Dark Side of the Vrooom

I generally try and avoid using the word ‘collection’ to describe the cars I own. It sounds too deliberate, too passionless. Like a lot of people who buy old cars, I’ve ended up with an idiosyncratic (with an emphasis on the ‘idio-’) mix of models that reflect my own personal enthusiasms. There’s not much point in collecting just one marque, because all manufacturers – even Ferrari – made some less than great cars alongside their classics.

My passion for cars and motor racing predates any involvement with music. My father, a director for Shell’s documentary film unit, used to take me in his four-and-a-half litre Bentley to the vintage car events he was competing in, and some of my happiest childhood memories include the smell of leather, hot oil and blended racing fuels, accompanying the ticking sound of hot metal. From that introduction, I was set on a course towards wanting to race cars for fun, particularly old ones, although fortunately I never had the ambition, or delusion, of being the Graham or Damon Hill of my day.

One of the joys of motor racing is the split between the lonely responsibility of being at the wheel in a race – you can’t have a band meeting as you go into a difficult corner – and the dry humoured camaraderie of the paddock. There is an extraordinary willingness among fellow competitors and team mechanics to share experiences, jokes, knowledge and spare parts. It’s a world I love being part of, and my membership of the British Racing Drivers’ Club is an achievement of which I am particularly proud.

It is even possible to become friends with some of the dealers, despite the relationship of hunter and hunted that inevitably exists between us. I respect their ability to trail some tempting bait across my path, patiently waiting for it to be taken. And off they go, laughing merrily all the way to the bank, the kinder ones making a pit stop to buy me a drink from the profits.

Buying old cars is a risky investment. Prices have roller-coastered alarmingly over the last 30 years or so: the Ferrari 250 GTO, which I bought for £35,000 in 1973 suddenly soared during the boom of the 1980s to hit £10m in 1987 before plunging back down. I was once invited to appear on a financial TV programme as an investment expert. By the time the recording was due to take place, car values had plummeted and I was promptly uninvited.

If the fluctuations of the market are erratic, there is one safe bet in owning old cars. The re-builds will rarely, if ever, come in below budget or on time. The cars are so individual that replacement parts have to be specially sourced or more often hand-made. It may then seem particularly odd to risk all this work on the road, let alone the track.

Unfortunately for my own pulse rate and cheque book, I find that although many of these cars are extremely elegant at rest, they only achieve their true beauty in motion, being driven somewhere near

the limit of their potential. Stuffed tigers are all very well, but are no substitute for the version in the wild: graceful in motion and capable of delivering a really nasty bite.

Sadly, my taste in choosing cars has not always been impeccable. For a while I was looking hard for a mid-1950s Indianapolis car. I tracked one down and restored it. But on the track it was terrifying: only two gears, an extraordinary driving position, poor suspension and brakes that would fail any modern MOT test.

I later discovered that Fangio had refused to drive the same car after a number of practice laps, so I felt I was in good company. On the other hand, the Maserati Birdcage was love at first gear. I hadn’t driven one before I bought it, so I was unprepared for the treat of sitting behind the wheel. There are no excuses offered for the older cars: races in my pre-war Aston or ERA can be just as exciting as competing at Le Mans.

Of course, it’s fun to see people enjoy the cars, although alarming to see the abandon with which grown men drape themselves over a car bonnet to drool over the bodywork. However, I have to confess I’m not totally selfless – most of the pleasure has been personal.

Passion for Speed, by Nick Mason and Mark Hales is out now. Published by Carlton Books, £25