storylines walking around everywhere. Pancho Carter was a hotshoe oval-track racer who was as brave as they came. In 1977 he slammed into the wall at Phoenix Raceway at 160mph after a mechanical failure. The car was practically split in half from front to back. He had two broken legs, two broken arms, a broken pelvis and a broken tailbone. Doctors saved his life but couldn’t fully reassemble his pelvis, so he never walked properly again.

New Yorker Jim Hurtubise was burned so badly at Milwaukee in 1964 that the only way he could race again was if doctors set his flame-shrivelled hands in a semi-closed position, so he could grip the steering wheel.

Gordon Smiley promised his crew in 1982 that he would go flat out through turn three on his all-or-nothing qualifying run. His impact was so severe that it looked like a bomb exploded as mechanical and human pieces, engulfed in flames, flew more than 100 feet in the air. The track had to be closed while they gathered up the car and poor Smiley’s remains.

Perhaps shockingly, drivers joked with one another even after some horrifying crashes. If you survived, a driver often became a butt for jokes amongst friends. Gary Bettenhausen once bailed out of his dirt-track racing car as it became engulfed in flames, but not before he received some third-degree burns. Weeks later at an Indycar drivers’ meeting, Pancho Carter shuffled in, sniffed the air, and said, “I smell something burning, is Bettenhausen here?” Mocking Bettenhausen’s burnt skin like that was part of the warped world of American oval-track racing. Having arrived out of curiosity as a rookie in 1983, I became part of it as I ended up making Indianapolis my home.

Racing was big in Indianapolis and the surrounding towns and cities. Everyone knew of the history of the 500 and people were thrilled when a driver moved into their area. The first speeding ticket I got necessitated an appearance at the local courthouse at Noblesville, Indiana shortly after I moved to the town. Judge Harry Sauce was known as ‘Hang ’em High Harry’ because of his intolerance of drunk drivers. The courtroom that morning was filled with stories both true and false and there were even eight prisoners in orange jumpsuits and handcuffs.

Judge Sauce was an amateur racing driver who made a failed attempt to qualify at the Indy 500 in 1987. While on the bench he was stern and stoic until my case was called. He bellowed my name as I approached the bench with my speeding explanation. Of course, I blamed everything from sun in my eyes and left-hand-drive cars to the excitement of living in Noblesville. Surprisingly, he then asked me how practice was going at the 500. For sentencing, he turned to the public gallery and mused, “What should we do with our new resident? Fine him or probation? Let’s do probation and insist that if he does well at the Indy 500, he will tell everyone how good our town of Noblesville is.” With that the courtroom erupted in applause. I departed as swiftly as possible in case he changed his mind.

Judge Sauce became a good friend who continued racing Formula Fords until a horrible crash left him nursing severe injuries for the rest of his life.