It was labelled 'Formula One's darkest weekend' and shook the sport to its very core, emotionally and politically, causing many to question its purpose and motivation.
The San Marino Grand Prix 1994 took place at the notorious (even before that time) Imola racing circuit, just outside the principality in northern Italy, between Friday 29 April and Sunday 1 May. It was overshadowed by three horrible incidents that have, since that time, cast a permanent shadow over the sport of the risks that drivers face race after race, albeit now to a reduced degree, thankfully.
In practice on the Friday, Rubens Barrichello suffered a terrifying high speed accident in his Jordan. He smacked into the wall and was catapulted over the tyre wall, coming to a halt upside down and unconscious. Were it not for the quick thinking and expert work of the medics, Barrichello would not have enjoyed a career that lasted until 2011, thankfully he did and achieved a distinguished career at Ferrari, involving a number of race wins. In qualifying on the Saturday, Roland Ratzenberger crashed, hitting a concrete wall head-on at a speed of 190 mph. He suffered a fracture to the skull and was pronounced dead, shortly afterwards, at the nearby hospital, his marking the first death that Formula One had seen at a race-meeting in 12 years. It would be just 24 hours until the next.
On Sunday, Ayrton Senna started from pole and retained first place as the Safety Car, deployed following a first lap incident, returned to the pits at the start of lap 5. Just a lap later, leading into the Tamburello Corner - at the beginning of the Imola circuit - Senna left the circuit and hit the concrete wall at a speed in excess of 130 mph. The race was stopped and Senna was attended to at the trackside before being airlifted to the hospital. He was pronounced dead a short time later, as a result of head injuries suffered during the accident. It marked the end of a tragic weekend that devastated the world of Formula One - I remember it vividly.
Following the deaths, changes were introduced to improve the sport and to investigate possible answers and, it is fair to say, it is a safer place and environment as a result. But it did not change the fact that Roland Ratzenberger and Ayrton Senna were gone.
Senna was and is, to this day, regarded as the 'greatest of all time'. He may not have won as many championships as Fangio or Vettel; achieved as many pole positions as Schumacher or race wins as Prost but ask virtually any driver or fan and most will agree that Senna was head and shoulders above the rest. It was his dedication to the sport, his devotion to winning and the way he committed to every drive - it was as if it was so much more than a job or even a passion, it was - to him - what he had been put on this planet to do. Of course, inevitably, it got him into a few sticky situations - championships in 1989 and 1990 were both decided by incidents involving Prost. But the talent is unmistakable - he had a gift like no other, seen particularly at Donnington Park in 1993 where he gained 5 places during the first lap, to take the lead; eventually taking the victory a staggering 1min 23secs ahead of the nearest rival. Senna could drive like no one else and had immense car control. He was particularly famous for blistering pole laps, often setting times totally unmatchable, even by equal machinery.
I saw Senna once, at qualifying for the 1993 British Grand Prix at Silverstone. He neither qualified on pole nor won the race, but I remember being in the presence of a legend and seeing the flash of his yellow helmet as he shot passed at Copse corner.
Senna is also often remembered for his records at the Monaco Grand Prix - an event he won 6 times in a decades, including 5 times in row from 1989 - 1993. Indeed, my earliest memory of Formula One is the 1992 Monaco Grand Prix where Senna managed to keep Mansell - on fresher tyres - behind for the final part of the race. Next week I go, for the first time, to Monte-Carlo and to watch the Historic Monaco Grand Prix (involving historic F1 cars). Wary of the significance of the place to Senna and the timing of the visit, I shall be sure to raise a glass in Gerhard's - a bar owned by Gerhard Berger, Senna's team-mate at McLaren for 3 years - to the great man.
Twitter will, this week, be awash with tributes and thoughts of #Senna and rightly so - gone, but not forgotten and forever respected. Here's mine.
Monday 28 April 2014
Wednesday 23 April 2014
Messing about on a river
Last week I spent 7 gloriously sunny days on a narrowboat in South Wales on the Monmouthshire and Brecon Canal. It was my first such experience though one I am determined to repeat in time.
Generally, I like my holidays active. Travelling tens and hundreds of miles to sit and lie around, doing absolutely nothing has always seemed to me a somewhat bizarre activity for a holiday. Yes, holidays should be relaxing and time to 'chill' is vital, but they should also be interesting and enjoyable. The prospect of spending a whole week on a 50ft boat, however, filled me with great excitement and more than lived up to its expectations. It provided the perfect balance. Spending many enjoyable hours a day manhandling the long craft through the narrow bridges and locks was offset perfectly by the odd hour here and there to read, to walk, and to sample Wales' finest ales. (I also endured a beating at Monopoly).
The holiday was a success for many, many reasons. The lack of phone signal provided the peace and quiet, the water provided the charm, the fiancee provided the affection, and the spectacular views came courtesy of the partnership between South Wales and the weatherman.
Of particular note, however, the joy of the holiday played perfectly to my strengths. I am an over-thinker. As an academic, I have that incurable inability to switch off - whether it's planning next year's classes, debating the form of an upcoming project or fine tuning the wording of an article, my mind is invariably ticking over from dawn 'til dusk, 7 days a week. Sitting and relaxing on a beach, bored out of my mind, would just have provided a nice backdrop to the usual mental noise. A narrowboat holiday, by contrast, takes the mind elsewhere and forces you to stop thinking and to start concentrating. You may only be going at walking pace, but on the narrow turns of the canal, let the mind drift for a second, and the boat will head for the sides, perhaps run aground, and lacking both the agility of a motorcar and the immediacy of traction that comes on the roads, it can take drastic action just to correct the direction and get the boat back on course.
It was a perfect holiday, then. And I return refreshed and revitalised for a few more months of work.
Generally, I like my holidays active. Travelling tens and hundreds of miles to sit and lie around, doing absolutely nothing has always seemed to me a somewhat bizarre activity for a holiday. Yes, holidays should be relaxing and time to 'chill' is vital, but they should also be interesting and enjoyable. The prospect of spending a whole week on a 50ft boat, however, filled me with great excitement and more than lived up to its expectations. It provided the perfect balance. Spending many enjoyable hours a day manhandling the long craft through the narrow bridges and locks was offset perfectly by the odd hour here and there to read, to walk, and to sample Wales' finest ales. (I also endured a beating at Monopoly).
The holiday was a success for many, many reasons. The lack of phone signal provided the peace and quiet, the water provided the charm, the fiancee provided the affection, and the spectacular views came courtesy of the partnership between South Wales and the weatherman.
Of particular note, however, the joy of the holiday played perfectly to my strengths. I am an over-thinker. As an academic, I have that incurable inability to switch off - whether it's planning next year's classes, debating the form of an upcoming project or fine tuning the wording of an article, my mind is invariably ticking over from dawn 'til dusk, 7 days a week. Sitting and relaxing on a beach, bored out of my mind, would just have provided a nice backdrop to the usual mental noise. A narrowboat holiday, by contrast, takes the mind elsewhere and forces you to stop thinking and to start concentrating. You may only be going at walking pace, but on the narrow turns of the canal, let the mind drift for a second, and the boat will head for the sides, perhaps run aground, and lacking both the agility of a motorcar and the immediacy of traction that comes on the roads, it can take drastic action just to correct the direction and get the boat back on course.
It was a perfect holiday, then. And I return refreshed and revitalised for a few more months of work.
Wednesday 2 April 2014
The fear of flying
I have a fear of flying. I'm not a nervous flyer, or a bit anxious on take-off, but a terror stricken passenger from start to finish - I have a fear of flying. This is quite restricting.
Many of my friends are off next week on a two week tour of China. I am not going due to work commitments and unfinished lectures. If I were going, however, I know that - unlike my excited friends planning and talking about all that they will enjoy - I would be quivering in my boots, almost wishing I wasn't going and be panicking about the long flight necessary to endure.
One thing that strikes me about the fear of flying, however, is the lack of wider understanding in its regard.
Everybody seems to think they know what your fear of flying is. Consequently, they reassure with pretty useless statistics and hollow encouragement, saying "once you're up there you're fine". The statistics are true. I know. I can sit here perfectly rationally and accept them and understand them. But that's the thing, there's nothing rational about the fear of flying and, as such, no rational argument or statistics can negotiate with it. Try telling someone who's scared of spiders that a little arachnid has never grabbed a kitchen knife and stabbed its victim.
Another one that always reaches my ears: long flights are easier than short ones.
No they're not. Let me tell you why.
I know that take-off and landing are generally the most dangerous and widely nervous parts of a flight. It is when the plane is doing the most and working the hardest to defy gravity or work in collaboration with it. In between, the plane moves relatively little. It soars through the skies at 30,000 feet until it's time to descend. What people mean when they say that shorter flights are worse than longer flights is that a greater proportion of the experience is taken up by take-off and landing with not very much time spent being able to relax and settle down amidst the clouds. For someone with a fear of flying, however, this means absolutely nothing.
A mind fearful of flying does not care that, at 30,000 the plane is doing relatively little, getting into its stride, meaning that those on board can settle down and 'chill out'. A fear of flying is in the mind and from the moment those wheels leave the ground until terra firma is enjoyed once again, that mind is panic stricken and terror ridden regardless of what the plane is doing and whether or not it is rational to relax. Other people can relax as much as they want, however, someone with a fear of flying will sit there with sweaty palms, gripping the seat or the nearest hand until the wheels touch the runway. As such, shorter flights are easier than longer flights. I've never been aboard an aircraft for longer than 2 hours and long haul flights feel me with great dread.
The fear is very much in the mind, however, and just by saying that I know I'm on the road to accepting it and conquering it. I have flown before - little hops around Europe - and I am determined to fly again. Indeed, in 5 weeks time I fly to Monaco. In September I could be flying to Glasgow (yes, I know it's only Scotland but that's just as much of a challenge). Next year, honeymoon plans are full of New York, Washington and Orlando. I am, now more than ever, determined to conquer this fear and to enjoy a life that resignation to the fear prevents. I will fly and I will enjoy the destinations that it offers. I have the books and I am hopefully soon taking the fear of flying course. Most importantly, however, I am of the mindset that accepts this fear and plans to overcome it. Anxiety can be conquered.
Many of my friends are off next week on a two week tour of China. I am not going due to work commitments and unfinished lectures. If I were going, however, I know that - unlike my excited friends planning and talking about all that they will enjoy - I would be quivering in my boots, almost wishing I wasn't going and be panicking about the long flight necessary to endure.
One thing that strikes me about the fear of flying, however, is the lack of wider understanding in its regard.
Everybody seems to think they know what your fear of flying is. Consequently, they reassure with pretty useless statistics and hollow encouragement, saying "once you're up there you're fine". The statistics are true. I know. I can sit here perfectly rationally and accept them and understand them. But that's the thing, there's nothing rational about the fear of flying and, as such, no rational argument or statistics can negotiate with it. Try telling someone who's scared of spiders that a little arachnid has never grabbed a kitchen knife and stabbed its victim.
Another one that always reaches my ears: long flights are easier than short ones.
No they're not. Let me tell you why.
I know that take-off and landing are generally the most dangerous and widely nervous parts of a flight. It is when the plane is doing the most and working the hardest to defy gravity or work in collaboration with it. In between, the plane moves relatively little. It soars through the skies at 30,000 feet until it's time to descend. What people mean when they say that shorter flights are worse than longer flights is that a greater proportion of the experience is taken up by take-off and landing with not very much time spent being able to relax and settle down amidst the clouds. For someone with a fear of flying, however, this means absolutely nothing.
A mind fearful of flying does not care that, at 30,000 the plane is doing relatively little, getting into its stride, meaning that those on board can settle down and 'chill out'. A fear of flying is in the mind and from the moment those wheels leave the ground until terra firma is enjoyed once again, that mind is panic stricken and terror ridden regardless of what the plane is doing and whether or not it is rational to relax. Other people can relax as much as they want, however, someone with a fear of flying will sit there with sweaty palms, gripping the seat or the nearest hand until the wheels touch the runway. As such, shorter flights are easier than longer flights. I've never been aboard an aircraft for longer than 2 hours and long haul flights feel me with great dread.
The fear is very much in the mind, however, and just by saying that I know I'm on the road to accepting it and conquering it. I have flown before - little hops around Europe - and I am determined to fly again. Indeed, in 5 weeks time I fly to Monaco. In September I could be flying to Glasgow (yes, I know it's only Scotland but that's just as much of a challenge). Next year, honeymoon plans are full of New York, Washington and Orlando. I am, now more than ever, determined to conquer this fear and to enjoy a life that resignation to the fear prevents. I will fly and I will enjoy the destinations that it offers. I have the books and I am hopefully soon taking the fear of flying course. Most importantly, however, I am of the mindset that accepts this fear and plans to overcome it. Anxiety can be conquered.
Tuesday 1 April 2014
The Bach Choir: St Matthew Passion
So this Sunday is The Bach Choir's annual performance of J S Bach's iconic St Matthew Passion. To put that in context, I'm in and strongly committed to The Bach Choir and am a little obsessed with Bach's music, particularly his choral works. But it will be so much more than another enjoyable concert, the event is one markedly different from every other The Bach Choir concert for a number of reasons.
First, the music. Bach was a genius. Fan or not, there's no disputing his importance and contribution to the musical world and the extent to which this continues to influence musicians today. Of particular note, however, the Matthew Passion is one of his very best outputs - its drama, its depth and its variety of music make it, in places, truly sublime and spine-tingling to sing. Demanding large forces - a double choir, double orchestra, 6 soloists and a ripieno chorus, it is a work that can (though not in The Bach Choir's performances) last over 3 hours. Klemperer's recording, indeed, lasts for 3hrs 45mins. Written for Good Friday in Leipzig in 1727, it is often compared to the John Passion and, indeed, I - like many - would say that I prefer the earlier work (just) - the John being composed as part of JS's audition for his post in Leipzig at Easter 1723. But the two passions are different - the Matthew, in my opinion is an opera, the John more of an oratorio. As such, the arias stand out in the Matthew as some of Bach's best writing - diverse, dramatic and, at times, emotionally rich. The John, by contrast, offers the choir more of an active role. The Matthew Passion, though, can be counted amongst Bach's most amazing compositions and it will be great to perform it again.
Second, the choir. The Bach Choir's annual passiontide performance of the Matthew Passion goes back deep into this great institution's long and distinguished history and, as such, it has become something of a milestone on the musical calendar. Consequently, the piece runs through the choir's veins and is known so well that it can be approached differently from other works that we rehearse. Little changes and tweaks are made each year and these work to refine, year by year, our performance, ensuring that it remains fresh. Performing something with such heritage, however, brings a special sense of contribution to an important musical festival. It is a piece that belongs to the choir, to a degree, and it's great to be a part of that year after year.
Third, the time and event. Generally, concerts take place of an evening, after a hard day's work. As such, they often feel like an added extra to a day's proceedings, albeit a big and enjoyable one. By contrast, performing - as we do - at 11am on Passion (or Palm, depending on the year) Sunday means that that day is about one thing. Indeed, add a 2 hour lunch break, and you have a full day's event, one that finishes about 4pm with a great sense of achievement and the culmination of a musical and, in some ways, spiritual journey.
The annual performance of the Matthew Passion, therefore, is a key event. Musically sublime, historically important and year after year significant. It gets better and better and I, for one, can't wait for what will be my 6th passion with The Bach Choir.
First, the music. Bach was a genius. Fan or not, there's no disputing his importance and contribution to the musical world and the extent to which this continues to influence musicians today. Of particular note, however, the Matthew Passion is one of his very best outputs - its drama, its depth and its variety of music make it, in places, truly sublime and spine-tingling to sing. Demanding large forces - a double choir, double orchestra, 6 soloists and a ripieno chorus, it is a work that can (though not in The Bach Choir's performances) last over 3 hours. Klemperer's recording, indeed, lasts for 3hrs 45mins. Written for Good Friday in Leipzig in 1727, it is often compared to the John Passion and, indeed, I - like many - would say that I prefer the earlier work (just) - the John being composed as part of JS's audition for his post in Leipzig at Easter 1723. But the two passions are different - the Matthew, in my opinion is an opera, the John more of an oratorio. As such, the arias stand out in the Matthew as some of Bach's best writing - diverse, dramatic and, at times, emotionally rich. The John, by contrast, offers the choir more of an active role. The Matthew Passion, though, can be counted amongst Bach's most amazing compositions and it will be great to perform it again.
Second, the choir. The Bach Choir's annual passiontide performance of the Matthew Passion goes back deep into this great institution's long and distinguished history and, as such, it has become something of a milestone on the musical calendar. Consequently, the piece runs through the choir's veins and is known so well that it can be approached differently from other works that we rehearse. Little changes and tweaks are made each year and these work to refine, year by year, our performance, ensuring that it remains fresh. Performing something with such heritage, however, brings a special sense of contribution to an important musical festival. It is a piece that belongs to the choir, to a degree, and it's great to be a part of that year after year.
Third, the time and event. Generally, concerts take place of an evening, after a hard day's work. As such, they often feel like an added extra to a day's proceedings, albeit a big and enjoyable one. By contrast, performing - as we do - at 11am on Passion (or Palm, depending on the year) Sunday means that that day is about one thing. Indeed, add a 2 hour lunch break, and you have a full day's event, one that finishes about 4pm with a great sense of achievement and the culmination of a musical and, in some ways, spiritual journey.
The annual performance of the Matthew Passion, therefore, is a key event. Musically sublime, historically important and year after year significant. It gets better and better and I, for one, can't wait for what will be my 6th passion with The Bach Choir.
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