My stepfather put down his newspaper and challenged me, “Prove to me you’ve got the ability, and I will help you.” Being a farmer, he wasn’t swimming in cash for fancy cars. My first wheels were on a David Brown tractor at age nine. So, asking him for a few thousand pounds for a hobby, a gamble that might lead nowhere, was a big ask. He was an incredible man, but he couldn’t have known if I was truly talented.
This was 1962. I had just returned home to sunny Sussex, buzzing with excitement. After driving at Jim Russell’s driving school at Snetterton, Jim himself had singled me out. He declared in front of everyone that I had “exceptional talent” and guaranteed I’d be in a factory team by year’s end. Remarkably, things moved rapidly after that. It all ties back to the cars I owned: a Lotus Seven, a 998 Mini Cooper, a second-hand Jaguar E-type, and a Ferrari 275 GTB/4. Oh, how I regret selling that Ferrari.
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I couldn’t just sell farm produce to fund my racing dreams. If I wanted it, I had to make it happen myself. I was earning £20 a week managing the farm, after £2.50 tax, and couldn’t take time off during busy periods. That’s why my friend John Penfold and I took turns racing the Lotus Seven we bought used from a hill climb racer. We rebuilt it with a Cortina 1500 engine. Many successful motorsport figures had financial backing, but I believe that our struggle actually helped us progress.
I could hear the roar of engines from Goodwood circuit from the farm; it’s only eight miles away. On March 13th, 1964, I made my track debut in the Lotus – which hadn’t even turned a wheel until the night before. Without a roof, it was freezing cold. I didn’t tell John I cut short the 200-mile running-in trip after just twenty miles, but I still managed to win my first race in the drizzling rain.
The Mini Cooper was crucial in that first year racing the Lotus. It was severely underpowered and, lacking a subframe, terribly unsuitable for towing the Seven on a trailer, especially with a fuel can in the back and a girlfriend on board. Somehow, the local garage lads managed to weld a tow bar onto it and build us a trailer, which I think cost about £100. It was the Mini’s undoing.
It was dreadful. That poor little car moved like a speedboat, nose pointing skyward with all that weight behind. Inevitably, on the way to a race at Mallory Park, the trailer broke off. We were about 45 miles from the circuit, it was almost dark, the Lotus had no lights, and my girlfriend (who later became my wife) had never towed with a rope before. The whole thing was ridiculous, but somehow, we got there without wrecking the Seven. It’s a vivid memory. We replaced the Mini with an old petrol Land Rover from the farm, and I wasn’t sad to see the Mini go because I was excited about what was coming next.
That season brought quite a few successes. I led for most of the championship but finished second because we had to miss races in northern England – too far from Sussex. For me, the Lotus Seven was never truly a race car; it was a stepping stone because I couldn’t afford a single-seater, which is what I really wanted. So, saying goodbye wasn’t emotional. The money from its sale went towards a new Formula 3 car, and that was truly exciting. After that, I progressed to Formula 3 and Formula 2.
Derek Bell’s 275 GTB/4, repainted and sold through RM Sotheby’s back in 2011. Photos: RM Sotheby’s
In 1966, my stepfather – later known as the Colonel, though he never served in the army – said, “Come on, give up farming. You can always return to it at 40, but you can’t start racing at 40.” By 1968, I was driving for Enzo Ferrari. We’d watched the Italian Grand Prix together in 1959, so to be on the third row of the grid in a Formula 1 Ferrari alongside Jackie Stewart just nine years later was incredible.
My dream was a road-going Ferrari, but back then, team cars weren’t a perk. At the time, I drove a white E-Type convertible, bought for £800 from a friend in Bognor. I pulled up outside the Ferrari factory in Maranello one lunchtime, thinking they’d never let me in driving it. But as I got out, the factory gates opened, and a wave of mechanics in blue and red overalls poured out for lunch. Instantly, they swarmed the E-Type. They’d never seen one before. I lifted the bonnet, started it up, and opened all the doors. I think arriving in that E-Type did more for my reputation at Ferrari that day than my Formula 1 driving.
Ferrari withdrew from racing mid-1969 due to uncompetitive cars. Not a great start to my Formula 1 career. I raced worldwide for other teams. My best result was sixth at the 1970 United States Grand Prix in a Surtees TS7, my highest Formula One World Championship finish. By then, the E-Type was gone. I don’t recall what happened to it or who got it. While lovely, it wasn’t my dream car.
I befriended Jacques Swaters, the Ferrari dealer and collector. He helped my dream come true at 28. I paid £3500 for a one-year-old silver Ferrari 275 GTB/4, picked it up from his Brussels showroom, and drove it across Europe like a maniac. How I afforded it, earning peanuts back then, I don’t know.
The 275’s styling was breathtaking, the most beautiful Ferrari ever made. Its looks alone justified owning it, but being aluminum and lightweight, it lived up to the hype and handled wonderfully.
I’d take the 275 on a ferry to Dieppe and drive the 760 miles to Maranello in a day. A phenomenal journey via Dijon, Geneva, and over the Alps. A phenomenal time. All of us racing drivers did the same. Mike Hailwood had a Maserati, and convoying with him was fantastic, great camaraderie. But motorsport was terribly dangerous then, many died. I’d lie in bed wondering, ‘What am I doing? Why not me who gets killed?’. It weighed on you, but also made you appreciate life and those around you more. Every driver felt it, but we didn’t discuss it; it was just part of it.
I loved driving with Jacques Laffite, a French Formula 1 champion with a fantastic personality. Spontaneous adventures were his thing. He’d say, ‘Come on, let’s ski,’ and we’d drive to Chamonix, where I faced the most terrifying ski runs ever. Once, he got ahead in traffic, and I found him parked by the roadside, fishing in a trout stream.
Back then, borders were simple. Passport check, and you drove on. However, customs officers often wanted a peek at the Ferrari’s engine.
Photo: RM Sotheby’s
I rarely had passengers in the 275, except once when I took my lawyer to Maranello to review a Ferrari contract. He wasn’t easily impressed, but he had one hell of a trip; I drove fast. I guess I’ve always had a need for speed. At fifteen, I’d wash my stepfather’s Jaguar XK150, then take it up the road towards Chichester to see if I could hit 100mph. My way of judging a car then, and nobody ever knew.
I had the 275 for two years but, struggling with racing and money, I sold it for $5,000 in 1972. Also, two kids didn’t fit in the back. I ordered a Ferrari Daytona next, still no room for kids.
We all have dreams. Mine, as a boy, was to drive my own Ferrari to Monaco for the Grand Prix. Amazingly, the Daytona was ready just in time for me to take it to the Grand Prix, where I was supposed to race in a Tecno – which didn’t show up. I was furious.
Until recently, I thought the 275 (now red) was in America. At Goodwood Festival of Speed, an Austrian gentleman told me it was in Munich and up for auction. Unbelievable. I’m glad someone cared for it, but I could never afford to buy it back. I’d love to reunite with it, take it back to Maranello.
The David Brown tractor started my driving life. Ploughing fields outside the farmhouse. We had about six tractors, and I always wanted the most powerful, maybe 16mph. The Mini and Lotus Seven began my racing career, but sentimentally, they meant less than the E-Type, a special car.
I’ve driven incredible cars, relished being a Bentley brand ambassador, testing the Continental GT in places like the Kalahari desert – crazy! But, unbelievably, that Ferrari 275 remains my dream car.
Someone always helps you get where you are, opening doors, offering advice, or financial help. Mr. Ferrari was one who took an interest in my career. I was lucky to know him personally, maybe why I have such affection for him, and that 275. Drifting into the unknown, I think the old man would be flattered my dream was still a Ferrari at seventy, when I bought my [550] Maranello.
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