Dodgy Dealings:
by Tony Dodgins.
F1 Racing, January 1997 issue.

It's the festive again and, amid the torrents of wine flowing in every household, motor racing fans are discussing the highs
and lows of 1996. Damon Hill's year has been well chronicled, of course. However, while he was winning rounds two and three of the world championship in South America, a rather less publicised (but infinitely more dramatic) story was unfolding around him. It is, without doubt, my most outstanding memory of 1996....

The story begins in Sao Paulo, on the Friday evening before the Brazilian GP. Returning to my 'luxurious' hotel after a hard day at the track, it is the F1 Racing crash helmet (carried lovingly all the way from England for a photo shoot) lying in the middle of the floor that first alerts me. With trepidation, I wonder what further investigation might show. Not a lot, actually. No brief case, lap top computer, passport, air tickets or filofax. My room-mate a Motoring News hack, has lost his lap top too, and his printer, and his F1 pass! We've only been in Brazil 12 hours.

Down at the police station, a dusky woman appears in a tight black skirt that could easily be a handkerchief. Hooker? No, she's the police chief come to take our statement. Already deadlines are looming - but she's in no mood to be rushed. We escape at last. Now our priority is to get hold of a computer. Enter white knights - Ford's Martin Whitaker and Vincent Franceschini of Tyrrell - who magic us a lap top apiece to see us through to Argentina. Monday morning: Hill has won the race but, for my room-mate, it's deadline hell. Sleepless for 30 hours, he lies prostrate in bed, clutching his forehead and wimpering. His paper is an hour over colour deadline, and our new lap tops' modems won't play the game!

Enter hero British colleague Alan Henry. He offers to convert our files and send via his own lap top. Given our predicament, I should have accepted gracefully. But no. First I have to go and try his modem in our machines. It doesn't work. "I haven't seen that before", Henry mutters, as a gobbledegook message appears on screen. I hand back his modem fearfully. Now it won't work on his machine either......

"Oh f**k!" Henry storms. Around 45 times. By a conservative estimate, he's probably written 15 million words since flagfall, and now he can't send any of them anywhere. Phone lines out of Brazil are, of course, also busy. An hour later we finally get a line and, after notching up a serious telephone bill with our lengthy dictations, we collapse in three shattered heaps.

Before the next deadline, I need to get hold of a new passport if I'm going to make it to Sunday's Argentinian GP. I head for the British consulate, but naturally they can't issue a replacement passport, only a document to send me to London. To go to Buenos Aires, first I've got to get to Rio! After a tortuous bus journey, we reach the Rio Intercontinental after midnight. I recall Renault are putting hospitality for a couple days here between the races, but any ideas of relaxation and a Tuesday visit to Sugar Loaf Mountain soon go out of the window. More pressing deadlines.

Another generous hack offers me his lap top, but warns that the keys need a bashing to work properly. The reason?
"I was a bit the worse for wear one night, thought I was in the bathroom and piddled all over the keyboard!" he laughs. Mental note: wash hands before eating morning croissant.....

Tuesday is, unbelievably, almost trouble-free. I even manage to send my files! I crack on into the night, and look forward to a day off on Wednesday. The weather is gorgeous, and Renault have a boat leaving at 9am for one of the islands off Rio. Things are looking up. Not so fast. Trying to send an article to England, the connection breaks down on the third line. The line length is too long and the machine won't accept margin changes. The office, four hours ahead, want my copy urgently; it's already 9:30am, and Renault press-officer Jean-Jacques Delaruwiere is jumping up and down. "The boat, it 'as to leave soon!" Ruefully, I wave goodbye to my fellow hacks, and spend the next half hour inserting hard returns every half line.

Midday Wednesday. Peace. The copy gone, sunshine and swimming pool beckon. But by now I haven't seen daylight in 36 hours. I've got a raging headache, my sunglasses have been nicked and I feel like a rabbit in the fast lane of the M25, staring into the headlights of a speeding F40. Off to buy new shades, I bump into Damon Hill, a boogie board tucked under his arm. "Fancy a go?" he enquires innocently. I might have guessed this would spell more trouble: the stretch of water Damon nominates is known for its strong currents - indeed 15 years ago, Nigel Mansell had to plunge in here to rescue drowning ex-Lotus team boss Peter Collins. I've also never surfed before, and I'm nursing a torn knee ligament. "It's a bit polluted", warns the hotel doorman as we head for the waves. "Try not to swallow the water".

"Just try body surfing", Damon advises. "I'll show you how it's done...." Unfortunately, I'm beyond teaching. All my attempts to stay on board for more than two seconds prove utterly futile. I swallow copious amounts of gunge, as Hill watches in amusement. "You didn't by any chance put sun cream on, did you"? he asks half an hour later, with a knowing smile.

Wednesday night, and I still haven't as much as set eyes on the Renault crowd. Off to the local churrascaria to make up for lost time. This is a fine Argentinian traditional establishment where you serve yourself salad, then receive carving after carving of meat. The Monty Python team are rumoured to have shot their Mr Creosote sketch in one. I wonder if it had the same effect on their stomachs as it did on ours......

Thursday. Many trips to the toilet. And today we fly to Buenos Aires. Unfortunately, the British consulate is still working on a new passport and they don't have a Polaroid. There follows a delightful game of "hunt the photo booth" in the middle of Rio. Without the safety net of a bathroom.

Finally, it's all done. I dash back to the hotel to grap the computers and what's left of the luggage. Room-mate is vastly impressed by a bottle of 'kaoline and morphine' magicked from my suitcase. Sadly though, he puts it into a plastic bag which, unbeknown to us, gets smashed as we climb into the airport cab. Temporarily distracted by a £450 telephone bill for three days, we fail to appreciate immediately that we are now covered from head to toe in dodgy gut medicine.

Checking in at Rio, we look like we've lost a particularly savage paintball war. It's midnight by the time we arrive at our Buenos Aires hotel, just a few hours before the whole blessed circus starts up again....Thankfully, by our standards, the Argentinian GP is relatively uneventful. Hill wins again, despite also suffering a dodgy stomach. (The body boarding, perhaps?) Then it's into a cab and back to a hotel to meet F1 Racing's deadlines. Argentinian cabbies drive either Renault 12s or Peugeot 504s. They also all think they are Carlos Reutemann. To make this trip worse, a real live mad cow is charging up and down the strip of dusty grass which serves as the central reservation. Responsibly, our man makes it his duty to find a phone and report it to the police. Deadlines!

On his return, he screams as he realises he's set off down the wrong strip of dual carriageway. We're just the other side of a blind brow, with no hard shoulder, when he decides to reverse back! Juggernauts swerve frantically by as we stare incrediously out of the back window, separated from oblivion by the width of a Peugeot boot. A 20-year-old Peugeot....

That's it. I snap. I can't speak to the driver, so I thump him on the shoulder, then scream inanely. Yes, I know we're in the middle of a motorway. But it's all too much. I've got to get out of here! I just want to go home!

--End of Article--

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