By the time I was easing myself into the front passenger seat of the BMW 735 parked on the straight of a deserted Jarama circuit about 25 miles from Madrid, Spain, my driver had won two Formula One World Championships and 13 Grands Prix. Afterwards, he went on to win a third world title and another nine GPs; not bad for a boy from Brazil who first competed under the pseudonym Nelson Pique—which stuck—to keep his motor racing aspirations from his parents, who had a completely different career in mind for him.
It was late January 1985, and Pirelli had chosen Jarama as the location for the international press launch of a pair of its new ultra-low–profile car tires a couple of months on. We were at the track to shoot a film of the new tires in action, to be shown at the launch; the movie’s testimonial was to be my driver, none other than the Formula One ace they called lo zingaro (“the Gypsy” in Italian), Nelson Piquet, alias Nelson Suoto Maior. Which is why I was sitting there with my heart in my mouth listening to the big BMW’s engine innocently ticking over. My problem was that Nelson was annoyed, and it was my fault.
