I'll begin with an apology. This story should have been published months ago. For a little while, life and other writing got in the way. Better late than never, I hope.
A motorsport pundit once said of Formula One that each race featured one winner followed by 23 excuses. Here's mine.
Friday 12 October
Sunset over Milton Keynes. From my vantage point on top of the mound beside the Daytona clubhouse I can see most of the twisty circuit infield; the last rays of sunshine picking out kerbs and grass in streaks of red, gold and green. It's 6pm, eighteen hours before the start of Daytona's blue riband event. All around, a hive of quiet activity is building: tents are appearing on the open grass, awnings being erected in the pitlane before me. In the pit garages a four-stroke kart engine fires, roars, falls silent.
I take some pictures of the view, turn and survey my tent. I've bagged a good, sheltered spot against the base of the mound and for the first time ever, have succeeded in setting it up on my own. With a few minutes to spare until I need to get changed for practice, I should be savouring the atmosphere in these quiet moments, the calm before the storm.
But to be honest, I'm a bit glum.
These big races are demanding - physically, mentally, emotionally - and in the past year I've come to rely on Marianne more than I had realised. She brings perspective, pragmatism, support, motivation and one of the clearest heads I know. She takes some of the strain and helps me focus. Most of all, she makes it more fun.
Needless to say she's not here, kept home by a clashing family commitment, and I miss her like hell. I finish taking my pictures, stash the camera, tell myself to man up, and prepare for my practice session.
Daytona's fleet of prokarts is new, and this session is my first opportunity to try them. Feedback from other drivers suggests that the karts - and particularly the new Bridgestone YDS tyres - are a huge improvement on the dog I drove when I was last here during the summer. It takes me half a lap to believe the hype; the twin engines feel strong, and the handling is a revelation. The vague, glassy feel of the old karts has been replaced by a wonderful sense of being keyed into the tarmac. The kart's nose tucks in obediently, the tail edging smoothly and predictably wide when asked; it's years since I've driven a quicker prokart at Daytona.
With spirits lifted, I pit after my allocated 25 minutes, chat briefly with a couple of the regulars - including RDI team organiser Stuart McKay - and head across town to get an early night. I'm lucky to have my brother Jonathan and wife Beth within ten minutes of the circuit. They'll be along to support or commiserate at some point during the race.
I seem to be getting better at sleeping before a big race. As at Teesside, the butterflies stay away, and I drop off with a minimum of sheep-counting. The alarm is set for 6am.
Saturday 13 October
The first couple of hours on race day are as chaotic as ever - dashing around a huge and unfamiliar Tesco in search of bananas... lugging a carload of gear from car park to pitlane... locating Jack and Alan amongst the scrum of drivers, staff and supporters... being ordered to move our just-erected awning to the 'grassy knoll' ten metres back from the pitwall... setting up the camping stove without Marianne's help and hoping I don't blow up the paddock... realising halfway through the pitlane briefing that I'm still missing a driver.
But by 8.45am, things are beginning to fall into place. Stuart, Alan, Jack and I are all present, correct and wearing the regulation red Daytona wristband which signifies that we've attended a briefing and will be allowed on track. I've drawn kart 29 from the silver trophy in the clubhouse, and hope to get my hands on it again before long. In the pitlane, kart 29 is nowhere to be seen, which bodes ill - but several karts are still undergoing final checks in the garages. Our prokart class is much the smaller of the two - just 12 karts compared with 31 Dmaxes. We'll aim to show the 2-stroke teams how it should be done.
At 9am, the pitlane opens for practice. Kart 29 has appeared, and looks tidy as far as we can tell from a walk-around. Jack is suited up and hops in; as he exits the pitlane and gets our race weekend rolling, I send up a silent prayer.
Please, please let it be a good kart.
He's back in after ten laps and reports that it's okay aside from the brakes, which need a very firm shove. We send Stuart out next - he's got more mileage here than the rest of us put together - who, after five laps, agrees with Jack - though he reckons they're getting better with use and might simply need bedding in. I take over for a short run to get my eye in. The kart feels a little less balletic than the one I drove last night, but that's probably down to track conditions and brand-new tyres. The brakes, however, have bedded in nicely.
Once Alan's completed his run, we pit to refuel the kart, switch the engines off, and relax. According to the timing screen we've completed just 43 laps - less than any other prokart team save arch rivals RDI Pro 1 (42). I breathe a sigh of relief. The kart is quick. The drivers are happy. The sun is shining.
Unlike at Teesside, we have a separate, ten minute qualifying session for each class. Team consensus is that I'm likely to be quickest over a single lap, which is heartening (though entirely weight-influenced). With just 12 karts on track, it's fairly easy to find clear air; after a couple of attempts I bang in a 1.09.287 which is good enough for third in class. It's a solid effort, but we're shaking our heads at the pole position time. BRKC regular Daniel Truman, weighing in at around 50kg, has done a 1.08.3. He's a good driver, but weight is king at Daytona. There's no way we'll get anywhere near his pace.
No matter. It's a long race. One lightning-fast driver alone won't win it, and qualifying is of limited importance: defending champions RDI Pro 1 have qualified tenth, having completed just one flying lap - they're not wasting a single second of track time, saving their kart for the trial to come.
The start of the Daytona 24 Hours is a major event in itself. Like last year, we're graced by the presence of a Mercedes from the local dealer, which will act as the pace car on the parade lap and be on display throughout. Sadly, last year's SLS gullwing coupe has been downgraded to an SLK - but we're heartened to see that it's the full-fat V8 AMG version. When it fires up, the soundtrack is pure NASCAR.
As the SLK leads the field out of the pits - the Dmax and prokart fields separated by a pace kart - Alan and I stand behind the barriers at the pitlane entry and take pictures. Jack is at the wheel of kart 29, easy to pick out in his Stig helmet and Help for Heroes camouflage race suit. It's still sunny, but clouds overhead are beginning to thicken: rain is forecast within two hours. As the SLK pulls into the pits, V8 thunder is replaced by the mosquito buzz of 2-stroke engines and the chesty roar of 4-strokes; already squabbling, the front of the field dashes for the line as the gantry lights blink green and the clock begins counting down from 24:00:00. In many ways it's my favourite part of the weekend; the great race stretches out for a whole day before us, and anything is possible.
We're already off to a better start than last year, when our opening driver managed to put it in the wall on lap one of a thousand plus. Jack keeps it neat and tidy, bringing up the rear of a four-kart train in fifth place. Daniel Truman leads, pulling away from the rest of the field at a second a lap.
The weather forecasters are almost right: the first shower arrives within the hour and turns the tarmac into a skating rink. Karts begin visiting the grass and barriers, bringing out the yellow warning flags - but the front-runners in both classes cut through the carnage as the first pitstop window approaches. Unlike the old karts, this new fleet won't run for two hours in the dry, so we've switched to 1 hour 40 minute stints. It'll mean that two of us do extra stints in the last hours of the race.
At 1.15pm I begin suiting up and running through my pre-stint routine, shutting out everything but the job at hand. With separate fuel bays for each class and marshals to attend to the karts, pitstops are far less hands-on than at Teesside. Avoiding a time-wasting queue for fuel can be tricky, but with only 12 karts in the prokart class, we're not expecting too many problems.
At 1.35pm, Alan and Stuart give Jack the nod; I'm already in place at the fuel bay, seat insert tucked under my arm. The rain has stopped, the sun flashing fire off the still-wet circuit. Jack rolls in at the regulation snail's pace. The marshals are a little tardy getting the kart turned around, but otherwise it's a clean stop. As I throw my seat insert in, Jack has time for one shouted piece of advice:
"It's still very slippy..."
And then I'm away, out of the pits and slithering into Turn 2. Even when the track is wet, tyre temperature has a marked effect on grip: the tyres have cooled during the pitstop and for the first three laps I'm forced to tread very carefully.
But the tarmac is drying in the watery sunshine; within fifteen minutes we're virtually back to dry weather pace. The shaded exit of Turn 7 is as treacherous as ever, though - waiting to lubricate rear tyres fighting for traction. Several times I encounter hapless drivers facing the wrong way or bouncing over the rutted kerb on the right.
Since early in practice we've been aware of a looming - and unexpected - problem which is already beginning to dominate our race. Based on what we've seen so far, the Prokart class consists of eight strong teams and four slightly slower - but competent - squads. The faster DMax class consists of perhaps ten strong teams, a smattering of midfielders - and at least fifteen teams that would have been better off spending the £2k entry fee on a nice holiday. Or perhaps some driving lessons.
There are Dmax karts trundling around six seconds a lap off the pace - not unusual in a 25 minute arrive and drive session, but totally out of place in a race like this. They're mobile chicanes: mildly annoying and occasionally a touch dangerous. The real problem is the swathe of Dmaxes running three to four seconds off the pace. That's a little slower than prokart pace: avoiding being held up by these drivers is more than a little challenging. They're faster on the straights but slower in the corners, making them devilishly difficult to shake off unless they make a mistake - which, thankfully, happens quite often.
By mid-stint I'm fighting to stay patient, having been baulked, blocked, bumped and generally treated with red-misted contempt by drivers who aren't even in the same race. Driving standards have nosedived since last year; in the early days of the Dmax karts, Daytona would only let experienced drivers race them. Bring back that rule, I say.
I pit at 3.15pm, feeling that I've made heavy work of this stint - but as is so often the case, it was better than it felt. We were leading the prokart class before my pitstop; as Stuart crosses the line after his first lap (after a seamless changeover) we're second behind RDI Pro 1. I've made up two places which comes as a pleasant surprise.
Marianne rings to check on our progress. "Nothing's gone wrong. At all. I don't know what to do with myself. It's almost boring..."
Which isn't entirely true. The kart's running like a train, but Mother Nature is toying with us, alternately drenching and drizzling the track. As afternoon washes into evening and the floodlights blink on, I cup my hands around steaming mugs of tea and make frequent visits to the clubhouse in a vain attempt to keep warm. Over the PA system, the race director tells us that the showers will die away, but that temperatures will drop to freezing overnight. It's going to be a long one.
We've struggled a little in the worst of the conditions, and have fallen to third by the time I exit the pits for the second time at 8.20pm. The rain has stopped, as promised, but it's so cold that the circuit remains wet, the tyres struggling to gain any temperature at all. We're lapping over twenty seconds away from dry pace.
I give it everything I have and turn in a solid, if unspectacular, stint. As usual. I've pegged our gap to the leaders and kept it pointing in the right direction; as Stuart takes over we're still third, and the gap to the fourth placed team has widened. At just over ten hours in, I'm happy with that. If we can just hang on, we can bag the podium we deserve.
Then the lights go out.
"That can't be good," I hear someone say as the world is plunged into blackness - then realise it's my voice. Out on track, 43 drivers are now driving blind; there are gasps of horror all around as a train of karts exits the final turn at full racing speed. In the gloom I can just about make two marshals leaping over the pitwall, bravely putting themselves in harm's way to try and grab the attention of the fuckwits.
If you can't see anything, it might be a good idea to stop racing.
It takes them a full minute to bring the last kart to a halt, and I'm amazed that some of the drivers in this race remember how to tie their shoelaces and keep breathing. Remarkably, natural selection seems to have taken the night off, and nobody has been hurt.
But as the minutes go by it becomes clear that the problem is serious and will take time to fix. Until then, the race will remain in stasis, the karts parked out on the circuit. We agree that Stuart, who had just started his stint, will continue once the race resumes. I leave them to it and wander back to my tent.
The porch zipper is frozen shut, and as I pull it back the awning crackles. It's fifteen minutes before I begin regaining the feeling in my toes, zipped fully-clothed into my sleeping bag with the hood over my head. I'll never make a mountaineer...
My position behind the hill masks a lot of the circuit noise. But when I snap awake sometime later, the tinny buzz and throaty roar ebb and flow on the breeze which I can see rippling the outer skin of the tent. The race has restarted.
I struggle up - helped by not having to don freezing, damp clothing - and stumble across to the pitlane. Nobody is under our awning, which is never reassuring... but after an anxious minute I spot Alan on track. According to the timing screen we're still third; all appears to be well.
But I've no way of telling how long Alan has been out there. Jack is out next. There's no sign of him; should I be worrying? A pitlane marshal tells me that the race restarted around midnight. It's now coming up to 2am, which should mean that Alan is around half an hour into his stint. I trust Jack to turn up in good time, but nevertheless am relieved when he makes an appearance twenty minutes later.
He confirms that he's due to take over from Alan at 3am, which means I'm on at 4.40. Because of the stoppage - over 90 minutes - the race has been extended by an hour, and will now finish at 1pm. Both Jack and I will need to do a fourth stint.
I give Alan the nod at 3am on the dot, and once again we're lucky with the timing: Jack is fuelled and on his way without delay. The circuit has finally dried, the pace back to normal. Alan reports that the kart is running well - it's had two scheduled maintenance stops, both of which fell during Stuart's stints - and heads off to put his head down. I get on with the business of ingesting calories and preparing for my stint on the graveyard shift.
As ever, the atmosphere in the pitlane is one of quiet single-mindedness. Our world is reduced to this patch of Buckinghamshire real estate. For us, there is only the race.
With ten minutes to go I'm as near to my peak as is possible at half past four on a freezing Sunday morning, and am raring to go. Jack rolls into the pitlane as another prokart is fuelling; waiting at the fuel bay, I calculate that the delay will be minimal. As usual, a marshal is gesticulating wildly at him to slow down as if he'd come piling in at fifty miles an hour; he's trundling along at walking pace, just like everybody else. Sixteen hours into the race, the drivers are tiring of the over-officiousness of the pitlane staff. We know the rules, and we're adhering to them. This would all be a lot more friendly if they stopped treating us like naughty children.
Soon I'm on my way under the floodlights, trying to bring tyres and extremities up to temperature... and the stint flies by. Aside from a little pain in my hands I'm not suffering at all, and it feels great to be able to push instead of tiptoeing around on a wet track. The DMax backmarkers are still troublesome, but less so than earlier on - I suspect that some have found extra pace as the race progressed, and others have slowed due to fatigue. Either way, I build a good rhythm, the kart pivoting beautifully around its front axles as I edge the rear a little wide on entry to the slow corners. It's years since I've felt this level of response and precision in a Daytona prokart.
According to the startline clock I've been on track for ninety minutes when I spot Stuart on the pitwall. He'll show me the board sometime in the next ten minutes, depending on traffic in the pitlane, and I keep an eye on him every time I exit the final turn.
Two laps later I'm heading towards Turn five, throttle pinned to the stop, when the floodlights blink out. Again, we're plunged into complete darkness. Sweat suddenly cold on my forehead, I brake gently, straining to make out the corner, wary of stopping too suddenly in case I'm hit from behind... as I roll out of the corner I make out the waving hand of the driver in front, and pull to a stop behind him. A marshal appears armed with a torch, switches off the engines, and silence joins the darkness.
Ruefully, we trudge back to the pits. Everyone seems to have got the hang of stopping when the lights go out, and once again there have been no incidents. But we're more than a little disgruntled at the stoppages.
Stuart and I agree that since we were so close to pitting - he had been planning to call me in on that very lap - once the race restarts, he will take over straightaway. I change out of my overalls, buy a bacon buttie and join the others. Daytona announce that the electricity company has been called out again. But with dawn less than an hour away, it's clear that we won't be racing under the floodlights again.
With the sky morphing from black to silver, and the rising sun catching the red and white stripes of the big top clubhouse roof, the drivers are sent back out to the karts. Just after 7am, we're underway again. Stuart drives straight into the pits to refuel. It's turning into a beautiful morning, and as he accelerates onto the circuit, I feel my spirits lifting. We're still third with six hours to go.
A couple of minutes later, Stuart comes trickling into the pits. We watch, bemused and then increasingly downcast, as the marshal directs him to the maintenance bay. Jack, Alan and I converge on him and the maintenance manager. Between them they explain that Stuart had been black-flagged because the kart was dropping oil on the circuit. He hadn't felt anything amiss, but the mechanics quickly diagnose an oil leak, and prescribe an engine change.
Our race is effectively over.
A little later, I watch numbly as the the kart is wheeled out into the pitlane. Stuart hops in, and we wander over to the screens. We've lost over ten minutes, and have fallen from third to seventh. Barring a miracle - and a lot of bad luck for several other teams - our podium dream is gone.
There are no more extensions to the race, and the second stoppage has effectively wiped out my final stint. Jack will take the wheel for run to the flag in three and a half hours' time. With nothing to do for the moment, I head inside and watch a little of the Korean Grand Prix from one of the sofas upstairs. The race seems to jump straight from mid distance to the podium ceremony, and I realise that I must have fallen asleep.
With two hours to go we're still seventh, with no sign - nor much hope - of improvement, despite the best efforts of the others. We send Jack out at 11.20, and I begin de-rigging. I can't remember the last time I felt so deflated.
I'm staring at my tent, wondering how the hell I'm going to get it dry, when Jonathan and Beth arrive to save my bacon. They're enormously cheering and bring a crucial sense of perspective.
Jack takes the flag in seventh place, as expected. After driving our hearts out and dodging every obstacle that Mother Nature, the circuit, the competition and the electricity supply threw at us, we're bitterly disappointed. We didn't have the pace to win, but we were third on merit and should have been on that podium. I find myself wondering if I'm contributing to this bad luck in some way - something to do with the way I drive, perhaps - but I can't think how. I've always been gentle on the machinery, far less aggressive than many others.
In 2013, the Daytona 24 Hours will have a new date - May 4 - and has been hit with a hefty price rise. If I compete, it will be with a different team: few of the drivers in my circle are keen to enter again. The floodlight outages have been something of a PR disaster - along with some aspects of the marshalling, I suspect. And the standard of competition across the event - especially in DMax - took a significant nosedive in 2012. It's a shame, because the 2012 karts were excellent. The fact that ours picked up a problem was, I suspect, just one of those things.
Endurance racing remains addictive and heartbreaking in equal measure. When our time comes - and it will - the pain we've endured will make victory all the sweeter.
For 2012, that's all she wrote. 2013 waits in the wings: the British Rental Kart Championship kicks off at The Raceway in London on 13 January. As I write, the field numbers over 60 drivers and includes the current and two former indoor World Champions.
Bring it.
Thursday, 20 December 2012
Thursday, 11 October 2012
Daytona 24 Hours preview
Here we go again.
On 20 September 2009, I won the prokart class in the inaugural Daytona 24 Hours - my first ever 24 hour kart race. As I stood with my team on the top step of the podium and struggled to lift the biggest trophy I'd ever seen, I remember my inner voice needling through the exhausted euphoria.
Remember this moment. Repeating it won't be easy.
Wind forward three years, and I'm still without a repeat 24 Hours podium, let alone a win. Two unlucky attempts at Teesside and one doomed campaign at Daytona in 2011 have yielded nothing better than a ninth place. I've driven well, for quality teams, but the chips have fallen badly.
Daytona 2012 will, I hope, be different.
After our calamitous race in the unreliable D-Max 2-stroke kart last year, we've swapped back to the class that brought us our win. Daytona's fleet of twin engined, 4-stroke prokarts is just a couple of months old; although I've yet to drive them, the feedback from other drivers is overwhelmingly positive. From the equipment, we need pace and reliability. The team can take care of the rest.
After the slightly unwieldy teams of previous D24s, the 2012 team is smaller, tighter. Four Daytona specialists, each of us with at least one D24 podium to our name, all of us with years of endurance racing experience at circuits across the UK and beyond.
Jack Stanley was part of our winning team three years ago, and our beleaguered team last year; I can't imagine starting a 24 hour race at Daytona without him. Alan Arnold put in a superb stint for us last year before having to leave prematurely; with multiple starts at Daytona and Le Mans, he's a great asset. Stuart Shearman is new to our team but is practically part of the furniture at Daytona; he drove for the team that we narrowly beat in 2009. The same team - captained by Daytona stalwart Kam Ho - were dominant winners of the prokart class in 2011, and are likely to be our biggest challengers this weekend.
As usual, we race as part of Race Drivers Inc, which is entering no less than eight teams - four prokart and four D-Max - this weekend. With pride at stake, the battle to be top RDI team will be just as fierce as the battle for class honours.
After the bumpy, warp-speed white knuckle ride of Teesside, Daytona poses a different challenge. With its anticlockwise layout and wide range of corners, it's twisty and technical. Not everyone loves it, but I do. It plays to my strength under braking, rewards patience and precision. And the 180 degree 'big dipper' right-hander at Turn 6 is one of my favourite corners anywhere.
In its fourth year, the UK's 'other' 24 hour kart race is growing in prestige. No less than 45 teams will take the start this weekend - easily the biggest field in its short history. Come Sunday lunchtime, the team with the best blend of preparation, consistency, calm, pace and luck will stand on the top step and buckle under the weight of that coveted trophy.
Fingers crossed.
If you'd like to follow our progress this weekend (and why wouldn't you?!), you'll find regular updates in several places on Facebook:
Daytona Motorsport: www.facebook.com/DaytonaMS
Race Drivers Inc: www.facebook.com/racedrivers
as well as my own timeline: www.facebook.com/andrew.duff.169
If you're racing this weekend - good luck, and be safe!
On 20 September 2009, I won the prokart class in the inaugural Daytona 24 Hours - my first ever 24 hour kart race. As I stood with my team on the top step of the podium and struggled to lift the biggest trophy I'd ever seen, I remember my inner voice needling through the exhausted euphoria.
Remember this moment. Repeating it won't be easy.
Wind forward three years, and I'm still without a repeat 24 Hours podium, let alone a win. Two unlucky attempts at Teesside and one doomed campaign at Daytona in 2011 have yielded nothing better than a ninth place. I've driven well, for quality teams, but the chips have fallen badly.
Daytona 2012 will, I hope, be different.
After our calamitous race in the unreliable D-Max 2-stroke kart last year, we've swapped back to the class that brought us our win. Daytona's fleet of twin engined, 4-stroke prokarts is just a couple of months old; although I've yet to drive them, the feedback from other drivers is overwhelmingly positive. From the equipment, we need pace and reliability. The team can take care of the rest.
After the slightly unwieldy teams of previous D24s, the 2012 team is smaller, tighter. Four Daytona specialists, each of us with at least one D24 podium to our name, all of us with years of endurance racing experience at circuits across the UK and beyond.
Jack Stanley was part of our winning team three years ago, and our beleaguered team last year; I can't imagine starting a 24 hour race at Daytona without him. Alan Arnold put in a superb stint for us last year before having to leave prematurely; with multiple starts at Daytona and Le Mans, he's a great asset. Stuart Shearman is new to our team but is practically part of the furniture at Daytona; he drove for the team that we narrowly beat in 2009. The same team - captained by Daytona stalwart Kam Ho - were dominant winners of the prokart class in 2011, and are likely to be our biggest challengers this weekend.
As usual, we race as part of Race Drivers Inc, which is entering no less than eight teams - four prokart and four D-Max - this weekend. With pride at stake, the battle to be top RDI team will be just as fierce as the battle for class honours.
After the bumpy, warp-speed white knuckle ride of Teesside, Daytona poses a different challenge. With its anticlockwise layout and wide range of corners, it's twisty and technical. Not everyone loves it, but I do. It plays to my strength under braking, rewards patience and precision. And the 180 degree 'big dipper' right-hander at Turn 6 is one of my favourite corners anywhere.
In its fourth year, the UK's 'other' 24 hour kart race is growing in prestige. No less than 45 teams will take the start this weekend - easily the biggest field in its short history. Come Sunday lunchtime, the team with the best blend of preparation, consistency, calm, pace and luck will stand on the top step and buckle under the weight of that coveted trophy.
Fingers crossed.
If you'd like to follow our progress this weekend (and why wouldn't you?!), you'll find regular updates in several places on Facebook:
Daytona Motorsport: www.facebook.com/DaytonaMS
Race Drivers Inc: www.facebook.com/racedrivers
as well as my own timeline: www.facebook.com/andrew.duff.169
If you're racing this weekend - good luck, and be safe!
Thursday, 4 October 2012
British 24 Hours, Teesside. Part 2
(Click here for part 1)
Couscous never tasted so good.
It's coming up to 7pm. I'm kicking back in a camping chair under the Corporate Chauffeurs awning, tucking into a steaming bowl of chicken jalfrezi spiked with fresh vegetables and chutney. The tinned food and camping stove we brought with us is a huge success, and the girls have added to the larder following a sortie to Asda.
The size and position of our team base has turned it into a something of a watering-hole: BRKC regulars and friends in other teams drop by frequently, and we've practically adopted BRKC founder Brad Philpot. Drafted into an owner team this weekend, he looks a little forlorn without his other half Becca, and accepts a bowl of hot rice and vegetables from Lauren after a little persuasion. Everyone's keen to know how their counterparts are getting on, and stories of triumph and disaster ebb and flow. It's the community spirit that helps make this such a special event: competition on track is fierce, but we're all in it together.
Out on track, the race roars on as the sky begins to darken, sepia light from the towering floodlights seeping across the infield. Stuart is running very well and has lowered our fastest laptime to a 1.22.6. That's still a second or so away from the leaders - which include two other BRKC teams - but we're up to 18th in class and reeling in the teams ahead. Alex is on the pitwall - I think he finds it harder than the rest of us to tear himself away - and gives Stuart regular updates as his second stint wears on. Because he can only be with us until midnight, he's doing three stints in 12 hours, with just a couple of hours' break in between each. It's a mammoth undertaking; he's shown no signs of strain so far, but his final stint is still to come.
Stuart pits at 8pm - one third distance - after an excellent second stint. With darkness and a crowded pitlane to contend with, this pitstop is less serene than the previous one. But the team pulls it together and Lee is on his way in good time. Stuart reports that the kart is running quite well. He looks tired, though, and is suffering some pain in his hands. Alex and Lauren take a well-earned break and head to their car, where the delights of an airbed await them. As Stuart grabs some rest in a chair under the awning, I don the headphones and divide my time between the pitwall and the timing screen in the cafe.
Over the next 90 minutes our race comes apart at the seams.
At 8.30, Lee's on the radio complaining of a serious vibration. The laptimes are reasonable, so he hangs on for a while - but is finally forced to pit. We're down at the garage waiting for him; as the mechanics go to work he fills us in.
"I can't focus on the straights... it feels like you're losing control of your body. I thought I was either going to puke or shit myself..."
The mechanics tighten the mountings on the engine they replaced earlier, and send him out. But the vibration remains, and within a few laps he's back in. This time the rear tyres are replaced; as the mechanics rotate the wheels, one looks ominously out of kilter. Bent axle, we think. Andrew Bayliss, whose Club Hire kart is also in the pits with a problem, agrees, though he reckons it shouldn't actually slow the kart down too much.
Lee heads out again and reports that it's better, though by no means cured. But over the next twenty laps, the vibration steadily worsens. The pace is good, though; with thirty more minutes to run until our next scheduled pitstop, Lee elects to stay out on track. He's about as tough as they come. I'd have been hiding under a sleeping bag in the tent by now.
While I've been fixated on the screens and the radio, Alex has returned, and has been beavering away in the background. The result is like Christmas come early: he's managed to sweet-talk race director Bob into granting us a replacement kart! After a very demoralising stint which has seen us drop right to the back of the field again, our battered spirits are lifted.
Alex helps Stuart get ready as light rain begins to spatter the roof of the awning; we dash back down to the garage where kart 24 mk2 awaits us. Lee comes in and vacates the beleaguered 24 mk1 - with palpable relief - and there's a brief delay while the timing transponder is swapped to the new kart. Then Stuart's away as the rain begins to fall harder. We trudge back up the hill, praying that the new kart is quick and holds together. Surely we're due just a smidge of good luck?
I leave the pitwall to put my head down for an hour or so. As I record a quick video diary outside our tent - where Marianne is napping - the circuit suddenly falls quiet. After hours of aural assault from 67 twin-engined karts, the silence is deafening. And ominous - in my experience, the British 24 Hours is only red-flagged for a serious accident. Bob's voice rings out over the tannoy, sounding angrier than I've ever heard him. Apparently several drivers failed to slow down for yellow warning flags, and a marshal has been hit on track.
On a high-speed circuit like Teesside, this is worrying indeed; I run back to the pitwall. All the drivers are out of their karts and assembled on the infield. Lee reports that Stuart is fine and wasn't involved, while Alex is hurriedly suiting up: Bob has ordered that all teams must change drivers before the race is restarted. This is a disaster for the team and Stuart in particular, whose stint had barely begun when the race was red-flagged.
After several minutes of heated discussion under the floodlights, the order is rescinded and the race is restarted with the original drivers. It's the right decision - it would have been wrong to punish the entire field for the actions of one driver. The marshal is not seriously injured and we breathe a collective sigh of relief. But the mood in the paddock is sombre. This race demands the best from all of us. Lose respect and it will bite.
Deep in thought, I return to the tent. Marianne is just getting ready to return to the pitwall; I fill her in on recent events, slide under my sleeping bag and shut my eyes for an hour. I'm too wired to sleep, but it's good to give my body a rest and clear my mind. Marianne returns at 11.30 with good news: Stuart is flying in the wet conditions, overtaking owner drivers left and right, and outpacing the entire hire kart field. And the kettle's on.
Spirits lifted, I hurry back to the Corporate Chauffeurs team base. The rain has eased, but it's a chilly, blustery night - the chatter and roar of the karts waxing and waning as the wind gusts. Stuart flashes through the chicane in front of us, as committed as ever; it's a relief to see him apparently comfortable, though he must be running on empty by now.
Just before midnight, Marianne is filming as Alex's blue-suited figure leads us around to the pitlane. Stuart comes in bang on cue and again, Lee and I execute a slick pitstop. As Alex accelerates away, we're already congratulating Stuart on a superb stint - and a Herculean effort. It takes him a moment or two to regain the power of speech, but he looks to have stood up amazingly well to the rigours of over 250 laps - six hours at the wheel in a twelve hour period. As he says his goodbyes and leaves with our heartfelt thanks, I feel a pang of apprehension. From now on, we're a man down. The clock strikes midnight: half distance.
Sunday 26 August
I climb the grassy bank behind our awning and film a video diary, looking out over the floodlit track. Fifty metres away, trains of karts are flashing through the Esses, nose to tail at sixty miles an hour on the damp track, and I shiver with a mix of cold, thrill and apprehension. In less than ninety minutes' time, it'll be my turn on the graveyard shift.
By 1.45am I'm suited, booted, gloved, helmeted, velcroed and (blister)plastered. I'm as ready as I'll ever be for 120 racing miles in the dead of night. I stand in the pitlane - seat insert tucked under my arm - and listen to the radio chatter as Lee masterminds the impending pitstop. There's traffic at the fuel bay, and he's forced to leave Alex out for a couple of laps longer than planned. I'm dimly aware of some concern over fuel, but shut my mind to all but the job at hand.
Alex peels into the pits just as another kart leaves the fuel bay - perfect. He delivers us the refuelled kart in good time, and again the team runs like clockwork . As I jump in, Lee and Marianne are already lubricating the chains behind me. My seat insert briefly refuses to align properly, and I'm still getting comfortable when I get the 'go' command, but no time is lost. I thread my way between karts and pedestrians while working the seat into place, and boot it as I pass the last of the red-and-white bollards which mark the end of the pitlane.
It's eight hours since I was last on track, in a different kart. But this one feels so much punchier and more biddable that I'm quickly up to speed. It's been three hours since the rain stopped, but there are still damp patches about. One in particular grabs my attention, washing the front tyres wide in the middle of the flat-out banked right hander at the top of the circuit.
There's always something otherworldly about this stint. No matter how well you've prepared, part of your brain is bemused at not being tucked up in bed. But dare I say it, in my fourth 24 hour race, it feels a little less bizarre than on previous occasions. It's not routine - I'll quit the day it becomes that - but it's more comfortable. And more enjoyable.
As I settle into my rhythm, Marianne is on the radio every couple of laps. And the news is good: in the first hour I make up a couple of places on track, and set a new fastest lap. The owner karts seem to be overtaking a little more tardily than earlier on, and I'm steadily passing standard hire karts along with the odd raggedly driven club hire kart. The seat insert still pinches my left hip, but otherwise I'm comfortable, the blisters I acquired earlier on not bothering me at all.
By the time I pit just after 4am, I've made up four places - more due to being on track at the right time than any particular genius on my part - and lowered our fastest lap to a 1.22.2 despite the lingering damp patches. Again I'm anxious not to mess up the pitstop, and again my fears are unfounded. Alex and Marianne time it perfectly, and I lose no time pushing the kart from fuel bay to pit exit. As Lee accelerates away, I'm nodding in quiet satisfaction. It's been a solid stint, with good pace and no mistakes, and the team as a whole is nigh-on flawless. If only the equipment hadn't let us down...
But there's no point in dwelling on it. There's still work to do: I'm due back on track in less than four hours, and as the adrenalin drains away the fatigue begins to bite. As soon as I've downed a pint of water, Marianne sends me to the tent with a granola bar and strict orders to eat it before I put my head down.
The alarm drills through a whirl of half-formed dreams at 6.45am. In many ways this is the toughest moment of the entire weekend: as I slowly surface, the murmur of complaint from my body grows to a clamour. Every part of me aches, my throat is dry, my stomach churns. I stare at the shifting shapes of leaves above, projected onto the tent by morning sunlight, and try to reconcile my mind to the concept of being on track in 45 minutes' time.
Then Marianne pulls back the porch awning and makes my day.
Because of the problems early on, and the timing of the kart change, we'd been running behind schedule since before half distance. I'd been hoping we could make up the shortfall through stoppages or wet weather, but neither had materialised; in the small hours, Alex and Marianne had made the call and brought Lee in for a splash-and-dash pitstop. After a marathon two-and-a-half hour stint, he'd handed over to Alex at 6.30am. With five and a bit hours and three stints to run, we're back on schedule. All of which means that I'm not due on track until 8.15am - giving me a precious extra 45 minutes of rest.
By 7.30 I'm back on the pitwall and feeling a little less like death warmed up. Half a gallon of coffee and a bucket of porridge later, I can almost contemplate getting back in the kart. On track, Alex's distinctive blue suit tears past every 82 seconds like clockwork. Lauren wears the headphones and watches over her man, while Marianne helps me get ready. I'm overcome with admiration for them. Aside from a snatched hour in the tent before half-distance, Marianne has been on the pitwall since the beginning of practice; Lauren can't have had more than a couple of hours of sleep - and is now reasonably sure she's got shingles.
I jump out of my skin as a pile of clothes on the camping chair beside me shifts. I'd assumed that Lee was asleep in his car - but he's here, ready for action if needed, grabbing some well earned rest. He'll take to the track once again to bring us home in a few hours' time. As I contemplate the sheer class of our team, the colossal effort made by each and every member, the pain and fatigue fall away. Suddenly I can't wait to get out there again and drive the wheels off.
By 8.15 I'm ready. It's a beautiful, sunny morning and I've got the tingle. That hair-raising trickle of adrenalin that only racing provides. Alex is in and refuelled without a moment's delay, holding off the fatigue for a few more seconds as he pushes the kart towards us. Lee receives it, already starting the engines as I leap in - and we make a rare pitlane error. I hear what sounds like the 'go' command and gun the throttle - only to slam on the brakes a second later as a chorus of 'STOP!' rings out behind me. Lee does a Superman over the rear of the kart and lands practically in my lap; he's instantly pushing himself upright. A few more squirts of oil onto the chains as the team roll me forward to coat both chains and sprockets in lubricant... and I get the nod. For real this time.
It was a minor blunder that cost us five seconds... but Lee took quite a tumble. I hope he hasn't damaged himself. As I rocket towards the Esses on my out lap, I key the radio button and ask the question. The reply is a little garbled but I get the impression that all is well.
The third stint is all about survival, about shrugging off all that's gone before and giving it everything you have. After more than twenty hours the pace is as relentless as ever, the leaders lapping well inside the 1.21 bracket. In his last stint, Alex took a few hundredths off the 1.22.2 that I set in the small hours; with my weight advantage I should be able to better that.
As in 2011, I get the impression that the more highly-tuned owner and Club Hire karts are suffering more than our standard hire kart in these closing stages: I find myself embroiled in wheel-to-wheel combat with karts that should be able to pull away easily. Or maybe we standard hire drivers are made of sterner stuff.
The kart still feels strong, though it's looser than last time I drove it; I'm reminded that it's done 11 hours on the same set of tyres. Because we had a replacement kart, we were excused from the mandatory maintenance stop that the other teams made between midnight and 2am. The time saved helped get us back in the race, but it means our tyres are three hours older than everyone else's. I get a little ragged into the hairpin after the Esses, and am forced to dial it back a notch. Track conditions are good, but I just don't have the rubber.
Nevertheless, the pace is reasonable. I'm in the low 1.22s from the start of my stint, and can't resist a cheesy Vettel-style shout over the radio when Marianne tells me I've broken into the 1.21s, about an hour in. That's what I'm talking about... my best is a 1.21.771 which will stand as the team's fastest lap of the race. I'm the lightest, so that's as it should be - but I'm pleased. I worked hard to make sure I was fitter and quicker this year, and it's good to see my efforts rewarded.
Fit or not, by the time Marianne gives me the thirty minute time check, I'm hanging on by my fingernails. Adrenalin and willpower keep me on track, but my left hip is stabbing me through every right hander. Nearly six hours at the wheel have taken a huge physical and mental toll, and the calories are running out.
In the final minutes, I'm confused by a flurry of radio activity that I can't decipher, and worry that I'm missing the call to pit. But there's no sign from the pitwall; finally I realise that I'm hearing chatter between Lee in the pitlane and Marianne under our awning, discussing the timing of the pitstop.
Much as I love my sport, and driving this circuit, I'm relieved when, midway through the banking, Lee's voice rings through my headset, clear as a bell.
"Box, Andrew. Repeat, box now."
"Box now, copy."
For the last time, I thread the kart through the right hander and the slow left that follows, accelerate away and peel into the pit entry. The fuel bay is clear; I leap out, wait as the fuel marshal does his job, and pour all of my energy into the final push. Fifty metres later I'm still on my feet as Alex takes over. Our final scheduled pitstop is as slick as ever; I watch Lee disappear down the pitlane, and slowly remove my helmet as Alex claps me on the back.
For me, that's job done.
Back in the paddock, there's an end-of-party feel in the air. With 90 minutes to run until the chequered flag, teams are beginning to dismantle their awnings. Alex has marshalled a small army to help take down Lewis' giant awning - which has served us and many others so well - and in minutes it's stowed away. I eat and drink whatever I can find, and slowly wind my brain back down to the pace of ordinary life.
Out on track, Lee is lapping as consistently as ever. There's little to play for at this stage, but he keeps the pressure on in case one of the teams ahead has a late problem. We're running 13th in class, exactly where we started, having been 21st, last and five laps down on the 20th placed kart after ten hours. Between hours 11 and 23 we made up six laps on the leaders - sound evidence that had the luck gone our way, we'd have been in the hunt for the win.
Just before 12pm, three hundred drivers, supporters and staff take to the pitwall to cheer Lee and the others across the line. There can only be one winner in each class, but the huge support for each and every team makes for a wonderful sense of occasion. We haven't achieved what we came to do. But we've made it home and done ourselves proud.
One of the BRKC teams has made the podium in our class, and are rightly thrilled. David Hird, Mike Kettlewell and Paul Lycett will be the first to admit that they're not frontrunners in our individual driver's championship. But consistency, hard work, local knowledge and a little bit of luck have brought them a richly deserved third place. After a series of ups and downs, Brad's Baron Racing team have finished third in the owner Pro class. Clearly our porridge made the difference.
We cheer the podiums and say our goodbyes with a touch of sadness. By our standards the end result is poor, but it's been an epic weekend. This is a truly great racing team, which has performed at the top of its game, and I'm very proud to be part of it. Alex, Lee, Stuart, Lauren and Marianne: legends all, and I salute you.
For now, the glittering prize still hovers tantalisingly out of reach. I look forward to staking our claim for it again. Third time lucky...?
(Click here for part 1)
Couscous never tasted so good.
It's coming up to 7pm. I'm kicking back in a camping chair under the Corporate Chauffeurs awning, tucking into a steaming bowl of chicken jalfrezi spiked with fresh vegetables and chutney. The tinned food and camping stove we brought with us is a huge success, and the girls have added to the larder following a sortie to Asda.
The size and position of our team base has turned it into a something of a watering-hole: BRKC regulars and friends in other teams drop by frequently, and we've practically adopted BRKC founder Brad Philpot. Drafted into an owner team this weekend, he looks a little forlorn without his other half Becca, and accepts a bowl of hot rice and vegetables from Lauren after a little persuasion. Everyone's keen to know how their counterparts are getting on, and stories of triumph and disaster ebb and flow. It's the community spirit that helps make this such a special event: competition on track is fierce, but we're all in it together.
Out on track, the race roars on as the sky begins to darken, sepia light from the towering floodlights seeping across the infield. Stuart is running very well and has lowered our fastest laptime to a 1.22.6. That's still a second or so away from the leaders - which include two other BRKC teams - but we're up to 18th in class and reeling in the teams ahead. Alex is on the pitwall - I think he finds it harder than the rest of us to tear himself away - and gives Stuart regular updates as his second stint wears on. Because he can only be with us until midnight, he's doing three stints in 12 hours, with just a couple of hours' break in between each. It's a mammoth undertaking; he's shown no signs of strain so far, but his final stint is still to come.
Stuart pits at 8pm - one third distance - after an excellent second stint. With darkness and a crowded pitlane to contend with, this pitstop is less serene than the previous one. But the team pulls it together and Lee is on his way in good time. Stuart reports that the kart is running quite well. He looks tired, though, and is suffering some pain in his hands. Alex and Lauren take a well-earned break and head to their car, where the delights of an airbed await them. As Stuart grabs some rest in a chair under the awning, I don the headphones and divide my time between the pitwall and the timing screen in the cafe.
Over the next 90 minutes our race comes apart at the seams.
At 8.30, Lee's on the radio complaining of a serious vibration. The laptimes are reasonable, so he hangs on for a while - but is finally forced to pit. We're down at the garage waiting for him; as the mechanics go to work he fills us in.
"I can't focus on the straights... it feels like you're losing control of your body. I thought I was either going to puke or shit myself..."
The mechanics tighten the mountings on the engine they replaced earlier, and send him out. But the vibration remains, and within a few laps he's back in. This time the rear tyres are replaced; as the mechanics rotate the wheels, one looks ominously out of kilter. Bent axle, we think. Andrew Bayliss, whose Club Hire kart is also in the pits with a problem, agrees, though he reckons it shouldn't actually slow the kart down too much.
Lee heads out again and reports that it's better, though by no means cured. But over the next twenty laps, the vibration steadily worsens. The pace is good, though; with thirty more minutes to run until our next scheduled pitstop, Lee elects to stay out on track. He's about as tough as they come. I'd have been hiding under a sleeping bag in the tent by now.
While I've been fixated on the screens and the radio, Alex has returned, and has been beavering away in the background. The result is like Christmas come early: he's managed to sweet-talk race director Bob into granting us a replacement kart! After a very demoralising stint which has seen us drop right to the back of the field again, our battered spirits are lifted.
Alex helps Stuart get ready as light rain begins to spatter the roof of the awning; we dash back down to the garage where kart 24 mk2 awaits us. Lee comes in and vacates the beleaguered 24 mk1 - with palpable relief - and there's a brief delay while the timing transponder is swapped to the new kart. Then Stuart's away as the rain begins to fall harder. We trudge back up the hill, praying that the new kart is quick and holds together. Surely we're due just a smidge of good luck?
I leave the pitwall to put my head down for an hour or so. As I record a quick video diary outside our tent - where Marianne is napping - the circuit suddenly falls quiet. After hours of aural assault from 67 twin-engined karts, the silence is deafening. And ominous - in my experience, the British 24 Hours is only red-flagged for a serious accident. Bob's voice rings out over the tannoy, sounding angrier than I've ever heard him. Apparently several drivers failed to slow down for yellow warning flags, and a marshal has been hit on track.
On a high-speed circuit like Teesside, this is worrying indeed; I run back to the pitwall. All the drivers are out of their karts and assembled on the infield. Lee reports that Stuart is fine and wasn't involved, while Alex is hurriedly suiting up: Bob has ordered that all teams must change drivers before the race is restarted. This is a disaster for the team and Stuart in particular, whose stint had barely begun when the race was red-flagged.
After several minutes of heated discussion under the floodlights, the order is rescinded and the race is restarted with the original drivers. It's the right decision - it would have been wrong to punish the entire field for the actions of one driver. The marshal is not seriously injured and we breathe a collective sigh of relief. But the mood in the paddock is sombre. This race demands the best from all of us. Lose respect and it will bite.
Deep in thought, I return to the tent. Marianne is just getting ready to return to the pitwall; I fill her in on recent events, slide under my sleeping bag and shut my eyes for an hour. I'm too wired to sleep, but it's good to give my body a rest and clear my mind. Marianne returns at 11.30 with good news: Stuart is flying in the wet conditions, overtaking owner drivers left and right, and outpacing the entire hire kart field. And the kettle's on.
Spirits lifted, I hurry back to the Corporate Chauffeurs team base. The rain has eased, but it's a chilly, blustery night - the chatter and roar of the karts waxing and waning as the wind gusts. Stuart flashes through the chicane in front of us, as committed as ever; it's a relief to see him apparently comfortable, though he must be running on empty by now.
Just before midnight, Marianne is filming as Alex's blue-suited figure leads us around to the pitlane. Stuart comes in bang on cue and again, Lee and I execute a slick pitstop. As Alex accelerates away, we're already congratulating Stuart on a superb stint - and a Herculean effort. It takes him a moment or two to regain the power of speech, but he looks to have stood up amazingly well to the rigours of over 250 laps - six hours at the wheel in a twelve hour period. As he says his goodbyes and leaves with our heartfelt thanks, I feel a pang of apprehension. From now on, we're a man down. The clock strikes midnight: half distance.
Sunday 26 August
I climb the grassy bank behind our awning and film a video diary, looking out over the floodlit track. Fifty metres away, trains of karts are flashing through the Esses, nose to tail at sixty miles an hour on the damp track, and I shiver with a mix of cold, thrill and apprehension. In less than ninety minutes' time, it'll be my turn on the graveyard shift.
By 1.45am I'm suited, booted, gloved, helmeted, velcroed and (blister)plastered. I'm as ready as I'll ever be for 120 racing miles in the dead of night. I stand in the pitlane - seat insert tucked under my arm - and listen to the radio chatter as Lee masterminds the impending pitstop. There's traffic at the fuel bay, and he's forced to leave Alex out for a couple of laps longer than planned. I'm dimly aware of some concern over fuel, but shut my mind to all but the job at hand.
Alex peels into the pits just as another kart leaves the fuel bay - perfect. He delivers us the refuelled kart in good time, and again the team runs like clockwork . As I jump in, Lee and Marianne are already lubricating the chains behind me. My seat insert briefly refuses to align properly, and I'm still getting comfortable when I get the 'go' command, but no time is lost. I thread my way between karts and pedestrians while working the seat into place, and boot it as I pass the last of the red-and-white bollards which mark the end of the pitlane.
It's eight hours since I was last on track, in a different kart. But this one feels so much punchier and more biddable that I'm quickly up to speed. It's been three hours since the rain stopped, but there are still damp patches about. One in particular grabs my attention, washing the front tyres wide in the middle of the flat-out banked right hander at the top of the circuit.
There's always something otherworldly about this stint. No matter how well you've prepared, part of your brain is bemused at not being tucked up in bed. But dare I say it, in my fourth 24 hour race, it feels a little less bizarre than on previous occasions. It's not routine - I'll quit the day it becomes that - but it's more comfortable. And more enjoyable.
As I settle into my rhythm, Marianne is on the radio every couple of laps. And the news is good: in the first hour I make up a couple of places on track, and set a new fastest lap. The owner karts seem to be overtaking a little more tardily than earlier on, and I'm steadily passing standard hire karts along with the odd raggedly driven club hire kart. The seat insert still pinches my left hip, but otherwise I'm comfortable, the blisters I acquired earlier on not bothering me at all.
By the time I pit just after 4am, I've made up four places - more due to being on track at the right time than any particular genius on my part - and lowered our fastest lap to a 1.22.2 despite the lingering damp patches. Again I'm anxious not to mess up the pitstop, and again my fears are unfounded. Alex and Marianne time it perfectly, and I lose no time pushing the kart from fuel bay to pit exit. As Lee accelerates away, I'm nodding in quiet satisfaction. It's been a solid stint, with good pace and no mistakes, and the team as a whole is nigh-on flawless. If only the equipment hadn't let us down...
But there's no point in dwelling on it. There's still work to do: I'm due back on track in less than four hours, and as the adrenalin drains away the fatigue begins to bite. As soon as I've downed a pint of water, Marianne sends me to the tent with a granola bar and strict orders to eat it before I put my head down.
The alarm drills through a whirl of half-formed dreams at 6.45am. In many ways this is the toughest moment of the entire weekend: as I slowly surface, the murmur of complaint from my body grows to a clamour. Every part of me aches, my throat is dry, my stomach churns. I stare at the shifting shapes of leaves above, projected onto the tent by morning sunlight, and try to reconcile my mind to the concept of being on track in 45 minutes' time.
Then Marianne pulls back the porch awning and makes my day.
Because of the problems early on, and the timing of the kart change, we'd been running behind schedule since before half distance. I'd been hoping we could make up the shortfall through stoppages or wet weather, but neither had materialised; in the small hours, Alex and Marianne had made the call and brought Lee in for a splash-and-dash pitstop. After a marathon two-and-a-half hour stint, he'd handed over to Alex at 6.30am. With five and a bit hours and three stints to run, we're back on schedule. All of which means that I'm not due on track until 8.15am - giving me a precious extra 45 minutes of rest.
By 7.30 I'm back on the pitwall and feeling a little less like death warmed up. Half a gallon of coffee and a bucket of porridge later, I can almost contemplate getting back in the kart. On track, Alex's distinctive blue suit tears past every 82 seconds like clockwork. Lauren wears the headphones and watches over her man, while Marianne helps me get ready. I'm overcome with admiration for them. Aside from a snatched hour in the tent before half-distance, Marianne has been on the pitwall since the beginning of practice; Lauren can't have had more than a couple of hours of sleep - and is now reasonably sure she's got shingles.
I jump out of my skin as a pile of clothes on the camping chair beside me shifts. I'd assumed that Lee was asleep in his car - but he's here, ready for action if needed, grabbing some well earned rest. He'll take to the track once again to bring us home in a few hours' time. As I contemplate the sheer class of our team, the colossal effort made by each and every member, the pain and fatigue fall away. Suddenly I can't wait to get out there again and drive the wheels off.
By 8.15 I'm ready. It's a beautiful, sunny morning and I've got the tingle. That hair-raising trickle of adrenalin that only racing provides. Alex is in and refuelled without a moment's delay, holding off the fatigue for a few more seconds as he pushes the kart towards us. Lee receives it, already starting the engines as I leap in - and we make a rare pitlane error. I hear what sounds like the 'go' command and gun the throttle - only to slam on the brakes a second later as a chorus of 'STOP!' rings out behind me. Lee does a Superman over the rear of the kart and lands practically in my lap; he's instantly pushing himself upright. A few more squirts of oil onto the chains as the team roll me forward to coat both chains and sprockets in lubricant... and I get the nod. For real this time.
It was a minor blunder that cost us five seconds... but Lee took quite a tumble. I hope he hasn't damaged himself. As I rocket towards the Esses on my out lap, I key the radio button and ask the question. The reply is a little garbled but I get the impression that all is well.
The third stint is all about survival, about shrugging off all that's gone before and giving it everything you have. After more than twenty hours the pace is as relentless as ever, the leaders lapping well inside the 1.21 bracket. In his last stint, Alex took a few hundredths off the 1.22.2 that I set in the small hours; with my weight advantage I should be able to better that.
As in 2011, I get the impression that the more highly-tuned owner and Club Hire karts are suffering more than our standard hire kart in these closing stages: I find myself embroiled in wheel-to-wheel combat with karts that should be able to pull away easily. Or maybe we standard hire drivers are made of sterner stuff.
The kart still feels strong, though it's looser than last time I drove it; I'm reminded that it's done 11 hours on the same set of tyres. Because we had a replacement kart, we were excused from the mandatory maintenance stop that the other teams made between midnight and 2am. The time saved helped get us back in the race, but it means our tyres are three hours older than everyone else's. I get a little ragged into the hairpin after the Esses, and am forced to dial it back a notch. Track conditions are good, but I just don't have the rubber.
Nevertheless, the pace is reasonable. I'm in the low 1.22s from the start of my stint, and can't resist a cheesy Vettel-style shout over the radio when Marianne tells me I've broken into the 1.21s, about an hour in. That's what I'm talking about... my best is a 1.21.771 which will stand as the team's fastest lap of the race. I'm the lightest, so that's as it should be - but I'm pleased. I worked hard to make sure I was fitter and quicker this year, and it's good to see my efforts rewarded.
Fit or not, by the time Marianne gives me the thirty minute time check, I'm hanging on by my fingernails. Adrenalin and willpower keep me on track, but my left hip is stabbing me through every right hander. Nearly six hours at the wheel have taken a huge physical and mental toll, and the calories are running out.
In the final minutes, I'm confused by a flurry of radio activity that I can't decipher, and worry that I'm missing the call to pit. But there's no sign from the pitwall; finally I realise that I'm hearing chatter between Lee in the pitlane and Marianne under our awning, discussing the timing of the pitstop.
Much as I love my sport, and driving this circuit, I'm relieved when, midway through the banking, Lee's voice rings through my headset, clear as a bell.
"Box, Andrew. Repeat, box now."
"Box now, copy."
For the last time, I thread the kart through the right hander and the slow left that follows, accelerate away and peel into the pit entry. The fuel bay is clear; I leap out, wait as the fuel marshal does his job, and pour all of my energy into the final push. Fifty metres later I'm still on my feet as Alex takes over. Our final scheduled pitstop is as slick as ever; I watch Lee disappear down the pitlane, and slowly remove my helmet as Alex claps me on the back.
For me, that's job done.
Back in the paddock, there's an end-of-party feel in the air. With 90 minutes to run until the chequered flag, teams are beginning to dismantle their awnings. Alex has marshalled a small army to help take down Lewis' giant awning - which has served us and many others so well - and in minutes it's stowed away. I eat and drink whatever I can find, and slowly wind my brain back down to the pace of ordinary life.
Out on track, Lee is lapping as consistently as ever. There's little to play for at this stage, but he keeps the pressure on in case one of the teams ahead has a late problem. We're running 13th in class, exactly where we started, having been 21st, last and five laps down on the 20th placed kart after ten hours. Between hours 11 and 23 we made up six laps on the leaders - sound evidence that had the luck gone our way, we'd have been in the hunt for the win.
Just before 12pm, three hundred drivers, supporters and staff take to the pitwall to cheer Lee and the others across the line. There can only be one winner in each class, but the huge support for each and every team makes for a wonderful sense of occasion. We haven't achieved what we came to do. But we've made it home and done ourselves proud.
One of the BRKC teams has made the podium in our class, and are rightly thrilled. David Hird, Mike Kettlewell and Paul Lycett will be the first to admit that they're not frontrunners in our individual driver's championship. But consistency, hard work, local knowledge and a little bit of luck have brought them a richly deserved third place. After a series of ups and downs, Brad's Baron Racing team have finished third in the owner Pro class. Clearly our porridge made the difference.
We cheer the podiums and say our goodbyes with a touch of sadness. By our standards the end result is poor, but it's been an epic weekend. This is a truly great racing team, which has performed at the top of its game, and I'm very proud to be part of it. Alex, Lee, Stuart, Lauren and Marianne: legends all, and I salute you.
For now, the glittering prize still hovers tantalisingly out of reach. I look forward to staking our claim for it again. Third time lucky...?
(Click here for part 1)
Thursday, 6 September 2012
British 24 Hours, Teesside. Part 1
(Click here for part 2)
Friday 24 August
It begins...
A 65mph breeze tugs at the shoulder vents of my race suit, flaps an exposed length of radio cable against my neck. At the back of my mind, the tiny voice of self-preservation is reminding me to breathe. Ahead, the circuit slopes slightly downhill and snakes into the Esses, where I must pick the straightest line between jutting razor-toothed kerbs. Any more than a kiss of tyre on concrete will launch the kart - and me - skywards. Right, left, right; tiny movements on the steering wheel, resisting the growing urge to lift off the throttle... watch for the final kerb, which juts out further than the others. Jinking right, the kart skittering but holding... straighten up for the left-hand hairpin. No more than a dab of brake to shed 20mph or so, then sweep left, aiming for a point just beyond the apex, letting the rear wheels slide just a little as the speed bleeds away. Then back on the power for the right hander that immediately follows, trying not to slide or lift as we kiss the kerb and rocket out onto the back straight.
The familiar voice of Alex Vangeen, team captain, crackles in my headset.
"How's it looking out there?"
The breeze is back, flapping at my sleeves as I turn into the banked right hander at the bottom of the circuit. The grin threatens to split my brand-new helmet as I press the Push To Talk button on the steering wheel.
"Damn, it's good to be back..."
It's 2pm on Friday, 22 hours before the start of the biggest race on the calendar, and there's nowhere I'd rather be. After a rather fraught build-up - which included a last-minute driver substitution - the Corporate Chauffeurs BRKC team is all present and correct. Lewis Tindall, who sadly had to drop out due to injury, is here in spirit: we've used his enormous 6 by 3 metre awning to make the Teesside paddock our home.
The other drivers - Alex Vangeen, Lee Jones and supersub Stuart McKay - are preparing for their practice runs in an hour's time, and the all-important support crew - my wife Marianne and Alex's fiancé Lauren - are busying themselves setting up the camping gas stove, food, table and chairs... and learning how to use the radio gear. Almost a full day before we turn a wheel in anger, and we're already operating as a unit. Individually and collectively, we've prepared for this weekend down to the last detail, and it shows.
I peel into the pits after 40 laps, reasonably satisfied. The weather has stayed dry - not ideal, with rain forecast for the rest of the weekend - but I'm confident on track, with good rhythm through the flowing sequences of high-speed corners. There's work to do before I'm fully comfortable in the kart, though: after the beating I took last year I've added an extra layer of foam to my rib protector. Together with my seat insert it makes for a very tight fit, which is pinching me in right handers. As Alex and Lee take to the track, Marianne gets out the scissors and helps me cut away some of the foam over my left hip.
Alex has hired specialised radio gear for the weekend, which is a huge improvement over the makeshift kit we used last year. The pitwall has a proper noise-cancelling headset, and although everyone has to speak clearly and loudly, we can all hear each other after a little practice. As we're to discover, the radios will play a huge part in the outcome of our weekend. Lewis has also lent us his pitboard, but after a couple of attempts we abandon it: our awning sits right in front of the fast chicane, and the drivers are too busy hanging on for dear life to look at it.
By 4pm we've wrapped for the day, and it's been an excellent start; spirits are high as we congregate in the Beefeater beside our Premier Inn for dinner. We're joined by perennial British 24 Hour racer - and sometime BRKC driver - Andrew Bayliss, who will be competing for one of the Club Hire teams this weekend. He is, as ever, excellent company; although the food has gone downhill since we ate here last year, a pleasant evening is had by all. We're a little concerned about Lauren, though. She's all smiles as usual, but is suffering from a suspected case of shingles and is in some discomfort. I hope she's better tomorrow.
We part at 9pm with plans to meet at the circuit before 8am. The race starts at midday, an hour earlier than last year, and the morning will be more rushed than usual. I expect sleep to come fitfully, but am tired after a long day, and last's year's pre-race butterflies simply aren't there. I'm hugely excited about tomorrow, but I'm not nervous.
We're ready. What will be, will be.
Saturday 25 August
Raceday dawns cloudy and damp, as expected. By 8am we're all at the circuit; tea and porridge oats are brewing on the stove. Our kart, number 24, sits with the others on the infield; I take my seat insert across to double-check that it fits. It does. The kart looks neat and tidy with its yellow flashes in the sidepods, brand-new tyres on all four corners. Both engines start easily, and I familiarise myself with the throttle levers and the holes for chain lubrication: I'll need to find them in a hurry in the dark during pitstops later on.
We assemble for the briefing at 8.30am as rain begins to fall; race director Bob Pope and his team run through the usual details plus a couple of rule clarifications - and at last, the butterflies start to flutter. Finally, after months of preparation, it's about to get real.
At 9am, the engines begin to clatter into life. We've elected to do minimal running in practice to save the kart as much as possible. Each of us plans to do a few laps to find our feet in the wet, and leave it at that. Lee starts us off - with his huge experience he's best placed to check that everything is working - after fifteen minutes or so, he pits and I take over. In ten laps I'm reminded of the considerable grip this circuit generates in the wet. Having rediscovered the wet line and found the groove I pit and hand over to Stuart. He proceeds to set our fastest lap of the session - a low 1.39 - but the sinking feeling has set in.
We're around three seconds shy of the lead pace: our kart clearly has a problem. It's masked by the wet weather, but we're short of straight line speed. Lee pits on three separate occasions during his second run - once to cure a sticking brake, twice to have the throttle cables adjusted. With both engines firing in sync, and the brakes working properly, the kart is better - but the changes don't give us the injection of speed we need.
By the end of qualifying we're 13th in class - exactly where we qualified last year - out of 21. The weather has worsened during the second half of the session, and Stuart's lap stands as our best. The kart still feels slow, but the mechanics can't find any more problems. We'll have to start the race as we are and hope for the best. Despite the issues we're optimistic as the start approaches. It's the longest race of all, and there's everything to play for. We show Marianne and Lauren the ins and outs of throttles and chain lubrication, and I film a video diary as the karts form up for the Le Mans style start. Just like last year, the drivers will run across the circuit to their waiting karts. And just like last year, Alex will do the honours assisted by Lee.
At five to twelve we clear the circuit and wait anxiously behind the barrier, fingers crossed. Five hundred pairs of eyes are trained on the start marshal, who stands with Union Jack furled on the circuit infield. He counts down the minutes with raised fingers. Midday comes and goes by my watch, the final minute stretching interminably... then the flag is up, held for five long seconds, and dropped. We cheer Alex across the track, Lee blips the throttles as he slides into the seat... and all 67 karts are away. It's not the lightning start we managed last year, but it's clean. The circuit goes silent for a moment, as the field disappears down the hill. When it reappears, streaming into the Esses for the first of a thousand or more passes, Alex is unscathed. We breathe.
But he's on the radio within minutes, complaining of a serious lack of straight line speed. The circuit is drying, the laptimes dropping... and we're a full four seconds away from the leading pace. There's no point in pitting - we'll lose more time off track than on it - so it's a case of damage limitation. As a driver, there are few more frustrating experiences than driving your heart out while being passed left and right. We do what we can to keep Alex focused and motivated, counting the minutes until our first scheduled pitstop.
At 1.45 pm we're waiting at the garage, having forewarned the mechanics that kart 24 is coming in. Alex refuels and drives the kart straight down the hill; the mechanics lift it onto a stand and go to work. It takes three minutes for the head mechanic to diagnose a sticking valve on the left engine, and a further twelve to change it. Stuart is suited up and ready to go; we send him on his way and trudge back up the hill to assess the damage.
The timing system has been upgraded this year, with a nifty iPhone app to supplement the timing screens. Lauren has been monitoring it since the beginning, and it tells a dire story. We're dead last, 16 laps behind the leaders in our class. But with two fully functional engines, Stuart is lapping much closer to the leading pace. He's still a second or so slower, but is catching the teams in front of us hand over fist; our spirits are lifted.
As Alex rehydrates and posts a despondent Facebook update about our plight, I get changed into my overalls, wolf a handful of nuts and prepare for my stint at 4pm. As the lightest member of the team, my stints are the longest; the first is planned to be around two hours and ten minutes. As always, I face a challenge to balance my hydration; a last minute toilet stop makes me late to the pitlane.
But the others are ready, and I've plenty of time as Stuart coasts into the fuel bay - then notice that in the rush, I've forgotten my elbow pads. They're not essential, but are nice to have; Marianne runs back to the awning, and returns with seconds to spare. She helps me slide them on as Stuart appears, having started the engines himself. Lee and Alex run forward with cans of chain lube at the ready... and I'm struck cold.
I've left my my seat insert behind.
It's a hundred metres away under the awning, no time to fetch it... but as I jump into the kart and velcro my radio button onto the steering wheel, the shock is passing. Our race kart's seat isn't the armchair-sized item we encounter on some rental karts - in fact, with my seat insert, rib protector and extra foam in place it was an uncomfortably tight fit in practice. I'll slide around a little, but the Ribtec and foam will protect me from the worst. It's not a disaster.
The pitstop is clean and in moments I'm blasting out into the fray, straight into a melee of karts in three separate classes. I take a couple of laps to find the sweet spot of a kart I've never driven in the dry - and on my second flying lap, make my only mistake of the weekend. Chasing one of the faster Club Hire karts through the banked corner at the bottom of the circuit, I'm caught out when he brakes at least five metres too early for the tightening right hander; jinking left to avoid ramming him, I drop the kart into a half-spin. It's annoying but trivial: it costs five seconds.
Throughout the weekend, the rest of the team have alternated between voicing their concern that I avoid a repeat of last year's injuries, and taking the mick out of my bright green foam padding. I know they'll be worried that I'm in trouble without my seat insert; as soon as I find a little space, I get on the radio to reassure them. All is well.
Sadly the same can't be said of the kart. I'm driving quite well, adapting quickly to the Teesside race rhythm - the particular technique needed to maintain your pace while being passed by faster karts - but I'm still short of straight line speed. It's not as bad as Alex's tribulations earlier on, but I'm being overtaken on the straights by other standard hire karts. On the radio, Marianne tells me that my laptimes are consistently in the mid 1.23 bracket, with the leaders in the 1.22s. It makes the job harder, but I've been preparing for this all summer; I'm giving it everything I have and loving every second.
There are no boring laps at Teesside. Every single tour asks serious questions of driver and machinery, and stringing together a good one is the biggest thrill in karting. Through the fast chicane in front of the pits, you must ride the kerbs at 55mph, right foot pinned to the throttle stops, picking the line of least resistance and trusting that the loaded right tyres will hang on.
The hill beyond the pits is a favoured overtaking point for the owner drivers; with faster karts battling all around you, jostling for position at 70mph on the approach to turn 3, it can be a scary place. Turn 3 itself has haunted my dreams for eleven months. It's the most difficult corner on the circuit - a blisteringly fast, bumpy ninety degree right-hander with minimal runoff and ample opportunity for visiting the scenery. Pick the right line and you'll rocket through with a light bump and a shimmy through the steering wheel; slide six inches wide on the entry and the breath will be knocked out of you as the kart bounces towards the edge of the track and the wasteland beyond at 50mph.
If you do manage to negotiate turn 3 unscathed, there's barely time to breathe before the next sequence: a near-flat right hander followed immediately by a corkscrew left which turns steeply uphill. Here, it's crucial to maintain momentum: good speed up the hill and through the blind right-hander at its crest will transform the half-kilometre straight that leads into the Esses. The kart feels particularly tardy up the hill; I learn to get back on the throttle more smoothly, taking a tighter line over the kerbs and keeping the rear wheels in check, but am still losing ground.
With the stint three-quarters gone, I'm in good shape physically aside from a couple of developing blisters, and continue to nibble away at the laptimes. I set a best of 1.23.067 as Marianne gives me a five-minute time check; niggling anxiety about the impending pitstop jumps to the forefront of my mind. I lost a lot of time in pitstops last year - to mistakes and exhaustion - and am keen to avoid a repeat.
At two hours five minutes I hear the 'box' command over the radio; we've arranged that Marianne will wave a furled umbrella from the pitwall as a backup signal. As I round the final left hander and accelerate towards the start/finish line, the red umbrella is waving; I peel into the pitlane, ripping the velcroed radio button off the steering wheel, and stop as directed by the fuel marshal. I hop out, flooded with relief as my legs respond, and wait impatiently.
I've already decided to push the kart rather than starting it; as the marshal gives me the thumbs up I lean in. It moves easily, and once around the hairpin beyond the fuel bay I quickly get up to jogging pace. The rest of the team wait at the start of the pit exit; they're not allowed to help me until I reach them. I make the left turn, and Lee and Alex descend with cans of chain lube as Stuart jumps in. In ten seconds the engines are fired up and Stuart is threading his way between other karts towards the exit at the bottom of the hill. It's a smooth stop - near flawless, in fact - and I give the others a thumbs up as I remove my helmet.
It's five past six in the evening. Eighteen hours to go.
(Click here for part 2)
Friday 24 August
It begins...
A 65mph breeze tugs at the shoulder vents of my race suit, flaps an exposed length of radio cable against my neck. At the back of my mind, the tiny voice of self-preservation is reminding me to breathe. Ahead, the circuit slopes slightly downhill and snakes into the Esses, where I must pick the straightest line between jutting razor-toothed kerbs. Any more than a kiss of tyre on concrete will launch the kart - and me - skywards. Right, left, right; tiny movements on the steering wheel, resisting the growing urge to lift off the throttle... watch for the final kerb, which juts out further than the others. Jinking right, the kart skittering but holding... straighten up for the left-hand hairpin. No more than a dab of brake to shed 20mph or so, then sweep left, aiming for a point just beyond the apex, letting the rear wheels slide just a little as the speed bleeds away. Then back on the power for the right hander that immediately follows, trying not to slide or lift as we kiss the kerb and rocket out onto the back straight.
The familiar voice of Alex Vangeen, team captain, crackles in my headset.
"How's it looking out there?"
The breeze is back, flapping at my sleeves as I turn into the banked right hander at the bottom of the circuit. The grin threatens to split my brand-new helmet as I press the Push To Talk button on the steering wheel.
"Damn, it's good to be back..."
It's 2pm on Friday, 22 hours before the start of the biggest race on the calendar, and there's nowhere I'd rather be. After a rather fraught build-up - which included a last-minute driver substitution - the Corporate Chauffeurs BRKC team is all present and correct. Lewis Tindall, who sadly had to drop out due to injury, is here in spirit: we've used his enormous 6 by 3 metre awning to make the Teesside paddock our home.
The other drivers - Alex Vangeen, Lee Jones and supersub Stuart McKay - are preparing for their practice runs in an hour's time, and the all-important support crew - my wife Marianne and Alex's fiancé Lauren - are busying themselves setting up the camping gas stove, food, table and chairs... and learning how to use the radio gear. Almost a full day before we turn a wheel in anger, and we're already operating as a unit. Individually and collectively, we've prepared for this weekend down to the last detail, and it shows.
I peel into the pits after 40 laps, reasonably satisfied. The weather has stayed dry - not ideal, with rain forecast for the rest of the weekend - but I'm confident on track, with good rhythm through the flowing sequences of high-speed corners. There's work to do before I'm fully comfortable in the kart, though: after the beating I took last year I've added an extra layer of foam to my rib protector. Together with my seat insert it makes for a very tight fit, which is pinching me in right handers. As Alex and Lee take to the track, Marianne gets out the scissors and helps me cut away some of the foam over my left hip.
Alex has hired specialised radio gear for the weekend, which is a huge improvement over the makeshift kit we used last year. The pitwall has a proper noise-cancelling headset, and although everyone has to speak clearly and loudly, we can all hear each other after a little practice. As we're to discover, the radios will play a huge part in the outcome of our weekend. Lewis has also lent us his pitboard, but after a couple of attempts we abandon it: our awning sits right in front of the fast chicane, and the drivers are too busy hanging on for dear life to look at it.
By 4pm we've wrapped for the day, and it's been an excellent start; spirits are high as we congregate in the Beefeater beside our Premier Inn for dinner. We're joined by perennial British 24 Hour racer - and sometime BRKC driver - Andrew Bayliss, who will be competing for one of the Club Hire teams this weekend. He is, as ever, excellent company; although the food has gone downhill since we ate here last year, a pleasant evening is had by all. We're a little concerned about Lauren, though. She's all smiles as usual, but is suffering from a suspected case of shingles and is in some discomfort. I hope she's better tomorrow.
We part at 9pm with plans to meet at the circuit before 8am. The race starts at midday, an hour earlier than last year, and the morning will be more rushed than usual. I expect sleep to come fitfully, but am tired after a long day, and last's year's pre-race butterflies simply aren't there. I'm hugely excited about tomorrow, but I'm not nervous.
We're ready. What will be, will be.
Saturday 25 August
Raceday dawns cloudy and damp, as expected. By 8am we're all at the circuit; tea and porridge oats are brewing on the stove. Our kart, number 24, sits with the others on the infield; I take my seat insert across to double-check that it fits. It does. The kart looks neat and tidy with its yellow flashes in the sidepods, brand-new tyres on all four corners. Both engines start easily, and I familiarise myself with the throttle levers and the holes for chain lubrication: I'll need to find them in a hurry in the dark during pitstops later on.
We assemble for the briefing at 8.30am as rain begins to fall; race director Bob Pope and his team run through the usual details plus a couple of rule clarifications - and at last, the butterflies start to flutter. Finally, after months of preparation, it's about to get real.
At 9am, the engines begin to clatter into life. We've elected to do minimal running in practice to save the kart as much as possible. Each of us plans to do a few laps to find our feet in the wet, and leave it at that. Lee starts us off - with his huge experience he's best placed to check that everything is working - after fifteen minutes or so, he pits and I take over. In ten laps I'm reminded of the considerable grip this circuit generates in the wet. Having rediscovered the wet line and found the groove I pit and hand over to Stuart. He proceeds to set our fastest lap of the session - a low 1.39 - but the sinking feeling has set in.
We're around three seconds shy of the lead pace: our kart clearly has a problem. It's masked by the wet weather, but we're short of straight line speed. Lee pits on three separate occasions during his second run - once to cure a sticking brake, twice to have the throttle cables adjusted. With both engines firing in sync, and the brakes working properly, the kart is better - but the changes don't give us the injection of speed we need.
By the end of qualifying we're 13th in class - exactly where we qualified last year - out of 21. The weather has worsened during the second half of the session, and Stuart's lap stands as our best. The kart still feels slow, but the mechanics can't find any more problems. We'll have to start the race as we are and hope for the best. Despite the issues we're optimistic as the start approaches. It's the longest race of all, and there's everything to play for. We show Marianne and Lauren the ins and outs of throttles and chain lubrication, and I film a video diary as the karts form up for the Le Mans style start. Just like last year, the drivers will run across the circuit to their waiting karts. And just like last year, Alex will do the honours assisted by Lee.
At five to twelve we clear the circuit and wait anxiously behind the barrier, fingers crossed. Five hundred pairs of eyes are trained on the start marshal, who stands with Union Jack furled on the circuit infield. He counts down the minutes with raised fingers. Midday comes and goes by my watch, the final minute stretching interminably... then the flag is up, held for five long seconds, and dropped. We cheer Alex across the track, Lee blips the throttles as he slides into the seat... and all 67 karts are away. It's not the lightning start we managed last year, but it's clean. The circuit goes silent for a moment, as the field disappears down the hill. When it reappears, streaming into the Esses for the first of a thousand or more passes, Alex is unscathed. We breathe.
But he's on the radio within minutes, complaining of a serious lack of straight line speed. The circuit is drying, the laptimes dropping... and we're a full four seconds away from the leading pace. There's no point in pitting - we'll lose more time off track than on it - so it's a case of damage limitation. As a driver, there are few more frustrating experiences than driving your heart out while being passed left and right. We do what we can to keep Alex focused and motivated, counting the minutes until our first scheduled pitstop.
At 1.45 pm we're waiting at the garage, having forewarned the mechanics that kart 24 is coming in. Alex refuels and drives the kart straight down the hill; the mechanics lift it onto a stand and go to work. It takes three minutes for the head mechanic to diagnose a sticking valve on the left engine, and a further twelve to change it. Stuart is suited up and ready to go; we send him on his way and trudge back up the hill to assess the damage.
The timing system has been upgraded this year, with a nifty iPhone app to supplement the timing screens. Lauren has been monitoring it since the beginning, and it tells a dire story. We're dead last, 16 laps behind the leaders in our class. But with two fully functional engines, Stuart is lapping much closer to the leading pace. He's still a second or so slower, but is catching the teams in front of us hand over fist; our spirits are lifted.
As Alex rehydrates and posts a despondent Facebook update about our plight, I get changed into my overalls, wolf a handful of nuts and prepare for my stint at 4pm. As the lightest member of the team, my stints are the longest; the first is planned to be around two hours and ten minutes. As always, I face a challenge to balance my hydration; a last minute toilet stop makes me late to the pitlane.
But the others are ready, and I've plenty of time as Stuart coasts into the fuel bay - then notice that in the rush, I've forgotten my elbow pads. They're not essential, but are nice to have; Marianne runs back to the awning, and returns with seconds to spare. She helps me slide them on as Stuart appears, having started the engines himself. Lee and Alex run forward with cans of chain lube at the ready... and I'm struck cold.
I've left my my seat insert behind.
It's a hundred metres away under the awning, no time to fetch it... but as I jump into the kart and velcro my radio button onto the steering wheel, the shock is passing. Our race kart's seat isn't the armchair-sized item we encounter on some rental karts - in fact, with my seat insert, rib protector and extra foam in place it was an uncomfortably tight fit in practice. I'll slide around a little, but the Ribtec and foam will protect me from the worst. It's not a disaster.
The pitstop is clean and in moments I'm blasting out into the fray, straight into a melee of karts in three separate classes. I take a couple of laps to find the sweet spot of a kart I've never driven in the dry - and on my second flying lap, make my only mistake of the weekend. Chasing one of the faster Club Hire karts through the banked corner at the bottom of the circuit, I'm caught out when he brakes at least five metres too early for the tightening right hander; jinking left to avoid ramming him, I drop the kart into a half-spin. It's annoying but trivial: it costs five seconds.
Throughout the weekend, the rest of the team have alternated between voicing their concern that I avoid a repeat of last year's injuries, and taking the mick out of my bright green foam padding. I know they'll be worried that I'm in trouble without my seat insert; as soon as I find a little space, I get on the radio to reassure them. All is well.
Sadly the same can't be said of the kart. I'm driving quite well, adapting quickly to the Teesside race rhythm - the particular technique needed to maintain your pace while being passed by faster karts - but I'm still short of straight line speed. It's not as bad as Alex's tribulations earlier on, but I'm being overtaken on the straights by other standard hire karts. On the radio, Marianne tells me that my laptimes are consistently in the mid 1.23 bracket, with the leaders in the 1.22s. It makes the job harder, but I've been preparing for this all summer; I'm giving it everything I have and loving every second.
There are no boring laps at Teesside. Every single tour asks serious questions of driver and machinery, and stringing together a good one is the biggest thrill in karting. Through the fast chicane in front of the pits, you must ride the kerbs at 55mph, right foot pinned to the throttle stops, picking the line of least resistance and trusting that the loaded right tyres will hang on.
The hill beyond the pits is a favoured overtaking point for the owner drivers; with faster karts battling all around you, jostling for position at 70mph on the approach to turn 3, it can be a scary place. Turn 3 itself has haunted my dreams for eleven months. It's the most difficult corner on the circuit - a blisteringly fast, bumpy ninety degree right-hander with minimal runoff and ample opportunity for visiting the scenery. Pick the right line and you'll rocket through with a light bump and a shimmy through the steering wheel; slide six inches wide on the entry and the breath will be knocked out of you as the kart bounces towards the edge of the track and the wasteland beyond at 50mph.
If you do manage to negotiate turn 3 unscathed, there's barely time to breathe before the next sequence: a near-flat right hander followed immediately by a corkscrew left which turns steeply uphill. Here, it's crucial to maintain momentum: good speed up the hill and through the blind right-hander at its crest will transform the half-kilometre straight that leads into the Esses. The kart feels particularly tardy up the hill; I learn to get back on the throttle more smoothly, taking a tighter line over the kerbs and keeping the rear wheels in check, but am still losing ground.
With the stint three-quarters gone, I'm in good shape physically aside from a couple of developing blisters, and continue to nibble away at the laptimes. I set a best of 1.23.067 as Marianne gives me a five-minute time check; niggling anxiety about the impending pitstop jumps to the forefront of my mind. I lost a lot of time in pitstops last year - to mistakes and exhaustion - and am keen to avoid a repeat.
At two hours five minutes I hear the 'box' command over the radio; we've arranged that Marianne will wave a furled umbrella from the pitwall as a backup signal. As I round the final left hander and accelerate towards the start/finish line, the red umbrella is waving; I peel into the pitlane, ripping the velcroed radio button off the steering wheel, and stop as directed by the fuel marshal. I hop out, flooded with relief as my legs respond, and wait impatiently.
I've already decided to push the kart rather than starting it; as the marshal gives me the thumbs up I lean in. It moves easily, and once around the hairpin beyond the fuel bay I quickly get up to jogging pace. The rest of the team wait at the start of the pit exit; they're not allowed to help me until I reach them. I make the left turn, and Lee and Alex descend with cans of chain lube as Stuart jumps in. In ten seconds the engines are fired up and Stuart is threading his way between other karts towards the exit at the bottom of the hill. It's a smooth stop - near flawless, in fact - and I give the others a thumbs up as I remove my helmet.
It's five past six in the evening. Eighteen hours to go.
(Click here for part 2)
Wednesday, 22 August 2012
British 24 Hours, Teesside. Preview
To most people, mention of Teesside conjures images of smokestacks and toil, of heavy industry and docklands. But to people in our sport it's something else entirely.
It's nearly a mile and a half of hallowed racing tarmac, a huge, challenging, white-knuckle ride of a circuit. It's the longest and fastest of its kind in the world - and for many, the best. And on the last weekend in August, it hosts the Godfather of endurance kart races: the British 24 Hours.
Eighty teams featuring the cream of Europe's kart racers will go head to head in four classes - two flavours each of owner driver karts and hire karts. The owner teams supply, run and maintain their own karts; the hire teams run karts which are supplied and prepared by the circuit. Four races - each a sizeable event in its own right - run simultaneously through a day and a night of controlled mayhem; the teams with the best blend of stamina, cool heads, raw speed and luck will reap the spoils.
Needless to say, we don't take it lightly. Our team - the Corporate Chauffeurs BRKC Team - has been preparing since February. Even for a hire kart crew like ours the planning and logistics are significant. And even for experienced drivers like us, the physical and mental demands are enormous.
Years ago, while chatting to a colleague at work about karting, I mentioned that I trained for it.
"What do you need to train for?" she asked. "Surely you just sit there and drive..."
During a two-hour stint on an outdoor circuit, most drivers will lose around two litres of water, and burn 1,200 calories. That's about the same as an average runner - like me - burns during a 10 mile run. Over the course of the British 24 Hours, each of our four drivers will do three stints. You can do the maths. When I call it a marathon, I'm not exaggerating.
My training schedule hasn't been without its pitfalls. Having decided to ramp up my strength and stamina while simultaneously losing as much weight as I safely could, I pushed my body hard. Perhaps too hard. On three occasions I've been forced to halt training, felled by a virus, a nasty bout of food poisoning, and downright exhaustion. Hopefully, the battle against adversity has toughened me up.
Two great motivators have spurred me on. The first is the memory of last year's race, which was thrilling and magical and brutal and heartbreaking in equal measure. I'm determined to do better.
The second is the Olympics. As a keen sportsman I was excited about London 2012. But even I couldn't have predicted the extent to which it gripped and inspired not just me, but the nation. Whenever I face tough moments in training or worry about the race, I remember the Olympians. I remember that my battle is a walk in the park compared to theirs.
After months of anticipation we're almost down to the wire. Training complete, kit triple-checked, packing started for the long trip north.
The entry list is packed with familiar names: friends and rivals from the British Rental Kart Championship and across the karting community; drivers of national and international standard. I look forward to meeting them on and off track.
Sadly, one name will be absent: Lewis Tindall, who joined our team back in February, has injured himself while trying - heroically but unwisely - to catch a falling car gearbox. We'll miss him, and wish him a speedy recovery. He's found us an excellent replacement who will remain a secret for now.
You need luck as well as talent to win a race like this and we will all, as ever, be in the lap of the gods. But the Corporate Chauffeurs BRKC Team - Alex Vangeen (captain), Lee Jones, myself, our mystery guest, and our brilliant support crew - is as ready as it can be. The Olympians had their time to shine. The Paralympians will have theirs from 29 August.
Now, it's ours. To everyone competing this weekend: good luck, and stay safe.
To everyone else: watch for regular Facebook updates from Friday 24 August onwards.
It's nearly a mile and a half of hallowed racing tarmac, a huge, challenging, white-knuckle ride of a circuit. It's the longest and fastest of its kind in the world - and for many, the best. And on the last weekend in August, it hosts the Godfather of endurance kart races: the British 24 Hours.
Eighty teams featuring the cream of Europe's kart racers will go head to head in four classes - two flavours each of owner driver karts and hire karts. The owner teams supply, run and maintain their own karts; the hire teams run karts which are supplied and prepared by the circuit. Four races - each a sizeable event in its own right - run simultaneously through a day and a night of controlled mayhem; the teams with the best blend of stamina, cool heads, raw speed and luck will reap the spoils.
Needless to say, we don't take it lightly. Our team - the Corporate Chauffeurs BRKC Team - has been preparing since February. Even for a hire kart crew like ours the planning and logistics are significant. And even for experienced drivers like us, the physical and mental demands are enormous.
Years ago, while chatting to a colleague at work about karting, I mentioned that I trained for it.
"What do you need to train for?" she asked. "Surely you just sit there and drive..."
During a two-hour stint on an outdoor circuit, most drivers will lose around two litres of water, and burn 1,200 calories. That's about the same as an average runner - like me - burns during a 10 mile run. Over the course of the British 24 Hours, each of our four drivers will do three stints. You can do the maths. When I call it a marathon, I'm not exaggerating.
My training schedule hasn't been without its pitfalls. Having decided to ramp up my strength and stamina while simultaneously losing as much weight as I safely could, I pushed my body hard. Perhaps too hard. On three occasions I've been forced to halt training, felled by a virus, a nasty bout of food poisoning, and downright exhaustion. Hopefully, the battle against adversity has toughened me up.
Two great motivators have spurred me on. The first is the memory of last year's race, which was thrilling and magical and brutal and heartbreaking in equal measure. I'm determined to do better.
The second is the Olympics. As a keen sportsman I was excited about London 2012. But even I couldn't have predicted the extent to which it gripped and inspired not just me, but the nation. Whenever I face tough moments in training or worry about the race, I remember the Olympians. I remember that my battle is a walk in the park compared to theirs.
After months of anticipation we're almost down to the wire. Training complete, kit triple-checked, packing started for the long trip north.
The entry list is packed with familiar names: friends and rivals from the British Rental Kart Championship and across the karting community; drivers of national and international standard. I look forward to meeting them on and off track.
Sadly, one name will be absent: Lewis Tindall, who joined our team back in February, has injured himself while trying - heroically but unwisely - to catch a falling car gearbox. We'll miss him, and wish him a speedy recovery. He's found us an excellent replacement who will remain a secret for now.
You need luck as well as talent to win a race like this and we will all, as ever, be in the lap of the gods. But the Corporate Chauffeurs BRKC Team - Alex Vangeen (captain), Lee Jones, myself, our mystery guest, and our brilliant support crew - is as ready as it can be. The Olympians had their time to shine. The Paralympians will have theirs from 29 August.
Now, it's ours. To everyone competing this weekend: good luck, and stay safe.
To everyone else: watch for regular Facebook updates from Friday 24 August onwards.
Wednesday, 18 July 2012
Thruxton. 15 July 2012
"It's a very long race," says the race director. "If you feel tired or unwell, please come in the pits - for your safety and everyone else's."
As usual, I ignore him. The British 24 Hours is a very long race. This, at 45 minutes, is practically a sprint.
It's been almost a year since I last visited Thruxton, and it's good to be back on a rare (for 2012) sunny summer's morning. Just like last year, I'm here primarily to get a bit of track time and assess my stamina ahead of the big race at Teesside in six weeks' time. I've been training hard and trying to shave a few kilos off my already skinny frame. It's hard work - I miss my naan bread - but I've lost over half a stone since the BRKC race at Teesside in May.
Thruxton's once-interminable safety briefing has mercifully been shortened, and I'm soon rediscovering this twisty, physical circuit. Unusually for a race billed as 'endurance', we're using the shorter version, which disappoints me - I've always preferred the flow of the full circuit with its hairpin and fast chicane. But no matter.
In the past couple of years I've sampled a dozen new rental kart fleets, and only Teesside's prokarts match the speed of Thruxton's single-engine Thunderkarts. It's eye-wateringly expensive, and no less prone to kart disparity than anywhere else, but the fundamentals are good. Having last raced at Birmingham, whose karts would be troubled by a well-driven Dodgem, the opening laps are something of a culture shock. As is the circuit. Thruxton eats drivers whole and spits out the bones. It's fast, bumpy, twisty, unrelenting. And fast.
After weeks of rain, the circuit is short of grip, with lingering damp patches in a couple of places and no rubber whatsoever. As the flag falls at the end of the fifteen minute qualifying session I'm pleased to see my name at the top of the leaderboard, but the time, at 50.8 seconds, is very slow. I've done a 49.1 here in the past.
On reflection, it's probably a good thing that grip levels are poor. Forty-eight hours ago I was laid low with an upset stomach, every joint from neck to toes aching. I felt fine this morning, but an unnatural fatigue has crept in after just fifteen laps. I'm not sure if the karts are new - they look the same - but I don't remember the wheelbases being so short. I'm uncomfortably close to the steering-wheel, which adds to the muscle power needed to turn it.
With nearly half a second in hand I'm expecting to pull away from the field - as long as I can make a good start. As the lights blink green I'm away well and lead comfortably by the end of the first lap. But I'm wary of faster drivers whose pace was hidden in qualifying. I've sprung the odd surprise myself from lowly grid positions in the past.
But no challenge materialises. I pull away at over half a second a lap, and soon realise that the circuit and the kart pose the biggest threat to my win. Thruxton is anti-clockwise, and on the short configuration in particular you spend virtually all of the lap turning left. In my weakened state, the workrate saps me quickly, and by half distance I'm in serious trouble. My seat insert isn't quite big enough for these XXL-size seats, and I'm sliding around more than usual; the short wheelbase and relentless right-biased load push my injured right ankle - still not recovered from a skiing injury - into a painfully twisted position on the throttle pedal.
Thruxton has an LED information board at the start/finish line. If you know where to look, you can read off your lap time and laps completed as you pass. I've no idea how far behind me the second-placed driver is, but I'd guess at 12 seconds; I slow a little to give my body a break, watching his laptimes and trying to match his pace. The backmarkers make it difficult, and I do myself no favours with an over-ambitious passing attempt that costs me five seconds.
By 45 laps I can barely hold the wheel but am still in front and still lapping relatively consistently. My optimistic inner voice tells me I still have a decent lead, and that I'll make the flag without crashing or passing out. I hope it's right, try to stem the rising bile in my throat, and focus on the next corner.
51 laps. I'm steering whole sections of the circuit with my left index finger hooked through the bottom spoke of the wheel. My entire body is numb aside from my churning guts and blazing right ankle. I'm watching the startline marshal like a hawk, praying for the chequered flag.
At 53 laps, it's waving, and I can honestly say I've never been more relieved to see it. I even manage to lift a hand in salute.
I accept my winner's medal with a mix of satisfaction and consternation. What should have been straightforward was anything but, and I'm pleased to have prevailed. But unwell or not, I'm not happy with my overall condition. In six weeks' time I'll have to withstand six hours at the wheel, in three 2-hour stints. Teesside's long, flowing layout is nothing like as brutal as Thruxton's, but there's work to do before I'm ready.
Last year I was left disappointed with my performance after a variety of problems and insufficient preparation. This year, I and the rest of the British 24 Hours team - captain Alex Vangeen, Lee Jones and newcomer Lewis Tindall - are quietly determined to make up for 2011's disappointment, when we lost third place to a kart issue in the dying minutes of the race.
It's going to be an almighty fight at the sharp end, and we have every intention of being part of it. First practice starts on Friday 24 August.
Watch this space.
As usual, I ignore him. The British 24 Hours is a very long race. This, at 45 minutes, is practically a sprint.
It's been almost a year since I last visited Thruxton, and it's good to be back on a rare (for 2012) sunny summer's morning. Just like last year, I'm here primarily to get a bit of track time and assess my stamina ahead of the big race at Teesside in six weeks' time. I've been training hard and trying to shave a few kilos off my already skinny frame. It's hard work - I miss my naan bread - but I've lost over half a stone since the BRKC race at Teesside in May.
Thruxton's once-interminable safety briefing has mercifully been shortened, and I'm soon rediscovering this twisty, physical circuit. Unusually for a race billed as 'endurance', we're using the shorter version, which disappoints me - I've always preferred the flow of the full circuit with its hairpin and fast chicane. But no matter.
In the past couple of years I've sampled a dozen new rental kart fleets, and only Teesside's prokarts match the speed of Thruxton's single-engine Thunderkarts. It's eye-wateringly expensive, and no less prone to kart disparity than anywhere else, but the fundamentals are good. Having last raced at Birmingham, whose karts would be troubled by a well-driven Dodgem, the opening laps are something of a culture shock. As is the circuit. Thruxton eats drivers whole and spits out the bones. It's fast, bumpy, twisty, unrelenting. And fast.
After weeks of rain, the circuit is short of grip, with lingering damp patches in a couple of places and no rubber whatsoever. As the flag falls at the end of the fifteen minute qualifying session I'm pleased to see my name at the top of the leaderboard, but the time, at 50.8 seconds, is very slow. I've done a 49.1 here in the past.
On reflection, it's probably a good thing that grip levels are poor. Forty-eight hours ago I was laid low with an upset stomach, every joint from neck to toes aching. I felt fine this morning, but an unnatural fatigue has crept in after just fifteen laps. I'm not sure if the karts are new - they look the same - but I don't remember the wheelbases being so short. I'm uncomfortably close to the steering-wheel, which adds to the muscle power needed to turn it.
With nearly half a second in hand I'm expecting to pull away from the field - as long as I can make a good start. As the lights blink green I'm away well and lead comfortably by the end of the first lap. But I'm wary of faster drivers whose pace was hidden in qualifying. I've sprung the odd surprise myself from lowly grid positions in the past.
But no challenge materialises. I pull away at over half a second a lap, and soon realise that the circuit and the kart pose the biggest threat to my win. Thruxton is anti-clockwise, and on the short configuration in particular you spend virtually all of the lap turning left. In my weakened state, the workrate saps me quickly, and by half distance I'm in serious trouble. My seat insert isn't quite big enough for these XXL-size seats, and I'm sliding around more than usual; the short wheelbase and relentless right-biased load push my injured right ankle - still not recovered from a skiing injury - into a painfully twisted position on the throttle pedal.
Thruxton has an LED information board at the start/finish line. If you know where to look, you can read off your lap time and laps completed as you pass. I've no idea how far behind me the second-placed driver is, but I'd guess at 12 seconds; I slow a little to give my body a break, watching his laptimes and trying to match his pace. The backmarkers make it difficult, and I do myself no favours with an over-ambitious passing attempt that costs me five seconds.
By 45 laps I can barely hold the wheel but am still in front and still lapping relatively consistently. My optimistic inner voice tells me I still have a decent lead, and that I'll make the flag without crashing or passing out. I hope it's right, try to stem the rising bile in my throat, and focus on the next corner.
51 laps. I'm steering whole sections of the circuit with my left index finger hooked through the bottom spoke of the wheel. My entire body is numb aside from my churning guts and blazing right ankle. I'm watching the startline marshal like a hawk, praying for the chequered flag.
At 53 laps, it's waving, and I can honestly say I've never been more relieved to see it. I even manage to lift a hand in salute.
I accept my winner's medal with a mix of satisfaction and consternation. What should have been straightforward was anything but, and I'm pleased to have prevailed. But unwell or not, I'm not happy with my overall condition. In six weeks' time I'll have to withstand six hours at the wheel, in three 2-hour stints. Teesside's long, flowing layout is nothing like as brutal as Thruxton's, but there's work to do before I'm ready.
Last year I was left disappointed with my performance after a variety of problems and insufficient preparation. This year, I and the rest of the British 24 Hours team - captain Alex Vangeen, Lee Jones and newcomer Lewis Tindall - are quietly determined to make up for 2011's disappointment, when we lost third place to a kart issue in the dying minutes of the race.
It's going to be an almighty fight at the sharp end, and we have every intention of being part of it. First practice starts on Friday 24 August.
Watch this space.
Sunday, 15 July 2012
Trackside. 6 July 2012
The world holds its breath.
Gossamer curtains of spray hang in the air and tingle my cheeks. Around me the packed grandstand at Abbey, opposite the pitlane exit at Silverstone, is like a giant game of musical chairs. Hands are clasped around cups, flasks, cameras, phones. A thousand people struck deaf and dumb by a sound which renders all else silent.
The visceral scream of a Formula One engine.
We crane our necks as a black-and-white Sauber-Ferrari morphs out of the gloom to our right, towing a rooster tail of spray that tops out above the grandstands. The circuit looks as if it's surfaced in glass. I make out the red, black and white helmet of Kamui Kobayashi, and know I'm not alone in clenching my fists a little tighter. Practice, qualifying, race, or trip to the shops - Kamui has only one speed. Flat out.
The scream drops an octave as he brakes just short of the hundred-metre board. The car's rear wheels lock instantly on the streaming surface, the driver's white-gloved hands already moving as it starts to skip wide, trying to swap ends at a hundred and fifty miles an hour. A flash of opposite lock and the slide is checked, gearchanges thumping our chests. Slowing now, sweeping in towards the apex of the right-hander at still-impossible speed, Kobayashi taking a slightly wide line to avoid what looks like a lake at the kerb.
The car tries to rotate again as he treads the throttle with a dancer's touch, the staccato rise and fall of revs telegraphing every beat of man and machine's fight against the elements. Both outside wheels are beyond the exit kerb before the aerodynamics finally squash the treaded tyres through the water. With grip restored, the Sauber is flying again; one more skitter and it's gone, V8 wail fading away to our left.
"Come on Jenson! Let's be 'avin' ya!!"
Four hours later, and the crowd is restless. This sodden British summer is doing its worst, and eighty thousand of us stare glumly as raindrops pepper the growing puddles like machine-gun fire. We can see almost a mile of track - from the exit of Stowe to our right, through the Vale chicane and double right-hander of Club in front of us, all the way up the start-finish straight. We can also see right along the pitlane. It's a great spot.
But Silverstone is silent. Nearly forty minutes of the ninety-minute session gone, and no amount of cheering or Mexican waves have brought the cars out of the pits. The rules strictly limit their usage of wet weather tyres; with the weather forecast to stay dire, the teams have no option but to conserve them for qualifying and the race.
There's a growing edge of desperation in the voices on the Tannoy. Please, give us something to talk about. To cheer about.
In the pits, an engine fires, buzz-saw idle echoing out over the great circuit and its assembled masses. The crowd twitters, and waits. We've seen this before; it could be a false dawn. But now the revs rise, and... yes! A huge cheer rocks the grandstand as the car pulls out into the pitlane and ambles away from us towards the exit, red wet-weather light flashing below its rear wing.
From our vantage point we can't yet see who it is, but he's soon filling the giant screens all around the circuit. It's Kamui Kobayashi, of course. Nobody else has spent more time on track today. There's still a chance that he could return to the pits without completing a lap, and we hold our breath as he exits Stowe, accelerating towards us...
Passing the pit entry. Now we're on our feet, clapping and stamping; he passes us, treading very carefully through the huge puddle that caught out so many drivers in the junior formulae earlier on, and engages warp onto the start/finish straight. After more than half of the session, this will be the first timed lap.
Next time through, Kamui means business. We're on our feet again as the Sauber wiggles its hips under braking, floating its way to the apex of the Vale chicane. Kobayashi dances it right to the outside of the kerb at the exit, practically underneath us, and somehow finds some traction. The car leaps forward, heading straight for the final right hander and its inch-deep lake, and two thousand spectators share the same thought.
No way he's getting through there at that speed-
Kamui hits the puddle, the four furrows ploughed by the car's wheels deepening visibly. In split-second beats we watch the rear wheels begin to snap wide, the start of the inevitable spin-
But Kamui has other ideas. He backs off the throttle, just a little; the white-gloved hands whip the steering wheel a half-turn to the left... and the rear wheels respond, halting their slide, the car cocked at an angle of ten degrees.
And still, incredibly, angling towards the corner's apex, the start-finish straight beyond. Then it's through, drifting to the red-and-white striped kerb, held in check by a myriad tiny inputs of steering and throttle... and we're roaring our appreciation, drowning out the staccato scream as Kobayashi straightens up and powers away.
Silverstone hosts the most knowledgeable motorsport fans on Earth, and we know sublime skill when we see it. Formula One cars just aren't designed to be driven like this, and even we can't fully understand what it takes to dance along the knife-edge in the most difficult conditions imaginable.
Kobayashi's efforts bring out the rest of the field to join the fray, and we cheer the swashbuckling Hamilton, the ever-smooth Button. We gasp anew as the old Rainmaster himself - Schumacher - slithers his Mercedes through the puddles. We purse our lips at the obvious confidence and rediscovered speed of Ferrari's beleaguered Felipe Massa. And we silently pay our respects to the drivers of the black-and-red cars and their Marussia team - devastated just days before by a horrific testing accident. Maria de Villota is never far from our thoughts.
As the chequered flag waves, the crowd is already thinning - fighting its way out through the traffic chaos that will dominate headlines in the days to come. What with relentless rain and rivers of mud, we've rarely seen a tougher day at Silverstone.
Is it worth it? Just barely. But my day is made by the efforts of one man. One man who trailblazed for all the others. Who held an impossible four-wheel drift through a lake at Club Corner.
Kamui Kobayashi, you're my hero.
Gossamer curtains of spray hang in the air and tingle my cheeks. Around me the packed grandstand at Abbey, opposite the pitlane exit at Silverstone, is like a giant game of musical chairs. Hands are clasped around cups, flasks, cameras, phones. A thousand people struck deaf and dumb by a sound which renders all else silent.
The visceral scream of a Formula One engine.
We crane our necks as a black-and-white Sauber-Ferrari morphs out of the gloom to our right, towing a rooster tail of spray that tops out above the grandstands. The circuit looks as if it's surfaced in glass. I make out the red, black and white helmet of Kamui Kobayashi, and know I'm not alone in clenching my fists a little tighter. Practice, qualifying, race, or trip to the shops - Kamui has only one speed. Flat out.
The scream drops an octave as he brakes just short of the hundred-metre board. The car's rear wheels lock instantly on the streaming surface, the driver's white-gloved hands already moving as it starts to skip wide, trying to swap ends at a hundred and fifty miles an hour. A flash of opposite lock and the slide is checked, gearchanges thumping our chests. Slowing now, sweeping in towards the apex of the right-hander at still-impossible speed, Kobayashi taking a slightly wide line to avoid what looks like a lake at the kerb.
The car tries to rotate again as he treads the throttle with a dancer's touch, the staccato rise and fall of revs telegraphing every beat of man and machine's fight against the elements. Both outside wheels are beyond the exit kerb before the aerodynamics finally squash the treaded tyres through the water. With grip restored, the Sauber is flying again; one more skitter and it's gone, V8 wail fading away to our left.
"Come on Jenson! Let's be 'avin' ya!!"
Four hours later, and the crowd is restless. This sodden British summer is doing its worst, and eighty thousand of us stare glumly as raindrops pepper the growing puddles like machine-gun fire. We can see almost a mile of track - from the exit of Stowe to our right, through the Vale chicane and double right-hander of Club in front of us, all the way up the start-finish straight. We can also see right along the pitlane. It's a great spot.
But Silverstone is silent. Nearly forty minutes of the ninety-minute session gone, and no amount of cheering or Mexican waves have brought the cars out of the pits. The rules strictly limit their usage of wet weather tyres; with the weather forecast to stay dire, the teams have no option but to conserve them for qualifying and the race.
There's a growing edge of desperation in the voices on the Tannoy. Please, give us something to talk about. To cheer about.
In the pits, an engine fires, buzz-saw idle echoing out over the great circuit and its assembled masses. The crowd twitters, and waits. We've seen this before; it could be a false dawn. But now the revs rise, and... yes! A huge cheer rocks the grandstand as the car pulls out into the pitlane and ambles away from us towards the exit, red wet-weather light flashing below its rear wing.
From our vantage point we can't yet see who it is, but he's soon filling the giant screens all around the circuit. It's Kamui Kobayashi, of course. Nobody else has spent more time on track today. There's still a chance that he could return to the pits without completing a lap, and we hold our breath as he exits Stowe, accelerating towards us...
Passing the pit entry. Now we're on our feet, clapping and stamping; he passes us, treading very carefully through the huge puddle that caught out so many drivers in the junior formulae earlier on, and engages warp onto the start/finish straight. After more than half of the session, this will be the first timed lap.
Next time through, Kamui means business. We're on our feet again as the Sauber wiggles its hips under braking, floating its way to the apex of the Vale chicane. Kobayashi dances it right to the outside of the kerb at the exit, practically underneath us, and somehow finds some traction. The car leaps forward, heading straight for the final right hander and its inch-deep lake, and two thousand spectators share the same thought.
No way he's getting through there at that speed-
Kamui hits the puddle, the four furrows ploughed by the car's wheels deepening visibly. In split-second beats we watch the rear wheels begin to snap wide, the start of the inevitable spin-
But Kamui has other ideas. He backs off the throttle, just a little; the white-gloved hands whip the steering wheel a half-turn to the left... and the rear wheels respond, halting their slide, the car cocked at an angle of ten degrees.
And still, incredibly, angling towards the corner's apex, the start-finish straight beyond. Then it's through, drifting to the red-and-white striped kerb, held in check by a myriad tiny inputs of steering and throttle... and we're roaring our appreciation, drowning out the staccato scream as Kobayashi straightens up and powers away.
Silverstone hosts the most knowledgeable motorsport fans on Earth, and we know sublime skill when we see it. Formula One cars just aren't designed to be driven like this, and even we can't fully understand what it takes to dance along the knife-edge in the most difficult conditions imaginable.
Kobayashi's efforts bring out the rest of the field to join the fray, and we cheer the swashbuckling Hamilton, the ever-smooth Button. We gasp anew as the old Rainmaster himself - Schumacher - slithers his Mercedes through the puddles. We purse our lips at the obvious confidence and rediscovered speed of Ferrari's beleaguered Felipe Massa. And we silently pay our respects to the drivers of the black-and-red cars and their Marussia team - devastated just days before by a horrific testing accident. Maria de Villota is never far from our thoughts.
As the chequered flag waves, the crowd is already thinning - fighting its way out through the traffic chaos that will dominate headlines in the days to come. What with relentless rain and rivers of mud, we've rarely seen a tougher day at Silverstone.
Is it worth it? Just barely. But my day is made by the efforts of one man. One man who trailblazed for all the others. Who held an impossible four-wheel drift through a lake at Club Corner.
Kamui Kobayashi, you're my hero.
Friday, 8 June 2012
BRKC round 6. Birmingham, 3 June 2012
At 22.41 on Saturday 2 June, I posted this on Facebook:
Getting ready for the British Rental Kart Championship finale in Birmingham tomorrow. Sleep won't come easy tonight...
By 2.30am, I'm beginning to wish I'd kept my prophecy to myself. I've tried everything short of a pint of hard liquor, counted a whole field full of sheep. Nothing is working. The alarm is set for 5.40am.
Somehow, by 9.30am I'm in Birmingham, existing on sugar, caffeine and three hours of semi-slumber. And a lingering spike of adrenalin from a frightening moment on a flooded M40. Brad and Becca are already present and correct in the clubhouse, the end of season trophy table trembling under the weight of silverware. The championship trophies in particular are beautiful - cone-shaped wafers of silver that wouldn't disgrace a Formula One podium.
On its travels the BRKC goes to some scenic venues. Birmingham Wheels is not one of them. Buried deep in an industrial estate bordered by wasteland and a railway line, skyscrapers lining the horizon, it's a place to darken the sunniest of days. On this rain-lashed Sunday morning it's testing my love of the race to the limit.
Over the past three rounds, fellow racers Daryl and Lee have, between them, been looking after the bulkier bits of my race gear - enabling me to fly up for Round 5 at Teesside. They've both been a huge help to me and I'm very grateful. At 10am Daryl arrives, bang on time, and I'm reunited with my helmet, seat, and - crucially - wetsuit.
The car park is filling rapidly, and engines are finally clattering into life for the first of two pre-race test sessions; I'm in the second one; having kitted up I watch for a few minutes, trying to stay dry under the canopy in front of the clubhouse. Needless to say, it looks very slippery, and as Brad observed earlier, the karts sound overgeared - some of the clutches not fully engaging until the end of the back straight. The laptimes are hovering around the 1 minute 3 second mark, around 15 seconds slower than dry pace.
Finally it's my turn - 15 minutes later than billed - and I busy myself getting comfortable in the kart. Birmingham's fleet of Sodikarts are fitted with adjustable seats and pedals. It's a double-edged sword: sitting with my knees below my chin is a welcome change. But both seat and pedal assembly move under load, making it difficult to be precise. Heeding some good advice from Brad, I push my seat as far back as it will go to put as much weight as possible over the rear wheels.
Out on track I'm quickly up to speed. The conditions are tricky but driveable, the circuit quite interesting with its twisty infield, fast chicane and wide-open hairpin - but the kart is pooping the party. It accelerates with all the vigour of a hairdryer towing a 747; the pedals feel mushy and indistinct underfoot. The steering wheel is set at an angle that would make a truck driver feel at home. Did I mention that I don't like it?
After 20 minutes I set a time in the low 63 second bracket, which looks reasonable against the competition. We crowd into the clubhouse to be issued with our driver numbers for the day. There are 45 of us in all; no less than five drivers have a shot at championship glory today.
After a short briefing, we're sent out in groups for a ten minute free practice session. This time I set a low 62 in a kart which, ominously, feels completely different to the first. Once all three groups have finished, I'm astonished to see my name in third position overall. There are lots of variables at play today, but the pace isn't bad and I'm keeping it on the black stuff.
After his brilliant win at Teesside, Sean Brierley is one of the championship contenders, and looks a little green at the prospect of starting the very first heat from pole position.
"This is going to make or break my day..."
Ten minutes later he's much relieved, having easily held off Dan Truman and Harry Wicks. As heat 2 - of 18 - gets underway, I'm shutting out the world and checking that my clear visor is properly fitted.
I'm third on the grid for heat 3, behind Nick Powell and Chris Brookshaw; as I prod the throttle on the way to the grid, I get the sense that this kart is even more reluctant than the previous two. As the lights go green I'm hard on the throttle and going nowhere, losing a place into turn one. I gain it back as someone goes wide at turn two, and - to my surprise - am still third at the end of the first lap.
But I'm struggling for pace and gradually fall prey first to Nick, who lost ground at the start and had to work his way up, and Matthew Hamilton, who started at the back. I drag the kart home fifth and discover later that I set a best time of 62.5 - better than it felt.
I'm soaked to the skin, my old wetsuit providing little protection from the driving rain and standing water; off track it's a battle to get warm. I'm next on in heat 8; in between, some of the usual suspects are making their presence felt on the leaderboard. Lee Hackett cruises to an easy win in his first heat, from fourth on the grid; Rhianna Purcocks works her way up from seventh to second. Sean follows his first heat win with an excellent second - also from seventh on the grid - in heat 5.
As we roll out for Heat 8 the rain buckets down harder than ever and I feel for Becca, who has now been standing in the waterlogged pitlane with only an umbrella for cover, for over an hour.
I wouldn't have thought it possible to be any tardier away from the line without going backwards, but this kart is, incredibly, much slower than the last one. As I trundle out of the chicane with pedal to metal I'm jumping up and down in the seat to try and coax some speed out of it, hitting the steering wheel in disgust. I'd be better off on foot.
Conditions have worsened and the track is slicker than ever; despite my frustration I keep my head while others lose theirs, stay on track and manage to cross the line fifth. It's a good drive under the circumstances but I take no pleasure from it. The overall pace had slowed by a second, but I set a best time of 65.5 - a full three and a half seconds slower than my practice time.
With a longer lull until my final heat I grab my packed lunch from the car and try to stem the shivering with copious amounts of machine tea. With feeling restored and spirits lifting I check in with heavyweight regulars Alex and Anwar. Alex is having a reasonable day and looks to be heading for another heavyweight podium, while Anwar is virtually guaranteed the heavyweight title; typically, he's making mincemeat of much lighter drivers on track and heads the heavyweight leaderboard with half the heats completed.
Alex joins me for my final heat. He lines up second on the grid. I'm third, and seem to have drawn a slightly less comatose kart than last time. As we wait for the lights I spot the kart to my left rolling forward; it looks like a jumped start to me and as the lights blink green, he comes straight across the track and shoves me onto the grass before turn 1. My best start of the day is ruined and after the litany of frustration of the past few hours I'm flooded with icy fury.
Alex and James Kimbley have found their way through in the confusion; with a better kart to work with I pick James off and focus on reeling in Alex. The driver that hit me at the start has dropped behind, but he's very quick; he's soon past both of us and pulling away. I dispatch Alex at the exit of the hairpin a couple of laps later and am showered in oily water as he has to take to the puddle on the left to avoid hitting me. Mine was an aggressive move, but I'm not in the mood to be courteous. I take the flag third - again, not bad all things considered.
But a mixture of cold, wet, frustration and sleep deprivation has finally pushed me over the edge. I find the driver that put me on the grass and give him several pieces of my mind. He tries to explain himself, but I'm not interested; I squelch inside to wring out my gloves.
Bravely, he comes and finds me a few minutes later. It's Nick Powell, whom I've met before; I hadn't recognised him with his helmet on. He explains that he hadn't meant to push me off, that he'd driven into a narrowing gap and had another kart to his left. He apologises for his mistake; I apologise for shouting at him, and we shake on it. I'm left angry at myself for losing my cool and resolve not to let it happen again.
As the heats grind to a close I want nothing more than to get the final over with, put dry clothes on and go home. There are four finals, each of 12 laps. I've scraped into the B final, last but one on the grid; as we sit waiting to go I'm shivering so hard that I can barely hold the wheel.
But discomfort is forgotten in an instant as I sense a dribble of power beneath the right pedal. My start is good, but there's nowhere to go; I bring up the rear at the end of lap 1 but am not concerned: there are 11 to go - and at last, I'm in a kart as quick as those I drove in practice. The tangle of drivers ahead looks like an accident waiting to happen; I gain a place out of the chicane and get alongside the 10th placed driver under braking for the hairpin. Simultaneously, a number of others slide wide and I take the tight line on the exit.
Once it all shakes out I'm seventh, trying in vain to stay in touch with the flying Chris Brookshaw, and bearing down on Chris Anderson. As one Chris disappears into the spray I overtake the other; with nine laps gone the leaders are exiting the hairpin as I approach it; tantalisingly close, but there are no more opportunities.
I take the flag sixth, having been twelfth at the end of the first lap, and set my fastest lap of the day on the final tour - 62.031. It's easily my best race of the day, and will put me 17th overall; my spirits lift a little. They lift further at the prospect of dry underwear; as the A final gets underway I'm hidden away in the empty signing-on hut, dry and warm for the first time in six hours.
By all accounts the final is a processional affair at the front, with an easy win for local hero (and BRKC newbie) Danny Henney ahead of Michael Weddell and Matthew Hamilton. I'm not surprised to see two of the Scots contingent on the podium - this sort of weather must be a walk in the park for them.
There's a short delay while Brad works out the final championship positions; after the flurry of race podiums, Lee Hackett is crowned champion ahead of Sean Brierley and Michael Weddell. It's a popular and well deserved victory; despite a small weight penalty Lee has more than held his own against some outstanding competition, only once finishing outside the top seven and logging two podiums including a dominant win at Hereford. Sean and Michael have also logged a win and a podium each, and shown the consistency needed to fight at the sharp end of this championship.
Anwar wins the heavyweight title ahead of the absent Lee Jones (he's on holiday in Turkey) and Alex Vangeen. Quality drivers all: having partnered Alex and Lee at the British 24 Hours I know exactly what it takes to beat them.
I say my goodbyes and escape with a mix of relief and frustration. My result was lifted from poor to mediocre by a good final, but I haven't enjoyed today. The multiple heat format partially disguised the huge disparity between some of the karts, but even the best of them were downright unpleasant to drive. The circuit staff are a genial lot and seemed better organised today than they were on our first visit in 2011. But they haven't made enough of an effort to keep it fair for everybody. Needless to say I'm not impressed.
I've been doing this a long time and know the rental karting mantra well, but a two or more second disparity over a 60 second lap is not good enough. Where the BRKC goes, I go (assuming I'm on the same continent), but it will test my loyalty to the limit if we return to Birmingham in 2013.
And so ends BRKC 2012. 2011's strong start has been well and truly eclipsed, with over 100 drivers entered and grids of 50 or more at most of the rounds. I'm sad to have missed Manchester and Matchams, but it's been a pleasure to meet and write about so many new people. We'll reunite for the O-plate at Whilton Mill in October and I look forward to that. Bradley makes it all look easy, but I'm well aware of the huge amount of work he and Becca put in behind the scenes to make the BRKC happen. The best championship I've ever competed in got better still in 2012, and long may it continue.
As our champion prepares for the Indoor World Karting Championships in Germany, and our runner-up gets his head around the idea of heading to California for the Sport Kart Grand Nationals, I'm turning my attention to the Elite Karting League. This is a new team championship run by Teesside Karting, who take their excellent fleet of prokarts to every round.
I'll be joining the Southampton Scorpions - and many other BRKC regulars - for round 3 of the EKL at Clay Pigeon in July. New circuit, new format, weight equalised... but the karts are old friends. Can't wait.
Over the past three rounds, fellow racers Daryl and Lee have, between them, been looking after the bulkier bits of my race gear - enabling me to fly up for Round 5 at Teesside. They've both been a huge help to me and I'm very grateful. At 10am Daryl arrives, bang on time, and I'm reunited with my helmet, seat, and - crucially - wetsuit.
The car park is filling rapidly, and engines are finally clattering into life for the first of two pre-race test sessions; I'm in the second one; having kitted up I watch for a few minutes, trying to stay dry under the canopy in front of the clubhouse. Needless to say, it looks very slippery, and as Brad observed earlier, the karts sound overgeared - some of the clutches not fully engaging until the end of the back straight. The laptimes are hovering around the 1 minute 3 second mark, around 15 seconds slower than dry pace.
Finally it's my turn - 15 minutes later than billed - and I busy myself getting comfortable in the kart. Birmingham's fleet of Sodikarts are fitted with adjustable seats and pedals. It's a double-edged sword: sitting with my knees below my chin is a welcome change. But both seat and pedal assembly move under load, making it difficult to be precise. Heeding some good advice from Brad, I push my seat as far back as it will go to put as much weight as possible over the rear wheels.
Out on track I'm quickly up to speed. The conditions are tricky but driveable, the circuit quite interesting with its twisty infield, fast chicane and wide-open hairpin - but the kart is pooping the party. It accelerates with all the vigour of a hairdryer towing a 747; the pedals feel mushy and indistinct underfoot. The steering wheel is set at an angle that would make a truck driver feel at home. Did I mention that I don't like it?
After 20 minutes I set a time in the low 63 second bracket, which looks reasonable against the competition. We crowd into the clubhouse to be issued with our driver numbers for the day. There are 45 of us in all; no less than five drivers have a shot at championship glory today.
After a short briefing, we're sent out in groups for a ten minute free practice session. This time I set a low 62 in a kart which, ominously, feels completely different to the first. Once all three groups have finished, I'm astonished to see my name in third position overall. There are lots of variables at play today, but the pace isn't bad and I'm keeping it on the black stuff.
After his brilliant win at Teesside, Sean Brierley is one of the championship contenders, and looks a little green at the prospect of starting the very first heat from pole position.
"This is going to make or break my day..."
Ten minutes later he's much relieved, having easily held off Dan Truman and Harry Wicks. As heat 2 - of 18 - gets underway, I'm shutting out the world and checking that my clear visor is properly fitted.
I'm third on the grid for heat 3, behind Nick Powell and Chris Brookshaw; as I prod the throttle on the way to the grid, I get the sense that this kart is even more reluctant than the previous two. As the lights go green I'm hard on the throttle and going nowhere, losing a place into turn one. I gain it back as someone goes wide at turn two, and - to my surprise - am still third at the end of the first lap.
But I'm struggling for pace and gradually fall prey first to Nick, who lost ground at the start and had to work his way up, and Matthew Hamilton, who started at the back. I drag the kart home fifth and discover later that I set a best time of 62.5 - better than it felt.
I'm soaked to the skin, my old wetsuit providing little protection from the driving rain and standing water; off track it's a battle to get warm. I'm next on in heat 8; in between, some of the usual suspects are making their presence felt on the leaderboard. Lee Hackett cruises to an easy win in his first heat, from fourth on the grid; Rhianna Purcocks works her way up from seventh to second. Sean follows his first heat win with an excellent second - also from seventh on the grid - in heat 5.
As we roll out for Heat 8 the rain buckets down harder than ever and I feel for Becca, who has now been standing in the waterlogged pitlane with only an umbrella for cover, for over an hour.
I wouldn't have thought it possible to be any tardier away from the line without going backwards, but this kart is, incredibly, much slower than the last one. As I trundle out of the chicane with pedal to metal I'm jumping up and down in the seat to try and coax some speed out of it, hitting the steering wheel in disgust. I'd be better off on foot.
Conditions have worsened and the track is slicker than ever; despite my frustration I keep my head while others lose theirs, stay on track and manage to cross the line fifth. It's a good drive under the circumstances but I take no pleasure from it. The overall pace had slowed by a second, but I set a best time of 65.5 - a full three and a half seconds slower than my practice time.
With a longer lull until my final heat I grab my packed lunch from the car and try to stem the shivering with copious amounts of machine tea. With feeling restored and spirits lifting I check in with heavyweight regulars Alex and Anwar. Alex is having a reasonable day and looks to be heading for another heavyweight podium, while Anwar is virtually guaranteed the heavyweight title; typically, he's making mincemeat of much lighter drivers on track and heads the heavyweight leaderboard with half the heats completed.
Alex joins me for my final heat. He lines up second on the grid. I'm third, and seem to have drawn a slightly less comatose kart than last time. As we wait for the lights I spot the kart to my left rolling forward; it looks like a jumped start to me and as the lights blink green, he comes straight across the track and shoves me onto the grass before turn 1. My best start of the day is ruined and after the litany of frustration of the past few hours I'm flooded with icy fury.
Alex and James Kimbley have found their way through in the confusion; with a better kart to work with I pick James off and focus on reeling in Alex. The driver that hit me at the start has dropped behind, but he's very quick; he's soon past both of us and pulling away. I dispatch Alex at the exit of the hairpin a couple of laps later and am showered in oily water as he has to take to the puddle on the left to avoid hitting me. Mine was an aggressive move, but I'm not in the mood to be courteous. I take the flag third - again, not bad all things considered.
But a mixture of cold, wet, frustration and sleep deprivation has finally pushed me over the edge. I find the driver that put me on the grass and give him several pieces of my mind. He tries to explain himself, but I'm not interested; I squelch inside to wring out my gloves.
Bravely, he comes and finds me a few minutes later. It's Nick Powell, whom I've met before; I hadn't recognised him with his helmet on. He explains that he hadn't meant to push me off, that he'd driven into a narrowing gap and had another kart to his left. He apologises for his mistake; I apologise for shouting at him, and we shake on it. I'm left angry at myself for losing my cool and resolve not to let it happen again.
As the heats grind to a close I want nothing more than to get the final over with, put dry clothes on and go home. There are four finals, each of 12 laps. I've scraped into the B final, last but one on the grid; as we sit waiting to go I'm shivering so hard that I can barely hold the wheel.
But discomfort is forgotten in an instant as I sense a dribble of power beneath the right pedal. My start is good, but there's nowhere to go; I bring up the rear at the end of lap 1 but am not concerned: there are 11 to go - and at last, I'm in a kart as quick as those I drove in practice. The tangle of drivers ahead looks like an accident waiting to happen; I gain a place out of the chicane and get alongside the 10th placed driver under braking for the hairpin. Simultaneously, a number of others slide wide and I take the tight line on the exit.
Once it all shakes out I'm seventh, trying in vain to stay in touch with the flying Chris Brookshaw, and bearing down on Chris Anderson. As one Chris disappears into the spray I overtake the other; with nine laps gone the leaders are exiting the hairpin as I approach it; tantalisingly close, but there are no more opportunities.
I take the flag sixth, having been twelfth at the end of the first lap, and set my fastest lap of the day on the final tour - 62.031. It's easily my best race of the day, and will put me 17th overall; my spirits lift a little. They lift further at the prospect of dry underwear; as the A final gets underway I'm hidden away in the empty signing-on hut, dry and warm for the first time in six hours.
By all accounts the final is a processional affair at the front, with an easy win for local hero (and BRKC newbie) Danny Henney ahead of Michael Weddell and Matthew Hamilton. I'm not surprised to see two of the Scots contingent on the podium - this sort of weather must be a walk in the park for them.
There's a short delay while Brad works out the final championship positions; after the flurry of race podiums, Lee Hackett is crowned champion ahead of Sean Brierley and Michael Weddell. It's a popular and well deserved victory; despite a small weight penalty Lee has more than held his own against some outstanding competition, only once finishing outside the top seven and logging two podiums including a dominant win at Hereford. Sean and Michael have also logged a win and a podium each, and shown the consistency needed to fight at the sharp end of this championship.
Anwar wins the heavyweight title ahead of the absent Lee Jones (he's on holiday in Turkey) and Alex Vangeen. Quality drivers all: having partnered Alex and Lee at the British 24 Hours I know exactly what it takes to beat them.
I say my goodbyes and escape with a mix of relief and frustration. My result was lifted from poor to mediocre by a good final, but I haven't enjoyed today. The multiple heat format partially disguised the huge disparity between some of the karts, but even the best of them were downright unpleasant to drive. The circuit staff are a genial lot and seemed better organised today than they were on our first visit in 2011. But they haven't made enough of an effort to keep it fair for everybody. Needless to say I'm not impressed.
I've been doing this a long time and know the rental karting mantra well, but a two or more second disparity over a 60 second lap is not good enough. Where the BRKC goes, I go (assuming I'm on the same continent), but it will test my loyalty to the limit if we return to Birmingham in 2013.
And so ends BRKC 2012. 2011's strong start has been well and truly eclipsed, with over 100 drivers entered and grids of 50 or more at most of the rounds. I'm sad to have missed Manchester and Matchams, but it's been a pleasure to meet and write about so many new people. We'll reunite for the O-plate at Whilton Mill in October and I look forward to that. Bradley makes it all look easy, but I'm well aware of the huge amount of work he and Becca put in behind the scenes to make the BRKC happen. The best championship I've ever competed in got better still in 2012, and long may it continue.
As our champion prepares for the Indoor World Karting Championships in Germany, and our runner-up gets his head around the idea of heading to California for the Sport Kart Grand Nationals, I'm turning my attention to the Elite Karting League. This is a new team championship run by Teesside Karting, who take their excellent fleet of prokarts to every round.
I'll be joining the Southampton Scorpions - and many other BRKC regulars - for round 3 of the EKL at Clay Pigeon in July. New circuit, new format, weight equalised... but the karts are old friends. Can't wait.
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