I eventually filter through the human carnage and head for the lounge, just as
some very large men emerge. Most are the same width and weight as a Boeing
777, but that’s because they are the French rugby squad. There were a couple
of Sale first-teamers on the teaching staff at school and one of them, in
particular, looked massive. I’d always imagined the effect was amplified by
the fact I was only 14, but 36 years later this lot look about three times
as big.
The secondary effect of late-flight-booking syndrome is an eight-hour
stopover, but at least I have a complimentary supply of scrambled eggs, hash
browns and coffee on tap. Better yet, the HP sauce bottle – mysteriously
absent when I last passed through one week beforehand – has been restored to
its rightful place. I settle down to write some Autocourse and
sub-edit the next episode of Honest John.
The flight to New Delhi eventually crawls on to the departure board and I head
for seat 8F: I am in the business cabin this time, because I was offered a
chance to upgrade for £100. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but
that’s before I’d appreciated the flight’s true brevity. It equates to about
£35 an hour for a bit more room and a glass of champagne before take-off – I
have done better deals, but enjoy the indulgence while it lasts. I appear to
be sharing the cabin with Metallica, who are scheduled to play a gig that
ties in with the Indian GP (although security concerns trigger its
cancellation and make Metallica a bit less popular than they once were).
Indian immigration is straightforward enough, although the bloke on the desk
initially assumes I’ve made a mistake with my dates. “You’re here on
holiday for only five days?” I nod and express regret that I’m unable
to stay longer, at which point he waves me through.
Those who know the country advise you to expect the unexpected, but the first
things I see are branches of WH Smith and Costa Coffee, where I alight to
await Mark’s incoming flight from Manchester via Brussels. He pitches up on
schedule, but there’s no sign of the taxi we’ve booked. A phone call
establishes that the driver is waiting for us at the domestic terminal, but
that’s an easy stroll and we are soon launched into a whole new dimension.
The Diwali festival is in full flow and the sky is a cocktail of polluted
fug and blazing fireworks. The road rules seem quite clear: there aren’t any
and use of headlights (where fitted) is strictly optional. Almost every
section of the highway features vehicles travelling in several different
directions simultaneously, with dogs and cattle scattered into the mix. The
chaos is similar to that in Shanghai, but without quite the same levels of
terror.
We’re staying in nearby Noida and the cab ride ends with a U-turn by a
burned-out Peugeot 404 that’s surrounded by a huge pile of litter (a major
draw for several cows), but the adjacent hotel is a comfortable contrast.
Our suite has one double bed and a compact sofa that’s big enough for me,
but we were under the impression we’d booked a proper triple. Probably just
as well that The Stealth Geordie isn’t bothering with this race, then.
October 27: A sweep of the curtains yields my first glimpse of India by
daylight and an awkward truth. Eight floors below, several families are
doing their washing in an open well that nestles close to the crumbling
brick shanties they call home: the reality of everyday poverty is a stark,
sobering contrast to the world of conspicuous consumption known as Formula
One.
We cadge a lift to the track in somebody else’s hired minibus and will spend
the weekend as grateful passengers of either Haymarket Publishing or Getty
Images (whichever leaves first). The drive from Noida to the circuit takes
about 35 minutes and is a fascinating cocktail of ludicrous lane discipline,
overladen bicycles, pedestrians strolling across densely popular highways
and directional anarchy. The system seems to work, though.
The Buddh International Circuit has more security checks than most, but we
eventually gain access. The paddock has some curious design features, the
most striking of which are some steps (swiftly nicknamed the “stairway
to heaven”) that lead only to fresh air beyond the top edge of race
control. It’s by no means the only bit that looks slightly unfinished, but
the most important element, the dusty ribbon of asphalt in the middle, looks
absolutely fantastic – fast, flowing and ripe with dramatic elevation
changes. Mark and I take our customary new-venue stroll during the late
morning and hook up with Martin Brundle, who is on a similar voyage of
discovery: he’s impressed by the layout and highlights a couple of details
that he feels are sure to catch out the unwary. Within little more than 24
hours, Jaime Alguersuari and Jérôme d’Ambrosio will underline the accuracy
of his forecasts.
Jarno Trulli is out on the track, too, and laps us about three times on his
pushbike, but we complete our tour more quickly than Sebastian Vettel: we
overtake the world champion between Turns 11 and 12, where he’s busily
making notes about kerb heights and suchlike – evidence of his boundless
appetite for detail.
Returning to Noida in the early evening, we are told about a nearby shopping
mall with a choice of restaurants. Technically speaking, two does indeed
constitute a choice.
The walk is both awkward – there is no proper pavement and tuk-tuks operate in
both directions along what is supposed to be a one-way street – and
illuminating, a fusion of fantastic, spicy aromas from small, roadside
stalls selling food and an occasional waft of sewage. You also have to
negotiate many a sleeping dog.
Culinary caution is high on the agenda – we’ve received all sorts of warnings
about not using tap water, avoiding salads that might have been washed
therein and so on – but first we have to find somewhere to eat. We find the
Star City Mall, but most of the retail units are unoccupied and we stumble
around for a few minutes before eventually finding Code, in the farthest
corner of the uppermost tier. Should you ever be passing through Noida, drop
in. It has separate Chinese and Indian menus, but given the location we
plump for option two: the shabnam curry (mushrooms and peas, basically) is
absolutely delicious and has no adverse effect on my constitution.
That’s supper sorted for the next four nights, then.
October 28: We were supposed to have breakfast at Williams, but the
team is struggling to find supplies for its mechanics and regrets it has no
option but to cancel. After an early portion of hotel-brewed scrambled eggs,
we hitch a ride and settle back to enjoy the morning’s traffic highlights
(including several minibuses that are not only full but have locals perching
on the back bumper at 50-odd mph along the main highway, as you do).
The first practice session of the meeting, for one of the support categories,
is red-flagged after a few minutes because there’s a stray mutt in one of
the gravel traps. The first Formula One session is swiftly interrupted, too,
and for the same reason (albeit a different dog). There was a similar
problem at Istanbul Park in 2008, when two strays invaded the circuit during
a GP2 Series race. One was demolished after wandering into the path of Bruno
Senna’s car and the other disappeared shortly after the sound of a rifle
shot was heard. There are no such visible or audible dramas this time.
I begin my morning at the outside of Turn Four and gradually wander to the
exit of Turn 11. The view is every bit as spectacular as we’d hoped it might
be. The cars slide around quite a bit, partly because the surface is
initially so dusty but mostly because spectacular, high-speed directional
changes expose drivers to the harsh realities of the laws of physics.
Mistakes are consequently quite common.
Taking photos is slightly more awkward than usual, because virtually no
purpose-built holes have been cut in the debris fencing, but that doesn’t
explain a curious incident during the afternoon session.
It had already been a bad day for Pastor Maldonado, whose Williams suffered a
blown engine in the morning, and the second session has not long started
when he loses control at Turn Eight and flies off the road. After his car
comes to rest, a Spanish photographer clambers over the barriers to take a
shot: it is unclear why a snap of an abandoned Williams would be any better
if taken from a couple of feet nearer and such track access would not be
permitted even if the session had been stopped, which it hasn’t. Photo
tabards are individually numbered for just such eventualities and the
culprit is swiftly identified and expelled.
Perhaps he was simply keen to get home.
October 29: No strays on the circuit today – dogs or photographers –
and there aren’t many spectactors around its perimeter, either. Most of the
grandstands have perhaps a 15 per cent occupancy rate, but the attendant
fans are suitably boisterous and there is at least some sense of occasion.
The paddock electricity supply seems to be more consistent, too, with none
of the occasional dips that had blighted the previous 48 hours. It doesn’t
matter when new fixtures are added to the calendar: it seems to be policy
that host circuits are only just finished when the sport touches down.
Qualifying is a breeze for Sebastian Vettel, who clinches his 13th pole
position of the season. Two more and he’ll beat Nigel Mansell’s seasonal
record (14 from 16, in 1992), if not his strike rate. Lewis Hamilton is
second and looks much chirpier than he did two weeks beforehand in Korea –
despite facing a three-position penalty for ignoring yellow flags during
Friday’s opening free practice session.
Somebody points out to Vettel that he has equalled Juan Manuel Fangio’s tally
of 28 pole positions in world championship grands prix, but the German says
such statistics don’t mean much – particularly as the great Argentine took
part in far fewer such races. And anyway, Fangio qualified on pole for 29 of
his 51 world championship starts: at France in 1956, though, officials
dictated that his team-mate Peter Collins should start from the front
because the pair swapped chassis before the start – a daft decision that
shouldn’t be allowed to cloud the facts.
October 30: At 7.45am we pull away, ease past three cows investigating
the Indian litter mountain and head along lightly trafficked roads towards
the circuit. Density builds during the morning, though, and officials later
claim a 95,000 crowd. One suspects a degree of exaggeration, but the circuit
definitely looks busy.
On the grid, Lewis Hamilton stands almost ignored for a few minutes while
cameramen cluster around the front of his car: it is not a grid girl that is
attracting attention, but Rowan Atkinson. I last stood this close to him
circa 1980, when he was doing a one-man show at the Bowdon Assembly Rooms
near Altrincham, Cheshire.
Sebastian Vettel and Jenson Button – the campaign’s finest two drivers – are
in a league of their own for most of the afternoon, but their consummate
style attracts less attention than the latest clash between Hamilton and
Felipe Massa. Stewards blame the Brazilian this time, but his left rear
wheel was struck by Hamilton’s right front. If you’d taken the paperwork for
this one to Direct Line, one suspects Mr Hamiltion’s no-claims bonus would
have been put through the shredder.
In his regular column for The National, Abu Dhabi, driving standards advisor
Johnny Herbert wrote: “The decision to penalise Massa for his contact
with Hamilton came down to one thing – it could have been avoided. After
looking at the incident from several different camera angles and studying
all the data, it was clear Massa knew where Hamilton was before he chose to
turn across.”
Personally, I’m not quite sure what else Massa was supposed to do, given that
he was three-quarters of a length ahead and had a corner to negotiate.
Hamilton was entitled to stick his nose down the inside and Massa likewise
to defend: it was a racing mishap, the kind of thing that happens all the
time but never used to warrant attention. It certainly didn’t merit a
penalty, either way.
A few laps later, Massa retires after thumping a kerb and shattering his
suspension – just as he had during Saturday’s qualifying session. This time,
he clearly is culpable.
I feast on cheese and cucumber sandwiches from the press room fridge and we
leave the circuit at 20.00, after which Mark heads off for more curry and I
attempt to write a race report. After about 500 words, however, I opt to
cash in yet again on the generosity of Asian time.
October 31: Rise at 6.00, finish writing by 8.30 and hit the scrambled
eggs by 9.00. My flight isn’t until 16.10, but we have been told to allow
huge amounts of time for airport bureaucracy – you can’t get in, for
instance, without a paper copy of your itinerary.
I leave the hotel just after 11.00 and wish there were opportunities to take
photographs of everything I witness during the next hour or so (particularly
a bloke riding up the centre of a multi-lane highway on a tricycle laden
with a 20ft pile of cardboard boxes). The cab is weaving all over the place,
though, and it’s hard to hold the camera steady.
There are many doubts about the precise structure of the 2012 F1 calendar –
Korea might not happen, nobody wants to go to Bahrain and it is unclear
whether the new American circuit in Austin will be ready – but as things
stand India and Abu Dhabi are scheduled to run on consecutive weekends. That
being the case, I intend to loiter in Delhi for the sake of exploration.
There has been some uncomfortable viewing during the past few days, but the
warmth and hospitality have been beyond compare. Sebastian Vettel summed it
up well in his post-race victory speech: “At home,” he said, “we
sometimes measure happiness in material terms. Here, though, it doesn’t seem
to matter so much – many people own very little, but they are happy,
friendly and helpful. It’s an inspiring place that opens your eyes.”
I’m looking forward to going back, too (hopefully with the correct visa).