I awoke early and stretched out like a starfish in my monster bed which could, quite happily, have slept about seven people. This was most definitely the life. I flicked through the options on my digital remote and tried to turn on the TV, but actually ended up turning up the air con. After five minutes of not being able to figure out how to turn on CNN, I though that it might be a better idea to get a shower.
It was at about two minutes into my shower that I realised something was wrong. Did I usually look at my feet this much? Come to mention it, didn’t I almost walk into the bathroom door because I’d been staring so intently at the floor?
Oh crap. This wasn’t good. I actually couldn’t lift up my head.
Last night’s two-seater ride in the F1 car had really taken its toll on me. My body ached a bit, but my neck… well, my neck was suffering.
I strained my head to look over at today’s itinerary.
I think the expletive that came from my mouth may well have woken up my neighbours. Yep, you guessed it… first thing on today’s list was the physical examination and weight training.
Yes Jules, very clever. Now stop showing me up...
I’ll be honest. I hated the next few hours. Not only were we being put through our paces in physical training, but I was going one on one with the lovely Leone from CNN Abu Dhabi. That’s right. Any contests I failed, I wouldn’t only be faced with the stinging slap of failure, but it would be failure to a girl.
She whooped me. In every… single… test. Bar one! But more on that later.
First up were the weight exercises. Lifting weights up to various heights, holding them there or swinging them round, for most tasks I ended up screaming profanities after 30 seconds and giving up after a minute. Yes I know that sounds pathetic, but I honestly hadn’t done anything resembling physical exercise, save for what resulted in my daughter, for over five years. I had started going running when I knew I’d be going to Abu Dhabi, but a few miles jogging around Chipping Norton was never going to net me the Mr Universe title.
There was a steering wheel with weights attached to it (I fared a bit better on this one), a balance board to show the manoeuvrability of one’s arse (not so much on this one) and then the challenge I’d really been looking forward to. A race helmet, with a rather large weight hanging from it.
On the right side of my head, I managed to hold it up for a minute and a half. And on the left side? Five seconds. Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. Five seconds. Something in my neck went ping, my head dropped and I literally couldn’t move my head. Leone lasted four minutes. Johnny Herbert nearly pissed his pants when I told him I’d lasted five seconds. It doesn’t take much to make Johnny laugh, but I honestly thought he was going to collapse.
My neck is about to let go with a worrying snap
The one challenge I actually did well on, was the one challenge that all the docs expected me to fail. The lung capacity test. As the only smoker in the group, there was an expectation that I’d be pretty bad at this one, but I had a few secret weapons. One, I’m not a massive smoker. I know that doesn’t make a difference because you’re either a smoker or you’re not, and even as a social smoker you’re still expected to have worse lungs than someone whose breath runs fresher than the air over the Swiss alps. And two, I used to play the trumpet and French horn. Plus I used to be a chorister. I was pretty sure my lung capacity was better than average.
And it was. Buxton scored 128%. That means my lungs are almost a third bigger / stronger / generally better (I don’t know, I’m just making this bit up) than the average chap of my age, weight, height etc.
All in all, a massive result.
With the morning session survived and my neck on the road to recovery it was lunch and then a fun few hours spent on the Playstation simulators running the new F1 2010 computer game. I must admit I’d been very glad when the announcement came along that Codemasters would be making the new game. My favourite PS3 game up to today had been Racedriver Grid (another Codemasters game) and the attention to detail on tracks like Spa and Istanbul had left me breathless, as had the online capabilities and difference in car characteristics.
The F1 game takes the example set by Racedriver Grid and takes it to a new level. If you haven’t played it already, get out there and buy a copy. It is, quite simply, one of the very best computer games I have ever played… although the time trial section is so annoying I stopped playing. If you screw up a lap that lap is scratched. Fine, no worries. But if you cock up again and run wide, your next lap is scratched, too. So I was tootling around waiting to start the next, next lap and I ran wide through Ascari at Monza and up came the message that my next lap wouldn’t count either.
“Well balls to that,” I thought. And I quit. Because that doesn’t even happen in actual F1. “Oh sorry Fernando, you cut the corner so we’re not just going to take away this laptime but your next two as well.” Wouldn’t happen, would it?
Yes, I know it is a game, but games should be fun. The second they’re annoying, they’re not fun.
It’s a great game though. And yes Codemasters, I’d love a free press copy if you’ve got one.
Anyway, back to Abu Dhabi.
We made our way over to the pits and there, sitting in a Radical, I saw Bruno Senna. He was ashen faced. He looked over to me and made a small circle with his forefinger.
“You ok?” I whispered
“My arse,” he whispered back. He looked at his curled up finger… “It’s this tight. I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
Turns out the person, and I will say person in a deliberately vague manner so you can’t guess who he was talking about, had driven slowly, in the middle of the track and then built up speed but had still not figured out how to use the brakes. Or where the racing line was. Bruno had bricked himself. Poor chap.
Mr Senna is about to show me how to drive a Radical
I got into one of the Radicals in the passenger seat and awaited my instructor. And in jumped Bruno! Wow! Well this was a turn up for the books. Last night he’d driven me in the F1 car and now I’d have the honour of him instructing me.
We took a quick lap of the track together and then it was my turn.
“I’ve got to say I’m a bit nervous mate,” I told him before we left.
“Just remember you’ve got nothing to prove. Just go out there and give it your best, but only go as fast as you feel comfortable. There’s nobody to beat.”
And with that, we were off. The Radical felt like it had the power of the Aston Martin and the weight of the go kart. The brakes had no ABS and there was no traction control though, unlike in the Aston. A quick squeeze of the throttle showed she was a feisty little minx, too.
Lap after lap, I increased the speed. Bruno’s hand signals were clear and minimal. Be it pointing to the rev counter to show where I needed to be changing gear to avoid short shifting, telling me to go flat, to brake harder, to use less kerb, I had no problem understanding his gestures… especially the one that said “Back off at that corner you nut bar.”
After three laps I was flat on the straight and braking at the 100 metre board. I kept it flat in fourth through the double right at which I’d lost it the day before in the Aston. And I backed off at the corner Bruno had asked me to. With each lap it felt as though we were carrying more speed through the corners, as though the lines were getting cleaner and the rhythm was coming with ease. I was having a ball. And then the chequered flag fell.
We removed our helmets and Bruno shook my hand.
“How was it?” I asked. “And be honest.”
“Honestly? I was really worried when you told me you were nervous… because that made me nervous. But you had no need to be. That was really good. I’m actually quite impressed. With some work and some practice, there’s no reason why you couldn’t be OK.”
“Seriously? I mean, seriously?”
“Seriously. You know me. I find it very difficult to bullshit people. It was good. Apart from that corner where I asked you to back off. There I got a bit scared. I felt you were on the limit and even though you were in control, if you’d gone over the limit I was the one closest to the wall.”
“Fair point. Thank you, it means a lot to hear that from you.”
Formula Yas, here we go. The closest I'm gonna get to driving GP2.
And with those words ringing in my ears, and a stupid grin plastered across my face, it was time for the final drive of the two day experience. The Formula Yas F3000 cars. To be honest they look more like first generation GP2 cars than F3000 cars and with flappy paddle gearshift instead of the old F3000 style stick shift that Alan van der Merwe and Tonio Liuzzi and told me to expect, I was massively excited about this one.
Bruno told me that the Formula Yas cars reacted almost identically to the Radicals, so just to do exactly what I’d just done with him and I’d be fine.
I lowered myself in, pulled my straps tight and stretched my gloves over my hands. Gripping the steering wheel I looked left and right. A marshal pointed at me and I hit my ignition button, blipped the throttle, engaged first gear, brought the revs up to 3000 and lifted the clutch. Away we went. No stalling, my confidence was high.
I followed Johnny Herbert down the pits and waited for Nabil and Sanjeev to catch up. Down the hill, into the unbelievably tight left hander under the tunnel and then up the hill and out of the pits, for the first time I was out on the Yas Marina circuit, in a single seater under my own steam… and it felt great.
With each lap we upped the pace, and as I swerved all over Johnny’s rear wing I egged him on to go faster. Coming through a chicane the back end stepped out on me as I took too much kerb, but I planted the throttle, gave it a dab of oppo, and shot off back under Johnny’s rear wing. On the straight I got that wonderful feeling of my helmet being pulled up again, just as I had in the F1 car, but this time when the brakes went on I was ready for it. When I turned in to the high speed corners, I knew which way to lean. I knew what was coming, and I was in control.
All of my physical worries were gone. I was just loving this too much.
But once again, it was all over too soon.
I pulled the 3000 into the pits and jumped out, thanking everyone I could find. Johnny walked over and I hugged him.
“You’re slow old man,” I grinned?
“Slow? I was waiting for you to pass me, or at least put a move on me to tell me to go faster.”
“We weren’t allowed to pass. I thought sticking my nose up the inside of you was warning enough.”
“I never saw you. Are you sure you did that? Don’t remember. You must have been too slow. How’s your neck?”
“Shut up Johnny.”
We were still laughing when we arrived for the farewell bbq that night by the marina. I honestly don’t think anybody wanted to go home, but like all dreams it had to come to an end at some point. Everybody had experienced something new. Whether it was Rod who’d swapped a dragster for a single seater, or the F1 boys who’d got to sit in a dragster, the competition winners who’d had two days they would never forget or the F1 media who had suddenly been given the most incredible insight into the sport they cover… everyone came away with stories they’ll be telling forever.
For me the whole experience was unforgettable, but one of the biggest highlights came one week later in the Japanese Grand Prix paddock in Suzuka. I was in the media centre, and three Brazilian journalists came up to see me. They told me that they’d just come from Bruno Senna’s Brazilian media time and that they’d started talking about his time in Abu Dhabi.
“And you know what? He mentioned you. We didn’t ask him or prompt him to tell us anything, and he just came out and said, ‘You know who could race if he wanted to? Will Buxton. He impressed me.’”
I’ll be talking about those two days for a long time. But I’ll be dining out on that quote forever.
What an incredible experience. What an incredible track. What an incredible opportunity.
Now, if I can just find half a million dollars, maybe I should give Colin Kolles a call about that second HRT seat alongside Bruno for Abu Dhabi…
Bruno and his Abu Dhabi HRT team-mate... if I can find the cash.
All images c/o Darren Heath