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Written by:
Steve Matchett
05/19/2007 - 07:00 PM
Charlotte, NC
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Monaco: arguably the most prestigious motor race in the world. The track itself is no more than a maze of cramped, serpentine public roads that coil their way in and around Monte-Carlo. Strip away the gilded veneer and the reality is that Monte-Carlo and its neighbour Condamine, two of the five tiny enclaves that form the boarders of the principality, are no more than a pair of sleepy fishing villages.
Leave the crowds behind, take time to wander and tucked away in the smallest bars and cafes you'll find the locals; real locals, whose families have lived and fished the waters of the Mediterranean for hundreds of years. Talk here is of boat repairs and pétanque and the ever rising price of pastis. These people don't care about F1. And F1 doesn't care about them.
Over the four days of the event, the teams' commercial departments will do more business, sign more multi-million dollar sponsors that at any other time of the year. Formula 1 makes a fortune from the race. As does Monaco from staging it. As for the locals, well, they use the race as an excuse to take it easy for a few days, until the circus leaves town on Monday morning and life returns to their own particular version of normality.
Yes, for most people the Monaco weekend is a blast. For the actual race teams, however, the mechanics, engineers and drivers, the Monaco weekend is nothing but a colossal pain in the backside. That said, each and every one of them will do everything within their power to ensure that it's their team drinking the champagne come Sunday night. Victory here is very, very special. My Benetton colleagues and I were fortunate enough to win the event
Three years ago the principality finally built some half reasonable pit facilities. Prior to that the teams were forced to work in the open; the unbelievably cramped pit lane did feature some rudimentary buildings but these were scarcely big enough to hold a few basic pieces of equipment: computers, tyres, tool cabinets. There was never any room to house the actual cars. All the work on those had to be accomplished in the open. A photographer's dream as the teams had nowhere to hide. A million shutters clicked each time the bodywork was removed. There were few technical secrets following a weekend in Monaco.
And, after a relatively light sixteen-hour day, the only place to wash your hands: the harbour. Not once, throughout all my visits there did the organisers ever supply a wash basin for to clean our hands. Actually, washing in the harbour, overlooking the trillion dollars' worth of bobbing yachts became something of a tradition for me, I probably wouldn't have used a basin even if presented with one. Once, while rinsing off, back in 1993 it was, I remember one chap, sipping wine aboard his boat, deriding me for "muddying the water." Those were his exact words, I'll never forget them: "Hey there!" he called in English, "you're muddying the water!" I looked over at him, paused, smiled politely and asked if he was enjoying the weekend. He swayed a bit, told me eff-off and disappeared below deck. All a trifle bizarre; perhaps he wasn't much of a Benetton enthusiast? Ah, well, from such things are memories made...
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