Martin Brundle Interview
June 10th, 2007: Relative Values: Martin Brundle and his son Alex
Martin Brundle and his son, Alex, talk about their hopes for Alex's racing career and their attitutdes the business and the dangers.
MARTIN: Being a racing driver is a selfish life. Racing drivers know what they want, they are very single-minded and have to ask some tough questions. Am I prepared to get broken into bits? Yes. Am I prepared to die? Yes. They are prepared to do that for their career. For the rewards, the challenges, the satisfaction, the achievement. Throwing a family into that equation isn't easy, and that's where the selfishness kicks in.
I can honestly say that having children made no difference to the way I lived my life. I was prepared to die then and I'm still prepared to die. I ride motorbikes, I drive Formula One cars, and I fly helicopters. The weird thing is, I've now got a 16-year-old son who does it as well!
I've talked to Alex about this. I've said: "Are you fully prepared — and I mean fully prepared — for what being a racing driver means? How far are you prepared to go? How much do you want those rewards?" Of course, he says: "No worries, Dad." But he's 16. How much do you understand when you're 16?
He's already had a couple of pretty bad shunts. In his first race at Brands Hatch, the throttle got stuck open at 100 miles per hour. There was a horrible crash and his car caught fire. Obviously, as a father you're worried as hell. But as his team manager and sponsor you're thinking: "Right, let's see how much you want this. Let's see if you dust yourself down and get back behind the wheel."
When Alex does have a shunt, it's the team-manager side of me that does the talking. I remember one race where I'd told him to take it easy on the track and he tried overtaking five people on the outside. On the way home I chewed his ear off. But this is tough love. If he does want to make it to Formula One, it won't be his dad who's chewing his ear off.
It'll be somebody like Ron Dennis… and I guarantee they won't give him a big hug and tell him everything's fine.
When he was a youngster, I didn't think Al had any interest in driving. He was big into football and his PlayStation, and had an exceptional talent for acting. But one Christmas — I think he was eight — he said he fancied a go at karting. We bought him one and he wasn't too bad. He looked quite handy out on the track.
You have to be careful about being too pushy in those situations. I've seen too many of those archetypal karting dads: "My son's brilliant. He's going to be world champion." At that age — and even now that he's moved up to Formula Palmer Audi — it should be about Alex enjoying himself. If he isn't, there's no point doing it. There's maybe one in every 1,000 drivers that makes it all the way to Formula One. The odds of him making it are very, very long.
Al does have one advantage over most other drivers: I'm his dad. Not every kid will be in a position to raise 60 or 70 grand; that's what this season's going to cost. Minimum. If he goes for the winter series as well, that's about 100 grand.
I read an article that said the cost of getting a kid from karts to Formula One is about four million quid. Al must realise he's in a fortunate position. I've got a bit of money together, but he has to understand the value of that money. There are a lot of successful guys in this industry and their sons are tossers. Al has to keep his feet on the ground.
I don't want this to sound like I'm some old git moaning about "Things were different in my day" but, frankly, they were different. Very different. My parents were smallholders in Norfolk. One year, they sent their crop to London and the money never arrived. They lost everything, so my dad started to fix other farmers' tractors and motorbikes to make a bit of money. How I went from the marshlands around King's Lynn to sitting on the grid at Rio, I'll never know. Well, I do know. I got there because cars and engines were all I had. When I was seven, me and my brother went flying around the fields in an old Austin A35. When I finished school, I'd see Dad in the garage and help him take engines apart. When I was 12, I started banger-racing. All I had was cars, and all I wanted was cars.
I sometimes wish that Al had to go through some of that — that hunger. I wish he had to go home at night and strip down the engine. But what am I supposed to do? Resent him because things have changed? Of course not. At the end of the day, Al is going to get behind that wheel and he's either going to be good enough and quick enough, or he's not. All my contacts aren't going to make the blindest bit of difference. All I've been able to do is give Al a bit of a shove to get him offshore. It's up to him where he decides to go.
ALEX: I was six or seven when I began to understand what Dad did. Me and Mum had made a Benetton car out of old cardboard boxes and I was sitting in front of the telly during a grand prix, screaming: "Go on, Dad!" But as soon as I realised what he did, I began to realise how much heartbreak he had to go through. There was one race where he was third and I was getting excited about him bringing home a trophy… Then he parked it on the last lap. As a kid, it seemed like the worst thing that ever happened. So unfair.
Dad eventually bought me one of those electric kids' cars. It was a plastic Jeep that went about 12 miles per hour.
I loved it! Absolutely loved it! I'd ride around on it all day till the battery ran down, then put it on charge, ride around on my push-bike until it had charged, then ride around on the Jeep until the battery ran down again. There is something very special about driving a car when you're a kid; you turn the wheel this way and the car goes this way. Wow! It's this incredible feeling of power. But I still managed to crash it — on the first day I got it! Straight into a thorn bush with my sister in the passenger seat.
There's no doubt that Dad was — and still is — my hero. He just happens to be the hero who lives two doors down the landing from me. That's a blessing, but also a challenge, because you see the other side of the hero. A lot of shit happens in racing and I've seen Dad when he's down or when he's in a bad mood. But the great thing about him is the lines of communication are always open. Some people might frown at this, but there are few things that me and Dad can't talk about. Dad is my mate.
I think it's because we've spent so much time in cars, driving to and from race meetings — there was nothing to do but talk. So when it came to those tricky times in life, it seemed natural to talk to my dad. Take girlfriends and sex: there was no big deal when it came to the birds-and-bees conversation. My dad's attitude was: "Get in there, son." As long as girlfriends don't start turning up at the racetrack, my dad's cool. He wants to make sure I'm concentrating on the driving, not trying to impress the girls.
But it's hard not to be impressed by a car that does 160-170 miles per hour. Each time I see it I think: "My God! That's mine. I've got my own racing car.
I really am a boy racer. I want a pair of furry pink dice in the cockpit." When you're up to those speeds, the rush of air is just immense. It's the most phenomenal feeling.
Dad has obviously talked to me about the whole safety side of things. I'd like to think I've got a sensible head on my shoulders, but I always listen to him. I know Dad's been there. He's had the shunts. I'm too young to remember it going out on telly, but I have seen pictures of him leaving the track in Melbourne in 1996. It's awesome — he's still trying to steer when he's in the air!
The way Dad deals with a bad crash is by having a laugh. He makes a joke about it. If you don't see the funny side, you start to dwell on it, and you can't do that as a driver. You have to move on. Get over it. Everyone was fine. What I find hilarious is that Dad will have a laugh about him nearly killing himself and he has no problems with me driving cars at 170 miles per hour, but when it comes to me wanting a little moped for my 16th birthday, he says no. And what were his reasons? Safety. Can you believe it? Dad, I'm a racing driver!
Story by The Times
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