Murray Walker- a motor racing legend dies.

 Murray Walker- a motor racing legend dies.

Murray Walker, who died yesterday at the grand old age of 97, was never short of the right words for the big occasion and never lacking in the communication skills that more or less came naturally to him. Walker was instantly recognisable as the voice of F1, a motor racing TV commentator par excellence, a man who genuinely loved his sport with an unmistakable passion and was swept away by its many moods and mannerisms, its intensity and urgency, and its often horrific outcomes. 

When Walker made his BBC debut in 1949 it was as if the world of motor racing had just discovered a stick of dynamite, a turbo-charged force of nature who just launched whole heartedly into a riot of verbal eulogies, grammatical works of art and the kind of short, sweet and laconic descriptions that were never less than endearing. He embraced motor racing, energised motor racing and believed implicitly that it was quite the most magnificent sport he'd ever seen. His words were punched out with a delightful enthusiasm that none could possibly come anywhere near  matching. 

Yesterday the helter-skelter, daredevil, explosive and death defying world of motor racing lost a man whose very appropriate and high pitched deliveries in front of a microphone lit up the sport in an instant like a flash of lightning. But above all he became besotted with motor racing's characters, those boiler suited gentlemen who squeezed into those tiny, cramped F1 cars and then clung onto their steering wheel as if their lives depended on it which was quite often the case. 

In the days when Murray Walker was a BBC commentator, motor racing was one of those popular and fashionable sporting attractions but never quite as high profile as cricket, football, tennis or rugby. The rarefied world of F1 has always been glamorous and enthralling but, for those of us unfamiliar with its finer points and technicalities, it always seemed tedious, repetitive, frightening and almost too hard to bear. You would watch motor racing through closed fingers, a palpitating beat of the heart, shock and bafflement, something you would never recommend to your son or daughter.  

But if any man was more qualified to familiarise us chapter and verse with motor racing's often hectic tempo, its inexplicable risks and always inherent dangers, then Walker was your go to man. From the moment the chequered flag went up at Brands Hatch or Silverstone or any of those iconic F1 venues across Europe and the world, he would scream and shout, holler and yell at the top of his voice which had now begun to show signs of rebellion but would never become a blunt instrument. 

In recent years Walker would find common ground with Damon Hill who he willed home to victory in many a grand prix. Hill's father of course was Graham, that classy, stylish, neat moustachioed English gentleman who was posh but disciplined, refined, dashing and debonair, a man Walker could always identify with. When Graham Hill died in a tragic accident, Walker must have been heartbroken but Hill's son Damon would emerge from dad's shadow like a knight in shining armour. Walker was in seventh heaven.

Walker though was always at the centre of motor racing's fast and furious universe. He waxed lyrical about the romantic Frenchman Alain Prost, an outstanding driver who was never far from controversy but illuminated F1 like the brightest chandelier. Walker had plenty of time for the likes of Emerson Fittipaldi, Britain's very own Jackie Stewart, an intrepid Scotsman, Nelson Picquet and Britain's Nigel Mansell, quite possibly misunderstood by the British public as bland and boring but nonetheless a winner and that's what mattered to Murray Walker. 

Above the deafening roar of a thousand engines, Walker's voice boomed out above the din and the clamour. Then there were women who adored the male and machismo image that F1 had now cultivated. There was something about the acoustics about motor racing that we knew he couldn't get enough of. You somehow suspected that every race, every heart stopping moment was the ultimate challenge for  Walker's now strained tonsils. At times it must have felt like a competition. 

Above all though Walker was an enthusiast, a zealot, a man addicted to the thrills and spills, the dramatic crashes, the uncontrollable speed, cars spinning off the track with sparks flying and engines now trashed forever more. He thrived under pressure, knew exactly what to say and then captured that nail biting moment of life and death with stunning understatement. Go Go Go he would say at the beginning of an F1 classic as if quite suddenly the organisers had decided to call off the race. They would quite literally go like the clappers, 150mph at every bend or chicane so we warmed to him immediately. 

And then there were the modern day favourites like Ayrton Senna who tragically died when the future seemed mapped out for him. Walker just went into raptures knowing full well that here was a tactically ingenious driver who knew exactly when to hit the front and stay there. There was something of the charismatic charmer about Murray Walker that never faltered at all in any given race. He ate, drank and slept motor racing because he knew that the sport's followers did much the same thing.

Sadly though Murray Walker died yesterday and the gap maybe impossible to fill. Because he knew quite knowledgeably, every chassis, carburettor and every gear stick in every car that it was possible to know. He knew those tireless mechanics, the engineers, the constructors, the men who changed the tyres with astonishing efficiency and professionalism, men who could change the course of a race in a matter of seconds, the owners, the often complex management behind the scenes. Murray Walker has now seen his last F1 race and the world of motor racing will send its very fondest wishes to his family and friends. Farwell Murray Walker. Your voice will never, ever be forgotten.