"Formula 1" by Stephen Barnes

Or "How I almost broke the foot of the world's greatest race car driver"

At ten years old, I attended the 1969 Canadian Grand Prix at Mosport. The daring heroes I’d read about and saved clippings of in my young life were right there in front of me; their screaming Ferraris and McLarens made my chest reverberate as they burst past just metres from where I sat in the bleachers. This one experience intercepted my life’s trajectory and launched me on a new orbit.

Following the race, we had an opportunity to walk along the track. Thankfully my father was in no rush to leave, and I soon found myself on the hallowed ground that the multicoloured missiles flew over just minutes before. We followed this asphalt path to the paddock, a staging area where the crews, vehicles and drivers gathered to prepare for, and recover from, the scheduled events.

In those days before hard-core capitalism restricted access, spectators could wander quite freely. I was the kid in his ultimate candy store and wasted no time in harvesting the autographs from whichever drivers I could catch milling about. I pounced on sports car ace Jackie Oliver straight away. Then a few minutes’ wait outside a trailer rewarded me with soon-to-be-champion Jackie Stewart’s signature.

The crowd thickened as more spectators made their pilgrimages to this circus. When it was clear that our time was winding down, I scoured the area for final opportunities – ready to seize on any clue someone special might still appear.

An untied flap beckoned in the breeze at the back of one of the colossal garage tents. I took leave of my dad and two friends – not waiting for their responses – and traipsed to the more secluded rear side, picking my steps through the tall grasses. I carefully peered through the gap.

It was like drawing back a curtain on my ultimate dream. No more standing wedged in a crowd of fans looking over barriers or craning my neck between adults for a glimpse of these celebrities and their cars. With a brief, innocent shuffle of my feet I was inside. Cars were in various states of disassembly and being prepped for shipping, mechanics hunched over them, busily going about their business.

Colin Chapman and Graham Hill, with various locals peering into the tent, but not having Stephen’s gumption to barge right in

Only two figures were staying still; they were nearby and just talking – lo and behold one of them was none other than my hero, reigning Formula 1 World Driving Champion Graham Hill. He’d won auto racing’s Triple crown: the Indy 500, the 24 Hours of Le Mans – and the Monaco Grand Prix… five times! He even had an OBE after his name, which isn’t quite a knighthood, but close.

Situations like this just don’t happen to kids from small-town, Ontario. He was just a few steps from me, free for the taking. Still, I hesitated. Interrupting grown-ups hardly ever ends well. But heck, these two clearly knew each other, they’d have already had time to speak before now. This was an emergency.

I launched forward – my rubber-soled shoes practically squealing – boldly winding my way between toolboxes and jack stands and I inserted myself without waiting between the two men. They stopped gabbing, and I was face-to-face with Graham Hill, Driving Champion of the World

I stepped forward even closer, thrust my paper and pen up towards him and said, “Mr. Hill, may I please have your autograph?” The words came from deep within me, almost burning with adrenaline.

Somewhere, a wrench fell and clanged on the ground. I waited breathlessly. Graham Hill, Driving Champion of the Entire Universe, sized me up and glanced to his mate, then turned back to me.

“I will if you get off my bloody foot.”

With the horror of someone who’d just accidentally pushed the Queen down a flight of stairs, I looked down and saw, indeed, my right foot squarely on top of his leather driving shoe. My mouth was open but with nothing to say. My heart exploded. From far off I heard men chuckling. I stepped sideways, mortified, a tiny sliver of meat slipping out of an embarrassment sandwich.

Though I don’t recall it happening, Mr. Hill must have taken the paper and pen from my petrified hands and signed off on my loutish visit, because I still have his autograph.

For the rest of that season, though, I followed all the remaining Formula One races with an unspoken dread, praying that Graham Hill, OBE, never had to retire from a race due to a sore clutch foot.

P.S. Later, I learned the man Mr. Hill was talking to when I interrupted was team manager, Lotus Motorcars founder, and designer-engineer extraordinaire, Colin Chapman. Whoops!

Stephen and Bella

Stephen Barnes is a freshly-retired instructor from Sheridan College’s animation program, currently living in Burlington, Ontario. When his first career as a professional race car driver crashed into a wall of debt in the 1980s he turned to writing and illustrating a humour book based on driving.

Tragically, that paperback met with just enough success to inspire Stephen to journey down The Long Road to Becoming a Real Writer. He was last seen still trudging on, discarded drafts fluttering in his wake.

Stephen racing at Mosport (for fun)

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