How to Build a Car: The Autobiography of the World’s Greatest Formula 1 Designer

by Adrian Newey

‘You’ve got to be smooth on the clutch or you’ll stall it,’ I’d been warned. I didn’t want to do that. Just the pride talking here: after all I’d designed it; I really didn’t want to stall it – like some kind of competition winner. I stalled it.

I’d thought the constant howling noise was immense at a standstill, but on the track it’s like World War III breaking out in the cockpit.

At four I was sent to the local convent school where I was told that being left-handed was a sign of the devil. The nuns made me sit on the offending hand, as though I could drive out the demon using the power of my godly bum.

LOL

My second race was at Silverstone for the 1973 Grand Prix, where Jackie Stewart was on pole, and the young me was allowed a hamburger.

In an effort to stop the dangerous viral spread of platform shoes, the school had passed an edict banning any shoe under which you could pass a penny on its end. Being a smart Alec I’d used a piece of aluminium to bridge the gap between heel and sole, thus allowing me to wear my platform boots while still abiding by the letter of the law (no prizes for spotting the connection between that and what I do now).

For my combined eighth birthday-and-Christmas present (a dreaded combination familiar to anyone who has a birthday near Christmas),

Thus, the aim of the chassis designer is to: One: ensure that the tyres are presented to the ground in an even and consistent manner through the braking, cornering and acceleration phases. Two: ensure the car is as light as possible. Three: ensure that the car generates as little drag as possible. Four: ensure that the car is generating as much downforce as possible in a balanced manner throughout the phases of the corner.

More importantly, as well as leaving me with a good understanding of ground-effect aerodynamics, it gave me something I could show to prospective employers. And it contributed to my achieving a first-class honours degree, the very idea of which would have caused me to utter a four-letter expletive had it been suggested at Christmas of my first year.

I began at Fittipaldi with the title of ‘junior aerodynamicist’, but because they didn’t have any other aerodynamicists, I was senior aerodynamicist as well.

His car had run out of fuel. I got the blame. Christian ranted that I didn’t know what I was doing (partly true), and that I was useless (objection, your honour), and with emotions running high, before he was in possession of all the facts, Christian fired me as his race engineer. I would later be absolved – it turned out there was a leak – but the damage was done;

I must have had brain failure, because I got one of the dimensions wrong – 1in out, I was – but the car was so big that the pattern makers didn’t even notice the mistake. What eventually emerged was something so large and ugly it was nicknamed HMS Budweiser (after the team’s sponsor).

Charlotte in the summer is a hot dustbowl of a place

Did NOT expect my home to be mentioned here but he's right

I set off, map balanced on my lap, aiming to get to New Jersey across the Washington Bridge. Except, of course, I got hopelessly lost and ended up in the Bronx.

LOL how does one achieve this

Charlotte was born on 28 August 1986. I’m not sure I’ve ever told her this – I suppose this is as good a time as any – but she’s named after that first win at Charlotte in 1983.

Along with Frank Williams, Max Mosley and Colin Chapman, Bernie started the Formula One Constructors’ Association. FOCA. It was originally called F1CA but that changed when it dawned on them that F1CA looked a bit like ‘fica’, which means something rude in Latin languages. (‘Pussy’, to save you looking it up.)

We played up to our new-kid-on-the-block status. Much the same as Red Bull later, Leyton House became the jokers of the pit lane. One night, one of our mechanics emptied what must have been a gallon of washing-up liquid into the fountains at the entrance to the circuit. We returned the next day to a scene out of the movies. There were soap suds everywhere. Huge, shifting mountains of washing-up bubbles, like some kind of blob-like monster attempting to consume Imola. I’m not exaggerating; it was so big they had to close the road. Police were called. They knew that one of the teams was behind the washing-up-liquid monster, but never got to the bottom of it. I guess this is me admitting it on behalf of Leyton House. Coming clean, you might say.

Senna ran out of fuel close to the end of the race and was classified fourth. He thumbed a lift from Nigel during the victory lap, waving to spectators as he sat on the sidepod with one leg in the cockpit for the journey back to the pits. Nigel, in our internal post-race debrief, said he didn’t know what to do. ‘Did I just drive nicely, or accelerate and get rid of him?’ A joke of course, but then again a little broken leg would have been quite nice at that point in the season.

Ferrari complaining was to become a recurring theme over the ensuing years. If Ferrari didn’t like something (usually because they couldn’t get it to work for themselves), they complained to the FIA.

Bernie had gone from leading the small British teams against the might of the grandees led by Ferrari, to being desperate to keep them in the sport and ensure they were successful. And, at the same time, to teach the British teams a lesson. Anybody read Animal Farm?

we decided to put a bit of fire in his belly by showing him our Williams travel shirts. ‘Ayrton Senna!’ we said, ‘Ayrton Senna!’ indicating onward, onward. It was one of those ‘careful what you wish for’ moments. Our actions had the desired effect. Our driver was suddenly wide awake and making haste to our destination. The problem was that he began driving like a lunatic, weaving in and out of the traffic, heedless of the horns blaring around him and oblivious to our abject terror as he attempted to prove that he too, could drive like Ayrton Senna.

Eventually, on the evening before the commencement of the trial, Patrick came up to me and said, ‘Just to let you know that as far as I’m concerned, you were the chief designer and responsible for the design of the car and therefore, I believe, you have to take responsibility for this.’

??? That is crazy

Not long after, we were approached by representatives of Jacques Villeneuve, son of the late, great Gilles. Frank and Patrick decided to give Jacques a test at Silverstone in late July, early August. Having booked a holiday, I couldn’t be there, but we agreed that if Jacques was within one second of Damon’s benchmark time at Silverstone then we’d consider giving him another test. In the event, he was about 2sec off, so I assumed that was it and we wouldn’t bother evaluating him further. We didn’t. We signed him up. Or, should I say, Frank and Patrick signed him. On my return from holiday I called a meeting, wondering aloud why the hell we’d decided to sign Jacques when he was 2sec shy of Damon’s benchmark time; more to the point, I reminded them that we’d signed a new contract stating I was to be consulted on major policy decisions, with driver choice specifically named as being part of this. ‘You were in Barbados,’ they said, somewhat lamely. ‘But there are telephones. And faxes,’ I pointed out. They were sorry, Frank said. It was born out of a habit 25 years in the forming. But it wouldn’t happen again.

Rather airily, Patrick replied, ‘Ah, yes, Adrian, been meaning to tell you. At the start of the year, Frank and I decided to sign Frentzen for 1997 because Damon drove so badly in 1995.’ So there it was, out in the open. The rumours had been correct. Having signed Jacques Villeneuve for two seasons without informing me, it turned out they’d gone and hired Frentzen without telling me too, putting Damon out of a drive and in clear contravention of our agreement, and my contract. It turned out that they’d had seven months, at the very least, to tell me their thinking and intention. Seven months.

‘Well, I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Adrian, because you must remember you are under contract, and we will not allow you to break your contract.’ ‘Patrick,’ I said, ‘it’s you who has broken the contract.’

I really wanted Damon to win now; I felt he thoroughly deserved it. He’d led the team out of the dark days of Imola and become a good friend in the process.

It was, for Damon, the perfect way to give the finger to Williams’ management: winning the race and bowing out as world champion.

Frank, to his credit, said, ‘Adrian, you should be on the podium, you’ve designed the car.’ So I went. And no doubt I got champagne sprayed in my eyes, which hurt. (In later years I took to wearing goggles for appearances on the podium. You may laugh, but that champagne stings, and Sebastian Vettel, in particular, used to love getting it in my eyes.)

My office, now, was a breath of fresh air, too. Everything I’d asked for had been done, the factory manager had done a great job. What was dark and cheerless previously was now duck-egg blue with a tan carpet, a tremendous improvement. Stepping from the monotone of the wider McLaren factory into my office was like that bit in The Wizard of Oz when they turn on the technicolour. The long nights would be less depressing from now on. Ron, however, was less impressed when, on Monday evening, he came round to see how I was getting on. Standing at the doorway, his jaw dropped and he stood gulping like a goldfish for what was probably 30 seconds, but felt like about five minutes, going redder and eventually deep purple, with me thinking, My God, he’s going to have a heart attack, until, without uttering a single word, he span on his heel and returned to the sanctuary of McLaren grey.

In the event, Schumacher managed to get ahead of Jacques, only apparently to be told by his team that he had a water pressure problem and could not finish the race. He kept going, and when Jacques went to overtake Schumacher turned into him, attempting to take the pair of them out just as he had done with Damon. Only this time he messed it up. He took himself out but not Jacques, who continued to race, on course to win the championship. All Jacques had to do was score two points by the finish.

For me it was just brilliant that my last Williams car had gone on to win both the drivers’ and the constructors’ titles. I had designed for seven seasons at Williams and, during that time, we had won the constructors’ five times and the drivers’ four times.

Like so many gifted natural drivers, he would adapt his driving to whatever the car was doing and then report what the car was doing once he’d adapted his driving, rather than communicating what the car would do if he drove it the way he wanted to drive it.

Back to San Marino, where it really came home to me how much I hated returning to Imola. Every year, I borrowed a scooter and drove out to Tamburello on Saturday evening to pay my respects, but inevitably I’d be spotted by spectators, which only added to the discomfort. Even so, it was something I felt the need to do. I must admit, I was always pleased to see the circuit in the rear-view mirror when the weekend was over.

Next thing we knew, a raging Schumacher appeared in the garage, convinced that DC had taken him out deliberately (pot, kettle) and wanting to have it out with him.

I spoke to Max about this years afterwards and he said that, as far as he was concerned, we, McLaren, had lured Ferrari into a trap, because we knew their bargeboards were illegal and had waited for them to be ahead before we protested about them. That’s complete rubbish. I hadn’t managed to have a proper look at them until after the Malaysian race. But even if that were the case, it doesn’t alter the fact that Ferrari won using illegal bargeboards.

The ensuing Court of Appeal hearing made the Spanish Inquisition look exemplary,

I really liked Mika. He was typically Finnish in as much as he used as few words as possible – until he’d had two glasses of ‘Finnish white wine’ (vodka), at which point he would use the maximum number of words possible.

Like any responsible cinemagoer I turned off my phone as soon as I got settled, so little did I know that as I enjoyed the Ancient Egyptian spectacle of The Mummy returning, all hell was breaking loose in the outside world:

Marigold and I were guests of Red Bull and sitting at their table, content to watch as Ron collected the award. Would he mention my contribution in his speech, I wondered? He certainly mentioned me. He told the room how I had left McLaren to join Red Bull because I wanted a quiet, low-pressure job working for a team that would never ever succeed. Oh yes, and how I was doing it all for the money.

Bruh

It all began with Dad. When I stand at my drawing board, inspired by a love of cars and the constant, ongoing desire to improve them, not just their speed and performance, but ultimately the way in which they move through the world, the impact they have – aesthetic, environmental, sporting enjoyment – it all comes back to him, his workshop and his eccentric love of tinkering with all things mechanical. That and my mum’s love of art and painting.

To the side of the energy station they have a swimming pool and after that win we all celebrated by jumping in, after which Mark and Sebastian grabbed hold of each other, linked hands and leapt into the harbour, a three-storey drop.

From then on, Mark and Sebastian’s relationship was strained. It also highlighted to Mark the fact that Helmut was pro-Sebastian, and he let that fact rile him.

At Valencia, Helmut, diplomatic as ever, approached Mark in practice and said, ‘Mark, you’re always shit at Valencia; will this year be any different?’ which is not really the best way to motivate a driver.

Helmut when I see you it’s on sight

Unfortunately the sweetness of that second consecutive home race victory was somewhat dulled when Mark came on the radio on his victory lap in reply to Christian’s congratulations to say, ‘Yeah mate, not bad for a number two driver.’

Most Formula One teams are in the UK and that becomes self-feeding, because if the teams are there, all the specialist suppliers tend to grow up around them. In terms of workforce, poaching people from another team becomes easier, because they probably don’t even have to move house if they’re living around Oxfordshire. It’s one of the reasons why Toyota, based in Germany, struggled. Sauber in Switzerland, the same problem. If you’ve grown up and lived in England, you probably aren’t going to want to go and live in Cologne or just outside Zurich. I think Ferrari get away with it because there’s a passion associated with the name and most people think of Italy as being a nice country to live in, even if they’re English.

It panned out as we suspected it might, with Sebastian leading, Mark second; team orders were not invoked, so that was how it finished. With hindsight, you can imagine the hammering we would have got and the negative publicity Red Bull would have received had we somehow (illegally) invoked team orders and got them to swap positions.

I can’t begin to describe the feeling. Surreal, I suppose. For Red Bull to have gone from being been a nowhere team to three-time double winners was unbelievable. If you’d showed me that script in 2008 I would have thanked you for your optimism and politely shown you the door, twirling my finger at my temple in your wake.

I’d backed up so far that I ended up on the wrong side of the bar, at which point a young lady approached and asked for a glass of champagne. ‘Well, certainly,’ I said, ‘but I’m afraid I don’t actually work here.’ She said, ‘Well who do you work for, then?’ ‘I work for a fizzy drinks company,’ I replied. ‘Oh, which one?’ ‘Red Bull.’ She was into marketing and so asked all about the marketing angles of Red Bull – the energy drink company as opposed to the Formula One team – so I gave her a bit of BS, not having the faintest idea what either of us were talking about.

Christian and I had already been to a rather unusual ceremony in which we were given the keys to Milton Keynes, which I believe means we can now herd our sheep through the middle of the town if we wish.

Now, to me, what makes Formula One unique compared to other top-level sports is the fact that it’s not just the sportsmen – it’s the sportsmen and the car, man and machine, the technology, the battle of the car-cum-sportsman who’s driving it. And for that reason I think it’s so important that we maintain technical differentiation between the cars, and within the car the engine should not become the dominant differentiator among the top teams.

You watch the on-board cameras and there’s a distinct lack of drama. Contrast a pole lap from Hamilton in 2016 with Ayrton’s Monaco qualifying lap from 1988 (check it out, it’s worth watching). You watch Ayrton manhandling that car around Monaco; it looks brutal and you think, That’s amazing; I could never in a million years do that. You watch a qualifying lap now for pole position, and though you’d be mistaken of course, you might well sit there and think, Yes, with a bit of practice, I could do that.