No Sponsors, no plan, just victory: The mad story of Hesketh Racing

Picture this: It’s 1972, and while other Formula 1 teams are scrounging for sponsors, a 22-year-old British lord named Alexander Hesketh is hosting champagne breakfasts in his family’s stables. Yes, stables. His racing HQ smelled faintly of hay and horse manure, but why bother with a garage when you’ve got a 15th-century estate? Hesketh Racing wasn’t a team—it was a dare. A wealthy, eccentric dare.

They started in Formula Three with Lord Hesketh’s pal, Anthony “Bubbles” Horsley, behind the wheel. The results were forgettable, but the vibes? Unmatched. While rivals slept in transporters, Hesketh’s crew rolled up to races in Rolls-Royces, stayed at five-star hotels, and toasted last-place finishes with vintage Dom Pérignon. “Why race if you’re not having fun?” seemed to be their motto.

Then they met James Hunt.

Enter “Hunt the Shunt”
Hunt was everything Hesketh loved—fast, reckless, and allergic to rules. Nicknamed for his habit of totaling cars, Hunt wore jeans under his race suit and partied harder than he practiced. When Hesketh’s F3 cars kept ending up as scrap metal, Lord Hesketh didn’t flinch. “Formula One sounds jolly,” he supposedly said, as if upgrading from go-karts.

They cobbled together a rented Surtees chassis, and against all logic, Hunt finished third at the 1973 Race of Champions. The paddock sneered… until he started scoring points in a Frankenstein March car redesigned by a rookie engineer named Harvey Postlethwaite. By Monaco, Hunt was threading through barriers to finish sixth. By Watkins Glen, he was on the podium.

The Golden Year: Champagne, Rain, and One Glorious Win
In 1975, Hesketh built their own car—the 308, a butter-yellow missile designed in a drafty barn. At Zandvoort, under stormy Dutch skies, Hunt did the unthinkable: he out-drove Niki Lauda’s Ferrari, slicing through rain and spray to take the lead. When he crossed the line, the team—funded entirely by Hesketh’s inheritance—erupted. That night, they partied so hard, hotel staff reportedly found a mechanics’ pool race in the lobby fountain at 3 AM.

The Crash After the Party
But even aristocrats run out of cash. Hesketh refused to slap logos on his cars, calling sponsors “vulgar.” By 1976, the money was gone. Hunt jumped to McLaren and won the title a year later. The team limped on with cigarette ads and desperation, fielding future stars like Alan Jones, but the magic had fizzled. Their final act? A half-baked Le Mans car built from F1 scraps that died in a cloud of smoke after 19 hours.

Why We Still Care
Hesketh Racing lasted just six years and won one Grand Prix. But in an era where F1 feels increasingly corporate, they’re a reminder of when racing was run on guts, giggles, and trust funds. They didn’t have a wind tunnel—they had a wine cellar. No simulators—just sheer audacity.

So here’s to the lords and lunatics. To the team that treated Formula 1 like a weekend house party. And to the lesson they left behind: Sometimes, the best way to win is to not give a damn about losing.