Here is a road trip to my first F1 GP - as it appeared in the April 2013 issue of NZ Classic Car:

1983 was the year I’d set plans in place to follow the Formula 1 circus through Europe plus as many other races I could cram in, and so I’d carefully planned my debut for Paul Ricard. April 17, 1983 would be the day I had looked forward to for so long.

As things turned out, we would fly down to Toulon on the morning of the race. I was feeling queasy even before getting on the plane and, aware of my discomfort levels Sandy offered to drive. Bless her – neither of us had driven a left hand drive before but, notwithstanding how I was feeling, driving on the wrong side of the road to the French Grand Prix was man’s work. After all, we had a Renault 5 and you don’t chuck the keys to one of those babies to just anyone. The directions to Le Castellet seemed straightforward enough - it was a right out from the airport followed by another right down a narrow lane. Somehow the wipers started up when I indicated and changing gear with the stick seemed a lot more effective than the window winder. Along a narrow lane I was told ‘Michael, you’re a bit close to the ditch!’ I was still thinking ‘what ditch?’ as ‘Le Car’ fell into it.

Here we were, on route to my first Grand Prix and I’d rolled the rental car - we were still within sight of the airport. We were completely uninjured but there was no way of knowing how bad the car was. The calmer of the two of us reminded me that we’d just passed a service station. Pumped full of adrenalin I sprinted back in hope of an English speaker and a tow truck. I can still see the face of the blond with the large expressive eyes. ‘Parlez vois Anglais?’ I asked, hopefully. ‘Non’ said the pretty face. Damn, I thought – it was going to have to be the action version. ‘OK, le car…’ and then, holding my hands in front of me, I tipped them to one side and, at the same time moved my torso in the same direction. I have thought since that this is unlikely to have looked particularly cool.

The large expressive eyes took on even more amplified proportions and she headed straight for a phone in a highly excitable state. I imagined her calling paramedics, fire engines, even Inspector Clouseu…

As I stood waiting I heard a ‘toot toot’ out on the forecourt. I looked around and saw the car that I’d put into a ditch not five minutes earlier, the driver waving and motioning me to get a move on. I looked back at the blond who now had her back to me and was speaking quite loudly into the phone and waving her arms about the way an apoplectic person does.

There wasn’t a mark on the car – how’d she do it? The story unfolded – pretty girl leaning against the side of an acutely angled Renault 5 as a rugby team in a bus on their way to a game happens upon her. The bus stops and from it emerge a couple of locks and props. They take a corner each and lift ‘le car’ from ‘le ditch’.

Whereas I would have parked in the first available spot near the circuit, meaning a 20-minute cross-country hike, the now supremely confident driver found a Renault 5 sized park right in front of a main entry. We’d not walked far when our attention was diverted to a noisy band of flag waving Ferrari fans arriving, with full horned accompaniment, in a trio of Fiat 130TC Abarths. Seemingly within seconds of parking, 57 or so people spilled out of the three Fiats, erected a small grandstand out of bits of pipe and were in full song. Maybe the day would actually turn out OK after all – we had real, live tifosi in our midst.

The turbo rivalry between Ferrari and Renault was in full swing and being Italians in France, our new tifosi friends were in playful mood and provided no shortage of pre race entertainment. An elderly man with a poodle wandered into ‘our’ area. He took off a large coat and revealed ‘bike pants’, and special bike racers type shoes. We concluded that he’s probably cycled here. He also wore a ‘Renault’ cap with a tiny peak. He seemed oblivious to the chants from the tifosi while the poodle curled up and went to sleep. One of our new friends leapt from the makeshift ‘grandstand’ and commenced a swerving, mischievous run – seemingly moving at full speed despite moving in a pronounced ‘crouch’ position. His wild eyes darted from side to side before stopping beside the snoozing poodle and, to the laughter and hilarity to all that witnessed it, placed a ‘Ferrari’ sticker to its clipped coat. The elderly cyclist was totally unaware of all of this which only added to this highly charged and excited audience.

It seemed to take forever to get to 2 pm. The parade lap was our first chance to see the full field but Prost’s Renault is soon in control. Our friends cheer wildly as the Ferraris flash by in 5th and 6th but Prost isn’t even making a race of it. Before long there a big gaps everywhere. Man it’s dull - I can’t believe it, I’ve spent most of my life looking forward to this day, I ‘roll’ a car getting here after travelling half way around the world and I’m struggling to stay awake. Even the tifosi are struggling – the Ferraris are well down and the positions remain unchanged for lap after lap

I don’t know how we managed it but seemingly within minutes of the whole turgid affair being brought to an end, we found ourselves in the pits by helping to push a Toleman.

We see most of the drivers, team owners and other ‘celebrities’ – it’s capped a weird day off nicely. It wasn’t what I expected my first Grand Prix to be but the trip there, the tifosi before the race, and getting into the paddock afterwards made it a day we’ll never forget. Just a shame about the 95 odd minutes after 2pm…