Hamilton has developed a reputation as one of the more consistent and reliable of the British cartel of F1 journalists, and his latest offering is easily the better of the Tyrrell books to have become available of late. The author's admiration of and affection for Tyrrell is evident throughout the book, but he nevertheless manages to steadfastly avoid descending into misty-eyed sentimentality.

An innumerable number of people who enjoyed an association with Tyrrell through the years were interviewed for the book, and a particularly recurring theme was the sheer pleasure of simply being involved with a team. Irrespective of whether the mechanic, or driver, or draftsperson in question was with the team during the glory years with Jackie Stewart, or one of the leaner seasons that followed (and no matter how much success the individual may have gone on to enjoy with other teams), one gets the overwhelming impression that it was harder to find a more content team member in the paddock than one wearing a Team Tyrrell jacket. Such widespread enthusiasm for both a team and a boss from the drivers and foot soldiers is quite rare in F1, as is illustrated by any number of more successful teams.

As well as exploring the events that shaped Tyrrell's life, Hamilton does a good job of communicating the extraordinary circumstances under which the team weaved their magic. The family timber business may have left the premises that Ken had owned with his brother when the team became a full-time concern, but the concept of producing a series of state-of-the-art racing cars in what literally amounted to a shed - and to have these cars go on to beat the world's best - was virtually unthinkable even thirty-odd years ago. It is this attention to the sub-plots and detail that sets this book above other Tyrrell biographies. The chain of events that saw the staunchly patriotic Tyrrell go on to dominate the world using technology that flew the French tricolour (developed with full assistance from the French government) is relayed in detail, as is the rather odd situation that saw the Tyrrell team, as reigning champions, unable to lock down a chassis, engine and tyre package for the following season.

By reading not-too-closely between the lines, it is also quite easy to spot the factors that pitched the team into decline following the fairytale pairing of the extremely tidy Ford-powered Tyrrell-Matra, and the aesthetically less tidy but nonetheless stupendously quick Jackie Stewart. And it was the ending of this partnership that quite literally signalled the beginning of a slide that finally saw Tyrrell's name disappear from F1 entry lists at the end of 1998.

The team had prepared for the expected retirement of Stewart by grooming Francois Cevert, a young driver bearing all the hallmarks of a superstar-in-waiting. Cevert's tragic death during practice at the final round of 1973 at Watkins Glen (which prompted Stewart to withdraw from the race) proved to be a vicious blow for the team that had dominated the 1973 season. Cevert was no mere number two in the Eddie Irvine sense - finding a replacement driver of his caliber was a huge enough task in itself, but Cevert was far more to the team than merely a competent leadfoot. The loss of Cevert went right through to the team's soul, and in a way it seems that they never quite recovered.

There was far more to the team's eventual decline than this of course - the loss of Elf as a sponsor put the team into the position where it suddenly had to watch its finances extremely closely, and there's no doubting the toll that this would eventually exact. But there were other things too, and Hamilton hints that Tyrrell's refusal to accept that his time-honoured methods of running the race team were falling out of step with the pace at which the sport accelerated in the 1990s may also have been a factor. Tyrrell's remarkable ability to keep his secrets from the press until he was good and ready to tell them about it makes for a few entertaining passages, but the account of the unveiling of the infamous six-wheeler was a standout.

"A new race car sat under a sheet, and the profile suggested it was a fairly normal racing car; a bit long, perhaps, but with a bulge on top where the airbox should be and four semi-circles at each corner. Tyrrell, Gardner, Depailler and Stewart mounted the stage. On cue, Neil Davis and Roland Law began to pull back the wraps. Nick Brittain, one of the most astute motor sport columnists of the day, described what happened next.

'The disrobing started from the back and was dramatically slow. The Ford Cosworth engine was revealed to a barely discernable grunt. The conventional cockpit aroused nothing but studied disinterest. Then came the sight of the first small front wheel. You could hear the slight suck of air from the hundred-odd people in the room. Then the sight of the second set of mini wheels, and the slight suck turned into an audible rush of wind. Then silence. But real silence, for five seconds. It was the silence of disbelief. It was broken by nervous laughter. Then poorly supported applause. (Very difficult to clap with a glass of Elf champagne in your hand.) The expression that will remain etched on my mind for a long time was that of Frank Williams. Pure, honest, unadulterated, total disbelief. Eyes glazed. Jaw hanging open." (p. 205).