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What's more, Clark loves his work. Not many Grand Prix drivers do. "This cruel sport," the U.S.'s Dan Gurney calls it. In the last 20 years, 50-odd drivers have been killed in Grand Prix racing, and the circuit has its share of men who soothe their jangled nerves with alcohol and drugs. Clark's nerves are fine. "When I'm going flat out, drifting through a corner, I'm not driving a car, really," says Jim. "I'm putting myself through that corner. The car happens to be under me and I'm driving it, but I'm part of it and it's part of me." Ford Motor Co.'s Don Frey worked closely with Clark at Indianapolis, calls him "the epitome" of a racing driver. "His greatest asset," says Frey, "is his imperturbability. When he was five or ten years old, a gyro began spinning somewhere inside him and he became his own standard maker. He's inner-directed. He lives in his own world."
On the Sly. Jim Clark has been "inner-directed" ever since he was nine and studied every move his father made as he drove the family Austin Seven around the fields of Edington Mains, the Clarks' 1,200-acre Berwickshire farm. One evening Mama Clark glanced out the window to find the Austin rolling merrily across a field—apparently with nobody at the wheel. "Jim was told he must never do that again," says Mrs. Clark. "But you can't watch an active boy all the time, can you?" Shipped off to private school, Jim learned all about rugby, cricket, field hockey, golf—and not much else. So he quit at 16 and went home. "Normally there were two shepherds on the farm," he recalls, "but one of them had left just about the time I came home. My father bought me a dog and a stick and said, 'Right. Now get on with it.' "
Jimmy was running Edington Mains himself by the time he was 18; his father had taken over another farm 25 miles away. He had his own car, a vintage Sunbeam Talbot, and he began competing in local rallies, driving from point to point around the countryside in precisely the allotted time. "Father said it was a waste of time—and he wanted to know why my car cost five times as much to keep up as his did." He kept on rallying, mostly on the sly. One night, driving his mother to a sister's house to baby-sit, he worked up the courage to spring his big surprise. "I'm going to start motor racing," he said. "Oh no you're not," said Mrs. Clark. Thereupon, Jim angrily kicked the throttle, gave the steering wheel a flick, and sent the car hurtling through a curve at 70 m.p.h. in a perfectly controlled drift. His mother said nothing more.
In 1958, Clark joined the Border Reivers, a Scottish auto-racing club—whose dark blue crash helmet he still wears today. From the start, recalls Fellow Border Reiver Ian Scott Wat son, "Jim drove so fast that most people were scared stiff to sit next to him." Among the 150-odd trophies lying around the 500-year-old farmhouse at Edington Mains is a block of black wood with three toy cars (a Porsche, a Triumph, a Jaguar) mounted on top, along with the inscription:
PRESENTED BY THE BORDER REIVERS 1958 RACING SEASON
JIM CLARK 41 ENTRIES 35 AWARDS 20 FIRSTS