F1 diary: Bahrain Grand Prix

By Simon Arron  www.telegraph.co.uk

March 9: Just 127 days (or 10,972,800 seconds, should you prefer) after I last unpacked at the end of a grand prix weekend, the process resumes in reverse.

Fernando Alonso took an easy victory on his debut for Ferrari Photo: Simon Arron

Bags are sifted and shorn of unnecessary ingredients: I have apparently spent the winter carrying around all manner of useful stuff, including a boarding card stub from Abu Dhabi, a printed copy of the 2009 Brazilian GP results, assorted taxi receipts and 17 ballpoint pens, most of which were assumed lost before they materialised in my computer backpack’s lower recesses.

Check in for the following afternoon’s Gatwick-Dubai-Bahrain jaunt and simultaneously receive an email from easyJet, apologising for the enforced cancellation of my scheduled flight to Istanbul, in May.

They will, of course, be delighted to fly me to Turkey, at no extra cost, at any time within 30 days of my original booking.

Given that Bernie Ecclestone isn’t about to alter the date of the Turkish GP to suit easyJet’s whims, I cancel the reservation and wonder whether I will be refunded with quite the same promptness that I paid. Suspect I know the answer to that one.

Turkish Airlines offers alternatives for about the same price, so I choose one of those and travel equilibrium is restored.

March 10: The 2010 Formula One campaign starts not with a cocktail party on a sun-drenched terrace overlooking the Gulf of Bahrain but, as is traditional, on a tram bound for the reliably romantic concrete-with-chewing-gum ambience of East Croydon, gateway to Gatwick and almost everywhere else.

Meet Mark and Tony at the airport, where there is ample time to feast because the incoming flight is 90 minutes off the pace due to fog.

It won’t affect our connection because we’d planned to overnight chez Emirates in Dubai, where the lounge has some reclining bed-type things, most of which have inevitably been claimed by the time we arrive.

We adapt assorted chairs and cushions and sleep is as comfortable as it can be given that the nearby PA constantly chimes in with news of final calls to Lagos, Auckland, Colombo and elsewhere.

March 11: Touch down too late to attend a pre-season Mercedes breakfast, starring scrambled eggs and Michael Schumacher. Those who go emerge uttering the words “waste” and “time”. Reticence always was his long suit.

It’s not the first time Bahrain has hosted the opening round of the world championship, but well organised as the event might be – it is absolutely at the sport’s cutting edge in that domain – it doesn’t feel quite right as a curtain-raiser.

The mood is simply too flat, because in its freshly extended form the circuit is one of the longest on the schedule yet the public facilities are contained within a fraction of its length. Stray beyond Turn Four and you might as well be on Mars.

There is a distinct buzz, though, within the paddock’s farthest nooks. Two of the sport’s newest three teams – Virgin and HRT – are still putting their cars together… and the latter’s have yet to run at all.

The mechanics have barely slept all week and the odds on repose are even longer than those on victory.

Protocol dictates that contemporary racing teams exert a clinical air, but the newcomers are a welcome throwback: their consummate professionalism is accompanied by the filthy fingernails of circumstance.

March 12: Spend the morning taking pictures and adjusting to the cocktail of new or updated liveries. It occurs that I have never previously captured Michael Schumacher on camera, despite having been present at 160 of his previous 250 grands prix. The idiocy of abandoning photography for 24 years…

March 13: Arrive early at the circuit, partly to savour fruit salad, scrambled eggs and croissants within the world’s finest media catering tent – three meals a day, all provided free of charge – but mostly to loiter among a collection of heritage cars that has been assembled for a parade celebrating the 60th anniversary of the F1 world championship.

Many heritage drivers are here, too: John Surtees, Jackie Stewart, Emerson Fittipaldi, Mario Andretti, Jody Scheckter, Damon Hill and Nigel Mansell are all participants, while other bygone champions are present to watch. The collection is sumptuous, the mood infectious.

Each says they are here for a bit of fun – and it is, after all, only a parade – but they emerge grinning broadly and talking earnestly about the need to fine-tune their line through turn such and such. Once a racing driver…

People claim modern F1 stars lack their antecedents’ charisma, but I always consider that slightly unfair.

There were bland individuals in the past, just as there are today, and the corporate shackles of modern sport tend to impede plain speech. Many current drivers are much more engaging than their reputations suggest.

Sebastian Vettel, a case in point, takes pole position. Felipe Massa provides the surprise of the day, outqualifying new team-mate Fernando Alonso by almost four tenths.

HRT finally gets its second car finished: it was ready to leave the pits in the morning, but a hydraulic failure struck Karun Chandhok before he’d turned a wheel.

He finally gets to try the car, then, while everybody else is in qualifying mode. The Indian’s mum sends him a text: “At last! I’ve seen your car on TV…”

March 14: With apologies to TS Eliot, this is the way the world championship begins, not with a bang but a whimper. Given all the Button/Hamilton/Alonso/Ferrari/Schumacher hype that went beforehand, the Bahrain GP’s docile framework was all too predictable.

“Boring” is the overwhelming post-race reaction, as a faulty spark plug slows leader Sebastian Vettel and allows Fernando Alonso to commence his Ferrari career with a comfortable victory.

Amid the catcalls, Vettel provides one of the day’s brighter stories: he fiddles around with various settings and makes the car sufficiently driveable to salvage fourth place. He also handles defeat with great humour and dignity.

It will take a couple of races to establish whether the sport’s latest regulations will render all races quite so tame, but the drivers fear it might.

Heavy fuel loads put a premium on tyre conservation and discourage any sense of adventure.

The start of any new season is always the same: it takes a while to cultivate the discipline required to complete copy on a Sunday evening.

Bahrain doesn’t have an Australia-sized safety net, but it is three hours ahead of the UK – a sufficiently persuasive detail to encourage me to turn in before midnight. My Motorsport News report remains unstarted.

March 15: Rise at 5am and complete all deadline work before breakfast. There is a swimming pool on the hotel roof, but more writing awaits – not least transcription of endless interviews with bygone heroes.

We leave Bahrain at 17.50 for a short hop to Dubai, then a seven-hour wait in the lounge. Vegetable curry and Chablis help to pass the time, as does eBay – I feel a sudden urge to look at Sunbeam Alpines.

March 16: The Gatwick flight leaves on time, at 2.55. One down, 18 to go. Mark, Tony and I go our separate ways upon arrival, but one week hence we’ll unite once more en route to Melbourne. As ever, the relentless pace of race weekends accelerates time’s passage.