There was more to James Hunt than the hard-driving, hard-drinking, cocky, flirtatious legend would have you believe.   

Since his death, and perhaps because of modern-day drivers living rather less exuberant lives, Hunt has become synonymous with a more hedonistic era of motorsport, as much a rockstar as a professional athlete: the golden boy for the golden age.  

Away from the track and the watchful eye of the media spotlight, he was a very different person: his boisterous, rowdy persona more restrained and his obvious confidence more reserved. Contrary to popular belief, Hunt’s celebrity status made him somewhat uneasy. He didn’t seek stardom, it just came as a result of his ability to drive a car extremely quickly and right on the limit.  

30 years ago today, the racing world was shocked to learn that the 1976 Formula 1 World Champion had died. Hunt, who took nine of his 10 F1 victories during a three-year spell with McLaren between 1976-1978, suffered a heart attack at home in Wimbledon at only 45 years old.  

Among the greatest drivers of his generation, and one of the most thrilling of all time, Hunt was a complicated character whose true personality differs depending on who you speak to, and when and how they knew him.  

He was hugely popular with British race fans and the tabloid press but, for much of the media, he was hard work, to put it mildly. Seasoned journalists found the gangling Englishman to be rude to the point of arrogance, especially after he became world champion with McLaren in 1976 at the end of a tense battle with Niki Lauda and Ferrari.  

Much of the initial hostility towards Hunt came from his posh accent and band of socialite friends. This established an upper-class image that was only amplified by his Formula 1 debut with Hesketh Racing, led by young English nobleman Lord Alexander Hesketh. However, their serious purpose as a racing team matched the reality behind their driver’s condescending demeanour.  

His initial foray into racing displayed his naivety and parlous financial state, as he built a so-called racing car from the stripped-out shell of a crashed Mini. A significant achievement considering he barely knew a spanner from a sprocket.  

Not that it mattered when he eventually made it to the front line of F1 and joined McLaren in 1976. Here, a highly professional team would take care of the nuts and bolts, leaving James to do the driving – and whatever else took his fancy. The latter was the bit that worried the crew on the workshop floor: they didn’t really know what to expect.  

James had a reputation for crashing (hence the ‘Hunt the Shunt‘ moniker) and being prone to outbursts of temper. Hunt had climbed from his crashed car and punched a rival after they had come together at the final corner of a F3 race in 1970. But for all the speculation, his first race for McLaren at the 1976 Brazilian Grand Prix told the mechanics what they needed to know about their new man. 

No long before qualifying, the Cosworth V8 in the back of Hunt’s M23 had blown itself to pieces. The entire crew set to work on a frantic engine change in the pit-lane. Dave Ryan – who later became McLaren’s chief mechanic and then sporting director - described the scene. 

“I remember James sitting on the wall, behind the car,” he said. “It was like a bomb had gone off. It was just a mess: there were bits everywhere. I was thinking the poor bloke hasn't got a chance. He must be saying to himself: ‘I've got to get in this thing in half an hour!’ We get it ready, he jumps in – and puts it on pole position. We're thinking: ‘How did he do that?’ It was impressive as hell.” 

Not only was he fast, James was also fun to be with and in increasing demand on the social scene. A county-standard tennis player, Hunt was invited to play with the President of General Motors, whose company was sponsoring the Brazilian Grand Prix. The executive found he had a seriously competitive opponent. Just as anyone who took Hunt on at backgammon was worn down by a relentless will to win.  

But Hunt’s nonchalance was a front: a defence against the incessant attention that accompanied his daring career choice. He found it difficult to cope with fame. James would arrive late at functions and abide by his own dress code, usually a T-shirt, jeans and trainers, mocking his besuited and bejewelled hosts. It was Hunt’s way of managing contractual obligations that came a distant second to a night out with his mates, or walking Oscar, his beloved Alsatian, on the beach near his bolthole in Spain. 

The McLaren mechanics didn’t care what he did away from the racetrack, so long as he performed in the car. There were many times, however, when they wondered if he would get in the car at all. A combination of nerves and anxiety would regularly cause James to be sick in a bucket not long before the race start.  

On the grid, his mechanics would feel the car vibrating - and yet the engine wasn’t running, such was the state of their driver’s tremors in the cockpit. But everyone knew, once underway, James Hunt, the supreme driver and competitor, would be in his element.  

That wasn’t Hunt’s only natural habitat, and the stories of his fondness for female company were well-founded. Our crew learned to work this to everyone’s advantage, particularly when the pressure was mounting as they approached the end of a very tense 1976 season. Team Manager Alastair Caldwell had no difficulty in turning a blind eye to his driver’s preferred choice for relaxation at such a potentially stressful time. 

The tide would eventually turn following his retirement halfway through 1979, as perhaps the truest version of Hunt emerged, but that didn’t happen immediately. He became an F1 summariser for commentator Murray Walker on BBC television, which substantially reduced his public commitments but not his love of a good time. 

The meticulous Walker was shocked when a dishevelled Hunt arrived with minutes to spare before the start of their first Grand Prix together at Monaco in 1980. Alarm turned to anger when Murray realised James had clearly consumed the best part of an accompanying bottle of red wine, and immediately dispatched a runner to find another. 

Hunt’s saving grace was a capacity to read the race and express his views in a fluent and forthright manner. He enjoyed the work and comparatively low profile.

The sea-change came in 1982, and it was both sudden and dramatic. He worked on his fitness, cut back on excesses, and became ‘one of the lads’. He settled down with his second wife, Helen Dyson - even leaving her secret messages during his commentary - and his two sons from his first marriage.

He had been able to reassume the comparative normality of life before fame. Journalists, who had studiously avoided James in the past, went out of their way to seek his captivating company. 

When living at his Wimbledon home, James would often scoot around town, either by pushbike, or at the wheel of an elderly Austin A35 van, when picking up supplies for budgies in an aviary in his back garden.  

This typically contradictory transformation was to reach an unexpectedly sad end on 15 June 1993 when James Hunt died of a sudden heart attack. He was only 45. An engaging and ultimately much-loved bad boy had gone far too soon.