Playful Questions to Test the Mettle of a Driven Man

David Coulthard was sitting at a table on the lawn outside the McLaren garage in Albert Park, answering questions about his failure to win the Australian grand prix after finding himself unexpectedly in the lead at the end of that first eventful lap.

Coulthard has faced many such occasions during his eight years in formula one. Even the greatest grand prix drivers lose more races than they win, and one of the earliest lessons they learn is how to deal politely with sometimes hurtful, often ignorant post-mortems. The Scot, whose car had let him down, was coping with the interrogation with his usual thoughtfulness and courtesy.

At that moment I found myself wanting to ask whether he felt disheartened by the sight of Michael Schumacher waltzing off into the distance at the first race of the season, driving what was basically last year's car. Had this not, I would say, put everyone else's efforts into perspective? How did the McLaren driver feel about his team's efforts in using their £200m annual budget to produce a car manifestly slower than a second-hand Ferrari?

When you're preparing to interject a question at such moments, a variety of possible answers sometimes flashes across your mind. Coulthard's response, I imagined, would be a variation on the standard line.

Yes, he would say, the old Ferrari had certainly gone well, and the new Ferrari, when it appeared, might be even faster. But it was his responsibility, and his team's, to work harder to ensure that the performance gap would be closed before the season's trophies had disappeared beyond retrieval. A willingness to work harder would be the key.

At that moment, Sir Stirling Moss passed by the McLaren garage, on his way to the champagne party with which the Minardi team was celebrating its success in bringing the local boy Mark Webber home in fifth place. Moss is a favourite in Melbourne, where his victory in the first Australian grand prix, held to coincide with the 1956 Olympic Games, is fondly remembered.

His presence seemed a reminder of a time when sport did not place such an emphasis on the dignity of labour. True, he was in many ways a precursor of the contemporary era of professionalism. Right from the beginning he was careful about which contracts he signed, and his attitude to his trade featured an emphasis on physical preparation, although his approach did not preclude attendance at parties in the company of the 50s equivalent of supermodels.

Coulthard, as readers of the tabloid press will be aware, has his share of fun with supermodels. But he is also required to subscribe to a work ethic whose parameters are set by Michael Schumacher, the hardest-working driver in formula one as well as the most successful. As a result, these men earn the sort of sums that allow them to spend part of the winter indulging in whatever expensive pastimes catch their fancy. But during the season, work is the word. In the pit lane, smiles and laughter are far outnumbered by furrowed brows and enigmatic silences.

Money is the reason, of course. A team that accepts £50m a year from a commercial sponsor is also accepting the responsibility to produce results that will add lustre to the sponsor's products. Otherwise the subsidy will soon be withdrawn, and all the goodies along with it.

Motor racing is by no means unique in responding to this obligation. Ever since Gary Player pronounced that "the more I practise, the luckier I get," professional sportsmen and women have seen it as their duty to put in the hours on the practice tee, in the nets, or on the training pitch. We are constantly told that Jonny Wilkinson and David Beckham, for instance, would not have reached their level of extreme technical excellence without an unnatural dedication to practising the elements of their craft.

The fans demand it, after all. When our team fails, we accuse its members of not working hard enough, and our voices betray an edge of resentment that they, who are lucky enough to be paid to do something essentially recreational, should not be paying some sort of price for their good fortune.

But I was also reminded, mulling over my question to Coulthard, of something Don Van Vliet, the avant-garde rock musician of the 70s better known as Captain Beefheart, said many years ago when I made a casual inquiry about whether he and his band had been getting much work.

"We don't work," the Captain said sternly. "We play."

A heresy, I suppose, in the modern world. But also a precious truth, too easily forgotten. This time, I left David Coulthard alone.

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