These are follow-up stories to my chance meeting with Sir Frank Williams on my way from the Formula One race in Montreal to the Formula One race at Indy, in 2004. We recommend you start with story #1 in these Meeting Sir Frank series.
Now I’m just sort of studying the guy, clandestinely from the corner of my eye – while people brush by me, filing in and out. The bands keyboardist stops by our table to say hello. After he leaves, we both laugh at his bouffant hairstyle. Glad I have my nifty Detroit Tigers hat on tonight; I’m having another bad-hair day myself. A glance at buddy’s hands rules out accountant. He doesn’t look brass enough to be a tire supplier, or some other type of white-collar monkey. It’s possible he could be a designer or a technician, but I am having my doubts about that as well. He works for Frank? I quickly deduce … Man alive he must be a mechanic! Or at least a roadie of some sort!
“So how is F1 working out for you?” I ask him, trying to stay relaxed. I’m used to evenings alone here at the Noodle. I relish in the anonymity of it, cohorting with the locals like my father once did so well.
“It’s a jub idinit.” He says in an amiable way. There is something about the guy that automatically makes me like him. He raises his glass of Guinness to take a drink and I offer a toast, “to Indy, and the Noodle!”
“Cheers mate.” He says, and to me, we’re instant friends. I buy his next beer for him when he goes to the restroom. “How about that, I might have just bought a beer for a Formula One mechanic!!” I stifle a loud chuckle and look around, all the patrons are enjoying themselves and paying me no heed. A rare momentary feeling of well-being passes over me that eclipses my back and foot pain.
When he returns to our table he is surprised to find another full Guinness in front of him. “Cheers mate.” he says with a warm smile, and we clink glasses together again. As the night progresses his other buddies from the team show up, and we find a bigger table to sit at. We all take turns buying rounds! They are an exceptional group of people, and we are all having a grand ‘ole time! Most of them leave early, after just a couple of beers, but ‘Rick’ stays for about four more. I get the feeling that he is some kind of leader, as the rest of the guys seem to look up to him. Occasionally ‘Aussie Rick’ will lean over and say something F1 related. He doesn’t let on about too much, conveying himself in an almost abstract way. Hey, I’m on my twenty something’th beer eh, only the music and the cute waitress are distracting me now. I do feel like the most privileged one in the bar, with my new friend.
“Na, na, na, no shop talk tonight. We’re here to listen to Blues remember.” I inject – trying to stay aloof. Better keep some sense of mystery about me. Don’t want to let on about being an unemployed wanna- be writer, that’s no way to win friends, or influence people.
“Yor rawt, absolutely”, answers Rick, and we enjoy a performance by a fairly decent blues band.
Meanwhile I am thinking to myself “You idiot, you want to talk shop!!!”
I am to call Sir Frank later on in the week, to set up my meet and greet, and I keep it to myself. This is so just in case anything goes wrong, and it doesn’t work out. I don’t want to come off as a complete nut-case to this chap. (Three days later, on qualifying morning during my meet & greet in the Williams garage, I saw Rick rubbing a slight hangover out of his eyes. He looked shocked when he saw me). I do ask him a few questions though such as: “So do you guys have to pee in a cup every now and then?”
“Whots ‘at?” He asks, leaning in, not hearing my question. We are close to the stage, and the music is loud. I’m curious if they have drug testing in Formula One, and it seems like a fair enough question.
“You know, pee in a cup, so they can tell if you are on drugs or anything. It has become a common practice by employers here in the states, I wondered if they made you guys do that”.
“Naw, ya jus do ya jub”, he answers matter-of-factly “if ya don’t do ya jub you’re out.” He flips his thumb in the air, dismissing my preposterous question. Silly Yank.
“You mean you could be on Heroin or something, and still work for the team?” I counter. I have some arthritis in my back, and sometimes seek relief from medicinal cannabis I’ve, never cared for pills. Not that there is a chance in hell of me working for a Formula One team any time soon.
“Come on now Donald, ‘ow long d ya think ya could possibly lahst doin’ a jub on ‘Eroin?
“Well I dunno, what about Kate Moss?”
Don Lugers in front of the Indy pagoda.
