F1
2026 Aston Martin F1 car launch: Newey’s AMR26 revealed
Aston Martin has revealed its 2026 Formula 1 car, the first designed by Adrian Newey
BRM’s V16 and the Silverstone debut that tested British Racing Motors
Aston Martin’s F1 troubles offer Andrew Frankel a reason to revisit BRM’s ill-fated V16, before a 22-year-old Audi A2 provides a very different lesson in the virtues of lightness
Raymond Sommer in a new BRM Type 15 at the BRDC International Trophy, Silverstone, 1950
It is possible that I am going to look foolish writing this the day after the Belgian Grand Prix – thanks to summer schedules and my deadline being brought forward a month – and that post its big Hungary upgrade, the fortunes of the Aston Martin F1 team look decidedly more rosy. I hope so. But when things go wrong for me, I always derive a certain comfort from imagining how much worse it could be. Were its staff minded to do the same, perhaps the Aston Martin Aramco F1 team could recall the debut of another British Formula 1 car of which perhaps too much had also been expected. This time the new V16, 1.5-litre supercharged BRM Type 15 at Silverstone in 1950.
British Racing Motors was started in 1945 by Raymond Mays, who as one of the founders of ERA before the war was a man who commanded considerable respect in the business. His dream was to build a clean sheet grand prix machine, British from end to end, that would be the envy of the world, and finally earn his country a seat at the top table of motor racing – and if he had it his way, it would be at the head. It is worth remembering that the only consistent success in single-seater racing Britain had enjoyed before the war had been achieved by his ERAs in voiturette racing, which I guess would now be seen as the equivalent of Formula 2. Indeed only Henry Segrave and Sunbeam had won outright, at the French Grand Prix at Tours in 1923 and the San Sebastián Grand Prix in Spain the following year. Not much to show from half a century of racing.
Mays recruited a vast list of suppliers to support his noble project, which all needed to satisfy two requirements: to be British and to be the best. Companies such as Rolls-Royce, David Brown, Rubery Owen and Vandervell Products all put their shoulder to the wheel, and as news of the project started to leak out, it was obvious the car would be a winner from the off: for a start no race engine in history had had more cylinders, revved higher or produced more power per litre. Obvious, but wrong.
Late and over budget, the car was scratched from its first scheduled appearance at the 1950 British Grand Prix. As this was also the first ever round of what is now known as the Formula 1 World Championship, it would have been a good story to be part of.
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No matter, there was still the non-championship but still well-attended BRDC International Trophy Race, in late August, also held at Silverstone. Two cars were entered but only one was ready to go out in practice. Its driver was Raymond Sommer but even his genius was good for nothing better than bog last on the time sheets. Then came the race: the flag dropped, the revs rose, the clutch came up, the BRM lurched forward… and stopped. Its transmission, and its race, were finished. It would take BRM until 1959 to taste victory, and three more years before taking its one and only constructors’ title. By contrast, Aston Martin’s current season is going quite well.
Regardless of what my reviews over the years may have inadvertently led you to believe, it’s not all supercars and limousines round here. I am, for example, currently stooging around in a 22-year-old Audi A2 powered by a 1.4-litre, three-cylinder diesel engine producing all of 74bhp. And if ever you needed reminding just how fat and overblown modern cars have become, there’s little that’ll do the job better.
“In terms of quality of material, fit and finish, it feels as good as any Audi”
The A2 fascinates me, because even when it came out in 1999, I couldn’t understand how Audi hoped to make a business case from it. It looked strange, had a completely inflexible interior relative to the rival and very clever Mercedes-Benz A-Class, and cost lower end BMW 3 Series money, a car from at least two class sizes up. The sale price was so much because it was made almost entirely from aluminium, a splendid material if you’re building low volume, expensive cars – which is why all production Ferraris are made from it to this day – but completely impractical in the mass market where speed of production and margins are all. As a result the A-Class – a car not without its own problems and deemed a less-than-runaway success even within Mercedes-Benz – outsold it four to one.
Today it is just a joy. In terms of quality of material, fit and finish, it feels as good as any other Audi. But unlike any other Audi or, indeed, any other five-seat car sold by a premium brand this century, it weighs less than 900kg. That is not a misprint. It is probably closer in weight to a Caterham than its modern equivalents. Spurred on by a gutsy little diesel that more than makes up in torque what it lacks in power, accompanied by a delightful three-cylinder thrum, unhindered by excess width, unencumbered by excess mass, you go barrelling about the place in your own little pocketful of joy, wondering where the hell it all went wrong in the 21 years since Audi gave up the unequal struggle with it.
The irony is that this car was never marketed nor, indeed, was it ever perceived as being in any way sporting or even ‘fun’. It was light to make it efficient, not exciting. And yet I’ve driven cars with 1000bhp I’ve enjoyed less. Somewhere in there, there’s an important lesson to be learned.
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