JIMBORED RACES TO THE GRAND PRIX – 2003/4

I am now remembering a time while we lived in Houston, where I had the opportunity of a lifetime, twice. This occurred in spring 2003 and was repeated one year later in June of 2004. I was invited to accompany one of my suppliers to attend the annual running of the Montreal Grand Prix. For those of you, disappointed that I was not racing, please see my title. I said, “Jimbored races TO the Grand Prix”! Not, “Jimbored, races IN the Grand Prix”. Now that you have read to here, you may as well continue and finish it. It is a good memory, even though it all seems a little unreal this many years later.

What happened, was, that part of my job included responsibility for a (+/-) 3/4 of a billion dollars annual spend for raw materials. One huge global supplier of paints, also happened to produce a “fusion bond epoxy powder”. This product, we used globally in our manufacturing process. Our spend with this one company, at times, exceeded 1/3 of our annual budget. This made us/me their largest customer, worldwide, for this product. It came to pass that our supplier also sponsored a car in the Montreal Formula I, Grand Prix.

I understand that the CEO of this company had instructed all of his Global product VP’s to be in attendance at Montreal and bring their biggest customer. Apparently, he left no room for misunderstanding or failure. I was approached by their VP of marketing for the Americas. He needed a favour from me.

I knew this guy well. Every time I saw him, I was reminded of his famous quote. It happened during a convention of companies in our industry. This guy, originally from Canada, could be seen poolside “read barside”, with only a speedo on. As the hours passed, his “polar bear white” skin turned a deeper shade of red. Many of the wives present, including Deysi, told him to be careful. His reply was, “Tan Don’t Burn”. What a prophetic statement, later that evening, at a reception, he could not bear the touch of his light shirt on his body. He had sobered up, a lot, and was now in sheer agony. I’m not sure, if a deeper shade of red, ever graced a Canadian body.

In any event, he paid me a visit at our offices in Houston and explained to me that he wanted/needed me to accompany him to Montreal for the Formula 1 Grand Prix race. He also wanted me to bring our company President along. It sounded great to me, and, as usual, my reply was, “hell yes I’m in”! I then approach my boss. I was in utter amazement when I learned the true lack of understanding, he had, on how the business world worked. He started by saying, “that sounds like a great trip, but I am afraid that “impropriety” keeps me from attending. It cannot be perceived, that I, in my hallowed position, have taken a gift from one of our largest suppliers.”

I, in turn, was gob smacked! Geezus, it had been only a few weeks earlier when he had held our company, “Customer’s Golf Extravaganza”. He had rented the very golf course, “the whole thing including facilities”, where the PGA had just finished a Tour event. And of course, he not only expected, our marketing executive to bring their top customers to his event, he demanded it! Now I had to gently explain this to him, much like you would explain to a reticent 10 year old child. I say, “just think Mikey, when you held your golf blowout, if all of the big names in the Oil and Gas and Offshore pipeline business had seen your event as inappropriate?”

He thinks on this for a moment, chews on it and discards many of the responses, that I could smell, burning in his mind. Once again he declares, “JimboRed you are an idiot, but this time I think you have hit on something!” You could see 30 years of business savvy drain from his mind. The top of his head sagged a bit from the void created by purging this one business principle. He then jumps up and proclaims, “we must be shown as providing access to our suppliers marketing personnel, so they can do their jobs.” He continues, “Geezus, it’s only fair!” I wonder where he came up with that profound vision? And so it was agreed, Grand Prix it was.

A couple of weeks later, our butts were in Montreal. I knew nothing of car racing, and possibly less of Montreal. I had been there a few times in my career, and never got over the feeling of being in a foreign country. Geezus, I even carried my passport, which was a little embarrassing when I presented it to a Canadian immigration agent. At that time Canadians travelled to and from the USA, using their driver’s licences only. A French guy, of East Indian descent, looked down his nose at me, in disgust, and motioned me on. Somehow I felt more at Home travelling into Houston, after being abroad.

We are met by our host and shunted downtown into a hotel, immediately across from the edge of the St. Lawrence Seaway. This river is quite a sight. I had seen some big ass rivers in my travels, and this one was as big and as impressive as any. Major bulk carriers lined the docks, not far from our hotel. Apparently, the site of the Grand prix race was on an island just in front of us, in the middle of the St. Lawrence. I knew there were 100,000+ people scheduled to attend. My first thought was, ‘how in hell do they get them all across there?” I did not see any bridges stretching off across the foggy seaway.

As it turns out the Grand Prix is a lot more than one race. We had arrived on a Tuesday, the main race was on Sunday. However, the days in between our arrival and Raceday were filled with activity. Each morning we started with a game of golf at different courses in Montreal. We hacked and chopped, cursed and swore, laughted and cried, and otherwise had a fine time. Golf early, and then onto the island and the scene of the Grand Prix raceway. Each afternoon held a different spectacle.

We quickly found out how to get across to the race track. Across the street from the hotel, water taxis, each holding about 25 people were filling up and departing every minute. Our first day was brutally cold. We were dressed for June weather and should have been dressed for January. We went into the gift shop at the hotel and each purchased a loud, colourful fleecy, proclaiming our love of Montreal, the French and the Grand Prix. Although we may have looked like Dorks in our colourful attire, we were, at least warm, Dorks. The lineup dissolved fast and soon we were underway for a 5 minute boat ride to the race track.

The main event took place on the weekend, with time trials on Saturday and the main event on Sunday. The attendance for the two day event, was something like 115,000 fans. Each one of them shunted across on water taxi. I must say, although it seemed like an impossible task, it went off extremely smoothly. The line just kept moving. Soon we set foot on the island. It was an impressive place. I believe the seating capacity was around 100,000 persons spread around a 2.75 mile track (4.361KM). Corporate boxes were spread along the main straightaway. Into one of these we ushered.

Our vantage point was first class. Our host’s box was splendid. It had seating for about 50 people. TV’s were hanging everywhere you looked. At one end was a wall to wall full service, complimentary, bar. At the other, a food area, displaying a magnificent buffet, and a la carte menus for those unable to find enough food at the buffet. Somehow, this ambiance only went to confirm my self image as royalty. I thought I fit right in with the rich and famous. All I ever needed was a weekly performance review by Desyi, to bring me back to reality. However, on this day, I was rubbing elbows with some of the biggest personalities in business.

On our first day, soon after arrival, a small group of us were ushered from our corporate hideout, across to the infield (on an overhead bridge), and into the Jaguar pit. It was quite surreal, thousands of rabid race fans would have given “one of their most private parts” for a trip thru one of the pits at the Grand Prix. We were met by a young women who introduced herself as our guide and escort while visiting the pit. I must say, without being sexist, that she was stunning. She was a British woman in her early twenties, that quite possibly, should have been in the movies or modelling.

Our guide took us thru the pit, or area where they prepare their cars for the race. She explained that the race crew consisted of two drivers and a backup, a full team of managers, coaches, mechanics, physiologists, doctors and dieticians. It also include four race cars. Each one a Jaguar worth more money than my own total net worth. They also carried a couple of spare engines, stacks of tires, and enough parts to completely rebuild an engine or two if necessary. My God, the decadence was mind numbing.

It was here that our guide told us some amazing things. Some of these were a surprise and others were not. She told us a bit of the rules for the race. Firstly, and I think the most important was, that each car, driver and anything forming part of the car or driver was limited to a maximum “weight” for the race. Going over the weight resulted in disqualification, or at least serious time penalties. Everything, including a good luck charm, inside the cockpit, was weighed and evaluated for necessity. The goal was to replace every ounce saved with horsepower.

The drivers, including everything they wore, were weighed after a bowel movement before the race. It all started to make sense. The drivers were all relatively small guys, without any apparent fat on them. They reminded me of Peruvian matadors, jockeys or featherweight MMA fighters. There were no “lard asses” present in the race team. They had stacks and stacks of tires for every type of driving condition. Hundreds of them. Each one about the price of my car.

She introduced us to one of the drivers. Apparently, it was his turn to smile into the cameras, of his sponsor’s, customers. The guy we met, looked really happy to see us. Much like he had just stepped on a dog turd and was trying to shake it off his boot. Was he bored? He explained to everyone, the rules, the horsepower, the technology behind the vehicle, and his part in the performance. The technical stuff went straight over my head. The only other guy I can remember in my life, that was so “into” their job, was the RCMP guy on Capitol Hill in Ottawa, who’s job was to stand at attention and let tourists snap pictures of him.

The pit or workshop contained more electronics and technical instruments than a good sized operating room. Or maybe, similar to what you would think NASA used to launch spacecraft into orbit. There was not one spec of dirt visible, anywhere. The mechanics that scurried around the cars, were spotless in their garb and grooming. They could have come directly from an operating theatre. Every single piece of the car was connected to a sensor and instrument. The was no loud shouting or cursing as you would expect in a mechanics shop with a dozen guys scurrying around.

I must be honest, at this point. Although this display of opulence was stunning, much of the technical information was lost on me. It’s not that I didn’t understand it, it’s just that I really did not care. I came for the spectacle, a little golf, a few beers, some food and a break from the office. The mechanics of how they were going to entertain me, were of little interest. I could as well have been watching dogsled races in Nome, Alaska.

Our tour of the pit area lasted about an hour. By the end of it, I was ready to get back into the private box and see what they had, to eat and drink. Our guide told us, that the evening of the race, after it was finished, everything, including herself was packed up, boxed, tagged and airlifted to the next venue. In two weeks time they would be completely set up for another race in some other exotic part of the world. Where she would be guiding another set of faces thru the pit. She smiled at us and declared, that this was the best job she had ever had. No shit, eh?

I must also mention, that, on each side of this bright red, shiny, gleaming, piece of composite magnificence was our supplier’s company logo. It proudly proclaimed their connection to Jaguar, the Grand Prix, decadence and opulence. It was a patch, about 12 inches by 12 inches, with an apparent cost of $4,000,000 per year to display it on a Formula I car. Yup “Geezus” sounds appropriate here.

With the tour out of the way, we were now taken back to our viewing area. I had mentioned before, that each day there were different mini-races held for our viewing enjoyment. They could be races of 1950’s winning cars, the same year and model of “stock” Toyotas, high performance luxury cars, or vintage cars related to the movies, etc. They were always entertaining. One particular race sticks in my mind.

It happened on about our second day of watching the preliminary races, before the weekend main event. The race consisted of high performance imported cars, sponsored by their owners and entered to race against other owner’s cars. Once again, decadence comes to mind. Well as it turns out, one of the cars was very special. It may have been a Lamborghini or some such exotic car. And was sponsored by some rich guy out of Los Angeles. It was announced as being brand new and fresh from the factory. This was to be it’s first test. It cost in excess of $500,000. The owner’s wife would be driving it. It was 10 feet of “gleaming” gold.

The announcers had made quite a bit of hype about this machine. It piqued our interest so we were paying attention. The race started on the other side of the infield and on the other side of the track. We could not see the start of the races, but only picked up the cars as they came into the second corner, to our left, about a quarter mile away. However, we could them see them come down the straightaway right in front of us! Before disappearing around the next corner, to our right. We also had the opportunity to watch the complete circuit on the many monitors spread around our box.

As the cars rounded the corner to our left you could hear them coming with a low moan (kind of anemic when compared to the F1 cars). They then zipped past our box, and around the corner. That is all but one. The spotlight car for the race came speeding down the straightaway, where the driver lost control and slammed that marvellous piece of decadence into the cement wall at about 140 miles per hour. From the wall, it then flew straight backwards across the track and slammed rear end, cccrrraaasssshhh, into the wall just below us.

The driver crawls out from this mangled piece of high tech plastic, apparently unhurt. She gives her hair a toss and is looking around for someone to blame. Safety people pile onto the track and quickly remove her and her car. All this in about two minutes. What remains of my memory is only this. About 5 minutes before we were watching a $500,000, 10 foot long piece of Italian marvel flying down the track. A few violent seconds later we were looking a 4 foot long crumpled piece of plastic, somewhat resembling an accordion. Now worth zero $$. I wonder who was more pissed, the driver who left the track shooting accusatory looks from her eyes, or the owner who decided she could drive “his baby” in this race.

The week progresses very pleasantly with a little golf in the mornings, a boat ride on the St. Lawrence, and a leisurely afternoon snacking on bonbons and sipping fine beer. We watched many different kinds of races, saw many different kinds of cars, listened to a never ending commentary from stereo speakers, inside our box, glanced at the closed circuit tv’s and told each other war stories and other lies. Then the weekend of the main event arrives.

As I previously mentioned, our hotel was basically across the street from the boat launch to the venue. Early in the morning of Raceday, the crowds started to pack the street in front of us. I am down early and ready to walk back about six blocks from our hotel and join the queue. Soon our host meets us in the lobby. He sees me vibrating, while glancing outside at the crowds. “Relax he says, let’s go for breakfast, we have plenty of time to get over there”. I’m not quite so sure, but stifle myself and sit down for more food. I keep glancing out at the lineup stretching off into the distance, along the side of the St. Lawrence.

After about our third or forth coffee refill, we could start to see the end of the line approaching. By now thousands of people had been shunted across from this location. A while later we take a leisurely walk across the street and join the end of the line, now about 50 feet long. Soon we were at the racetrack. The big event was finally about to start. The driver we were following, from our host’s team, was Mark Webber, an up and coming Formula I star. The favourites in the race were the Schumacher brothers from Europe. Snuggled into our seats with a beer, some snacks we prepare to watch the race.

I have said nothing about the Saturday event, which were the time trials. The reason being is that many of my memories mix one day with the other. They were very much the same, other than, the cars, on Sunday, came past in groups. On Saturday, during the time trials they came past one at a time. Finally the races starts. Again, from where we are located we can only see the start on tv. But within moments of the start you can hear them coming.

As they approach the first turn, to our left, the sound comes crashing down on you. It starts out like a pack of wailing, howling banshees fighting over a fresh kill, then increases to the level of your neighbour running his chainsaw in your living room and finally to an ear splitting scream as if the “snowbirds” had just buzzed your house from about 50 feet. It was shocking. As the sound reached its most painful level a blur of cars comes past at about 300 kph. I might say that I could recognize each car as it came past. But that would be untrue. All I saw was a blur of light.

As far as seeing our host’s decal come past on the Jaguar, that did not happen. You can imagine what chance you had of seeing a 12″ square on the side of something that just passed you at over 190 miles per hour. Suddenly it all made sense why there were so many tv’s present in our box. What we could see from our position was a glob of light flashing by us in a split second, making a noise that would wake the dead. Then you waited a couple of minutes and they came flying past again. They repeated this 70 times before deciding who won.

To no one’s surprise, Michael Schumacher won both events that I attended. His brother Ralf not far behind. Michael Schumacher was as dominating of a figure as any in sport. I believe he won 6 of 16 races in 2003 and 8 of 20 races in 2004. He had over 90 Formula 1 wins and won the world title 7 times. He then retired to a life of leisure and paralyzed himself in a ski accident a few short years later. You can imagine, that even though it was skiing, speed was involved. Anyway, with all that info purged from my mind, I leave this memory of Montreal, and return to my Christmas chores. Adios.