Flashback: Harvey Postlethwaite at Hungary ‘88
This month we’re at the 1988 Hungarian Grand Prix, where Maurice Hamilton recalls how speed, organisation and some exercising of the gift of the gab were vital elements to a much-needed speedy getaway
Harvey Postlethwaite, captured in the Hungaroring car park early on race day in 1988. After seven years with Ferrari, Harvey had become technical director at Tyrrell; the equivalent today of switching from Mercedes to Williams. As can be seen from the absence of sponsorship on the Englishman’s shirt, Tyrrell was in the middle of another of its increasingly frequent lean periods.
Not that it mattered to Postlethwaite. There was enough potential funding to allow Ken Tyrrell to task Harvey with literally bringing the compact British team up to speed. Postlethwaite not only relished the challenge but also enjoyed working in a tight-knit outfit staffed by, as he put it, “racing mechanics of the old school who can do anything.”
The relationship worked both ways. Despite his impressive credentials, Harvey was not afraid to muck in. Whereas with Ferrari, a man – probably two – would have been dispatched to perform this mundane piece of hire car refuelling, the good-humoured Postlethwaite took it upon himself to make what he knew to be an essential preparation.
This being the third visit to the Hungaroring, everyone within F1 management understood the need for a fast getaway in an organised post-race convoy. Such was the chaos caused by more than 100,000 spectators heading for the single two-lane motorway, you needed a police escort in order to reach Ferihegy airport on time. Having to refuel your hire car en route would be an automatic sentence to another night in Budapest.
The convoy was for the good and great of F1 and its important associates. But that did not prevent Alan Henry (AH) and I from tagging on to the end of it. It was a scary sight to behold. The gaggle of racers was taken at breakneck speed thanks to police outriders who thoroughly relished the moment. Trabant and Lada drivers, deemed not to have got out of the way quickly enough, would have their door panels modified by legalised mavericks who wouldn’t think twice about kicking a terrified local in the Volga.
We did well, AH and I, until the haughty owner of a Hungarian BMW 6 Series (therefore a man of some local standing) indicated to our accompanying Mad Max in uniform that we did not have the required convoy windscreen sticker. Not only did we dare to disobey orders, but the imperious brandishing of our FIA media passes would also overcome – for probably the first and only time – a momentarily bewildered officer of the law outside the F1 paddock. Just the sort of story Harvey Postlethwaite loved to hear.