"I knew you'd win," says James.
I'm glad he didn't mention that beforehand.
It's 4pm on a warm sunny Sunday and the aches are beginning to make themselves felt as the adrenalin drains away. I'm nursing a couple of blisters; we're both chugging back lukewarm mineral water as if it's about to be made illegal.
But I'm a happy bunny. It's one of those rare days in rental karting - in any racing - when everything goes right. After sixteen months of exile and four months of learning new circuits in the BRKC, it's great to be back at one of my favourite haunts.
Thruxton is a good 'un. It's expensive, but the karts are fast and biddable and the circuit is world class. 1086 metres, twelve corners, not a moment's rest. It's a challenging, demanding place - and wonderfully rewarding when you get it right. Deep in the Hampshire countryside, with the car circuit and airfield just a couple of hundred metres away, there's a sense of occasion about every visit.
It's also friendly, generally well-organised and suffers fewer kart gremlins than many other circuits. In fact, I have only one complaint, and it's the same every time I visit on a Grand Prix Sunday. There's a bloody great plasma screen on the wall, which invariably is showing the Grand Prix live, exactly when I least want to see it. The mentality is a stark contrast from the BRKC - when one of the rounds coincided with a Grand Prix, there was a TV/radio blackout and anyone who did hear the result was under strict orders not to mention it.
Wind back three hours. I'm in the queue to sign in, trying to avoid the screen where the Hungarian Grand Prix has just started. I'm seething at having the race spoiled, but deep inside is a tiny grin: I've glimpsed that it's wet at the Hungaroring. Go Jenson, I think.
I change outside and manage to avoid hearing any more about the Grand Prix; twenty minutes later I've forgotten about it entirely, as I attempt to reaquaint myself with the circuit in a ten-minute qualifying session. Some days I wonder if Thruxton is more thrilling even than Daytona. Certainly the karts are more responsive. They suit my precise style well, but are edgier, more punishing of clumsiness. The main aim today is to work on my consistency in preparation for the British 24 Hours at Teesside in four weeks' time; after such a long gap away from Thruxton I have no preconceptions about my competitiveness.
I'm pleasantly surprised to qualify in pole position. A quick scan of the timing screen reveals four of us covered by three tenths of a second, with long-time endurance teammate James back in sixth. I've got a fight on my hands, and the butterflies begin to flutter.
I'm a little tardy away from the lights and lose a place to the driver in second, who looks exactly like the Stig. I slot safely into second but struggle badly with front-end grip for the first two laps. Stig seems not to have the same problems, and quickly pulls out a three-second lead.
And there, for the next thirty laps, I stay. Stig and I quickly drop the chasing pack; his lead varies from two to four seconds. I'm driving well, but so is he: we're trading fastest laps. At fifteen laps we begin to lap backmarkers; this gets progressively harder as we work our way through the field. I'd forgotten how difficult it is to overtake here and struggle with a couple of the faster karts: there's room for improvement in this area.
But Stig has his own problems, and I keep him in sight, keep the pressure on. With 37 of our 45 minutes gone, I'm less than two seconds behind. But we're running out of laps and my hopes of catching him are fading-
And then it comes: too impatient with a backmarker who hasn't seen him, he's pushed wide at the fast chicane, spinning onto the grass, and I'm through into the lead.
But the celebrations will have to wait. He's only a few seconds back, and I've got a train of backmarkers to clear: one slip will turn the tables again.
Sixty seconds ago I was willing the race to continue. Now I'm willing it to end. With 40 minutes gone I encounter James near the head of the train of backmarkers; in a hurry to pass, I rap him lightly, lift a hand in apology and hope I haven't hurt his race.
The last few laps are tidy, and I take the flag with a mixture of relief and delight. I was a little lucky, but know I've driven well; the constant pressure forced Stig's error. My body has held up well to nearly an hour of punishment aside from my right hand, which again has blistered. I'll have to take steps against a repeat at Teesside.
James has finished a resigned ninth, a lap down; an accomplished Caterham racer, his car-honed style means he can struggle to adapt to the vagaries of rental kart handling. But he's enjoyed his on-track battles and is reasonably satisfied with his pace. We part with plans to race again in the autumn, and I head home to catch up with events in Hungary.
Three hours later I'm cheering one of my favourite drivers across the line, and raising a glass to a fine day of motorsport. A win for me and a win for Jenson Button.
And just twenty-six days until I turn a wheel in anger at Teesside. Watch this space...
Sunday, 7 August 2011
Tuesday, 2 August 2011
Senna
In the hushed dark, there are tears streaming down my cheeks. A small part of my brain urges me to wipe them away. Someone might see. But I can't. My hands are clawed around the armrests of my chair. I blink - for the first time in minutes, it seems - to clear my smeared vision. Nobody's looking at me, anyway.
All three hundred of us are riveted to the big screen, where a long-ago nightmare is playing out. We all know how it ends. Some of us want to tear ourselves away. But we're helpless against the tide of images, of memories.
The weekend of 1 May 1994 was among the darkest in Formula One's history. It began with a lucky escape for a future star and ended with the untimely death of the most iconic racing driver the world has ever known. I was just twenty at the time. Too young to remember the bad old days, completely unprepared for the tragedy which struck the sport I loved. Two violent deaths in as many days shook the world. Motorsport changed forever that weekend, and me with it.
Ever since the news of a feature-length documentary on Ayrton Senna broke, I'd known that I'd have to live through Imola '94 again. I expected it to be tough to watch, and it was. But it was worth it and then some.
Asif Kapadia's film is a masterpiece, nothing less. There are no talking heads, no narrators. Just the magnetic charisma of Senna himself, backed up by a fascinating cast of real-life characters both familiar and new. Through 106 breathtaking minutes, you're swept from the heady days of Senna's early career in karting, to his near-vertical rise to Formula One, through the magic of his first win at Estoril in 1985, the three championships that followed, to Tamburello on 1 May 1994.
There are familiar scenes, footage that has become part of motorsport folklore - but not nearly as much as you might think. Most has never been seen before, and the insight it gives into Senna and the world he inhabited is at turns fascinating, comic, thrilling, and tragic. It's beautifully crafted into a true story that plays like an epic.
Crucially, it crosses the boundary from niche to mainstream - you don't have to be a motorsport fan to enjoy it. My three companions - none with more than a passing interest in F1 - were as enthralled as I was.
See it.
All three hundred of us are riveted to the big screen, where a long-ago nightmare is playing out. We all know how it ends. Some of us want to tear ourselves away. But we're helpless against the tide of images, of memories.
The weekend of 1 May 1994 was among the darkest in Formula One's history. It began with a lucky escape for a future star and ended with the untimely death of the most iconic racing driver the world has ever known. I was just twenty at the time. Too young to remember the bad old days, completely unprepared for the tragedy which struck the sport I loved. Two violent deaths in as many days shook the world. Motorsport changed forever that weekend, and me with it.
Ever since the news of a feature-length documentary on Ayrton Senna broke, I'd known that I'd have to live through Imola '94 again. I expected it to be tough to watch, and it was. But it was worth it and then some.
Asif Kapadia's film is a masterpiece, nothing less. There are no talking heads, no narrators. Just the magnetic charisma of Senna himself, backed up by a fascinating cast of real-life characters both familiar and new. Through 106 breathtaking minutes, you're swept from the heady days of Senna's early career in karting, to his near-vertical rise to Formula One, through the magic of his first win at Estoril in 1985, the three championships that followed, to Tamburello on 1 May 1994.
There are familiar scenes, footage that has become part of motorsport folklore - but not nearly as much as you might think. Most has never been seen before, and the insight it gives into Senna and the world he inhabited is at turns fascinating, comic, thrilling, and tragic. It's beautifully crafted into a true story that plays like an epic.
Crucially, it crosses the boundary from niche to mainstream - you don't have to be a motorsport fan to enjoy it. My three companions - none with more than a passing interest in F1 - were as enthralled as I was.
See it.
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
BRKC round 6. Daytona Milton Keynes, 3 July 2011
As I tap the brakes and turn in, I feel the right front tyre shudder, fighting to keep its hold on the tarmac. But I'm already straightening up, lightening its load, bracing for the first half of the fast chicane. Over the kerb, brushing the barriers on the left, flat on the throttle as I line up for the second kerb. Kissing it with the right wheels, letting the kart run out to the rumble strips on the left. Sweeping back over to the right for the hairpin.
I brake a little early, turn in as the circuit goes off camber and tries to drag me away from the apex; all the while, making tiny corrections to stop the front wheels sliding. Power on, straighten up, peer ahead to spot the braking point for turn five...
Under the visor, I'm grinning. We've been to some fun circuits this year, but Daytona is still the Daddy. It's good to be back.
It's Sunday, the sun is shining, and the most familiar strip of tarmac in my world seems little changed from when I last visited. With a year off in 2010, it's been the longest exile since I started karting - 651 days, to be exact.
After a 25 minute test session, I'm not back to the inch-perfect precision I reached at the 24 Hours in 2009. But it's not bad. I set a high 1.11 at a time when the 60kg lightweights are doing mid 1.10s. Around here, the weight difference is worth a second.
Today's format is unusual for the BRKC: as at Birmingham, we'll do a short qualifying session and a 30 minute race. With no less than 55 drivers entered, we're split into 2 groups. The top 15 from each group will go into a 10 minute shootout final.
With the test sessions complete, there's a real end-of-term feeling as we congregate in Daytona's upstairs lounge area, between the bar and the briefing room. The BRKC trophy table groans with silverware, both for the race and overall champions.
I've come to look forward to seeing familiar faces almost as much as the racing: Bradley, Alex, Sean, Chris and the other BRKC regulars, and the tireless support team. Bradley's mother, grandparents and girlfriend Becca have given generously of their time since the birth of the BRKC. They've helped make it the best championship I have ever competed in.
As the briefing video starts and Martin Brundle's familiar face fills the screen, the adrenalin begins to flow. I can't win the championship. But I know this place. Inside out, back to front, in every weather condition imaginable. With just a touch of Lady Luck, I can do well here today.
An hour later, it's clear that Lady Luck's taken the day off. I sit in the kart on Daytona's back straight feeling like the most unpopular kid in school, as driver after driver is called forward to form up the grid. The ten minute qualifying session went reasonably smoothly; I managed a couple of clear laps and know that there's little more to come from either me or the kart. It doesn't feel awful, but something is obviously amiss.
I line up 18th. Having expected to trouble the top six, I now face a fight to make the top 15 and progress to the final. It's a battle to shake off the sinking feeling and focus.
Not for the first time this season, I make a great start. As other drivers get tangled up with each other I seek out the gaps and find myself tenth after the first lap. Brilliant! Maybe I had a poor qualifying session, after all.
But within three laps, the sinking feeling is back - I'm easy meat for the chasing pack on the long straight. In isolation, the kart doesn't feel too bad, but its acceleration out of slow corners and top speed is way down. I drive the wheels off, but am overtaken easily by drivers 15kg heavier than me.
Ten laps in, frustration starts to seep through the cracks: pushing too hard, I make a small mistake into the turn four hairpin and run wide. Mistakes are unacceptable on this track; I force myself to dial it back. The kart won't go any faster. The only way I'm going to progress is by staying consistent and taking advantage of others' misfortune.
I'm fifteenth at the flag, though I don't realise it at the time; out of the kart, nursing a blistered hand, I'm on the point of heading to the changing rooms when the PA system blares my name. I've scraped into the final, 30th and last.
At the start of the ten minute shootout, I follow one of my best starts of the year with my worst. It's all my fault: I'm expecting to come to a stop in formation before being sent off for a rolling start, as we did for the main race. But it doesn't happen. I'm slow to realise that as I'm slowing down on the back straight, everyone else is accelerating away. I'm ten metres back as we cross the line, cursing.
By half way around the lap I've caught the tail of the field - but in the middle of turn 6, I feel the blister on my right palm tear. Even through the adrenalin, pain shoots up to my elbow.
This kart is far better, and I'm rocketing up the order. But I'm running out of laps, and my right hand will barely grip the wheel. I take the flag 22nd, having made up eight places in as many laps and driven the last three one-handed. It's hard not to be frustrated by the way the day has gone, but I've done the best I could.
Later, when I have a chance to study my results in detail, I discover that my race kart was two seconds per lap slower than my practice kart. There will always be variables in rental karting, but that isn't good enough for a national championship. Daytona remains a wonderful circuit marred by frustratingly patchy quality. When comparatively tiny operations like Hereford and Matchams can achieve good parity across their fleets, it's a disappointing showing from Britain's karting giant.
For now, though, BRKC 2011 is over. We cheer inaugural champion Chris Hackworth to the rafters, say our goodbyes and go our separate ways. We'll reunite for the 0-plate - a one-off, weight-equalised race at Sutton in Leicestershire - in October, and BRKC 2012 is barely six months away. Next year will see a new minimum weight limit to even up the lightweight class, and new circuits mixing it with the favourites. I'll be aiming for a much stronger showing than in 2011 and can't wait.
But it's time to turn my attention to the big ones: the British 24 Hours at Teesside is just seven weeks away, with the Daytona 24 Hours following seven weeks after that.
Training starts now...
I brake a little early, turn in as the circuit goes off camber and tries to drag me away from the apex; all the while, making tiny corrections to stop the front wheels sliding. Power on, straighten up, peer ahead to spot the braking point for turn five...
Under the visor, I'm grinning. We've been to some fun circuits this year, but Daytona is still the Daddy. It's good to be back.
It's Sunday, the sun is shining, and the most familiar strip of tarmac in my world seems little changed from when I last visited. With a year off in 2010, it's been the longest exile since I started karting - 651 days, to be exact.
After a 25 minute test session, I'm not back to the inch-perfect precision I reached at the 24 Hours in 2009. But it's not bad. I set a high 1.11 at a time when the 60kg lightweights are doing mid 1.10s. Around here, the weight difference is worth a second.
Today's format is unusual for the BRKC: as at Birmingham, we'll do a short qualifying session and a 30 minute race. With no less than 55 drivers entered, we're split into 2 groups. The top 15 from each group will go into a 10 minute shootout final.
With the test sessions complete, there's a real end-of-term feeling as we congregate in Daytona's upstairs lounge area, between the bar and the briefing room. The BRKC trophy table groans with silverware, both for the race and overall champions.
I've come to look forward to seeing familiar faces almost as much as the racing: Bradley, Alex, Sean, Chris and the other BRKC regulars, and the tireless support team. Bradley's mother, grandparents and girlfriend Becca have given generously of their time since the birth of the BRKC. They've helped make it the best championship I have ever competed in.
As the briefing video starts and Martin Brundle's familiar face fills the screen, the adrenalin begins to flow. I can't win the championship. But I know this place. Inside out, back to front, in every weather condition imaginable. With just a touch of Lady Luck, I can do well here today.
An hour later, it's clear that Lady Luck's taken the day off. I sit in the kart on Daytona's back straight feeling like the most unpopular kid in school, as driver after driver is called forward to form up the grid. The ten minute qualifying session went reasonably smoothly; I managed a couple of clear laps and know that there's little more to come from either me or the kart. It doesn't feel awful, but something is obviously amiss.
I line up 18th. Having expected to trouble the top six, I now face a fight to make the top 15 and progress to the final. It's a battle to shake off the sinking feeling and focus.
Not for the first time this season, I make a great start. As other drivers get tangled up with each other I seek out the gaps and find myself tenth after the first lap. Brilliant! Maybe I had a poor qualifying session, after all.
But within three laps, the sinking feeling is back - I'm easy meat for the chasing pack on the long straight. In isolation, the kart doesn't feel too bad, but its acceleration out of slow corners and top speed is way down. I drive the wheels off, but am overtaken easily by drivers 15kg heavier than me.
Ten laps in, frustration starts to seep through the cracks: pushing too hard, I make a small mistake into the turn four hairpin and run wide. Mistakes are unacceptable on this track; I force myself to dial it back. The kart won't go any faster. The only way I'm going to progress is by staying consistent and taking advantage of others' misfortune.
I'm fifteenth at the flag, though I don't realise it at the time; out of the kart, nursing a blistered hand, I'm on the point of heading to the changing rooms when the PA system blares my name. I've scraped into the final, 30th and last.
At the start of the ten minute shootout, I follow one of my best starts of the year with my worst. It's all my fault: I'm expecting to come to a stop in formation before being sent off for a rolling start, as we did for the main race. But it doesn't happen. I'm slow to realise that as I'm slowing down on the back straight, everyone else is accelerating away. I'm ten metres back as we cross the line, cursing.
By half way around the lap I've caught the tail of the field - but in the middle of turn 6, I feel the blister on my right palm tear. Even through the adrenalin, pain shoots up to my elbow.
This kart is far better, and I'm rocketing up the order. But I'm running out of laps, and my right hand will barely grip the wheel. I take the flag 22nd, having made up eight places in as many laps and driven the last three one-handed. It's hard not to be frustrated by the way the day has gone, but I've done the best I could.
Later, when I have a chance to study my results in detail, I discover that my race kart was two seconds per lap slower than my practice kart. There will always be variables in rental karting, but that isn't good enough for a national championship. Daytona remains a wonderful circuit marred by frustratingly patchy quality. When comparatively tiny operations like Hereford and Matchams can achieve good parity across their fleets, it's a disappointing showing from Britain's karting giant.
For now, though, BRKC 2011 is over. We cheer inaugural champion Chris Hackworth to the rafters, say our goodbyes and go our separate ways. We'll reunite for the 0-plate - a one-off, weight-equalised race at Sutton in Leicestershire - in October, and BRKC 2012 is barely six months away. Next year will see a new minimum weight limit to even up the lightweight class, and new circuits mixing it with the favourites. I'll be aiming for a much stronger showing than in 2011 and can't wait.
But it's time to turn my attention to the big ones: the British 24 Hours at Teesside is just seven weeks away, with the Daytona 24 Hours following seven weeks after that.
Training starts now...
Monday, 20 June 2011
BRKC round 5. Brentwood, Essex, 19 June 2011
Over the weeks and months, the BRKC has evolved, and me with it. From reticent outsider (or Johnny No Mates) at round 1, I've gradually become integrated, part of the core. This is due in no small part to its excellent Facebook page, where drivers, followers and organisers come together between races.
Most of the drivers compete in other series beside the BRKC, and my interest is piqued one evening when the subject of the British 24 Hours is raised. I've mentioned elsewhere that I won the 24 Hours at Daytona Milton Keynes in 2009; I'll be returning with part of the same team later this year. The British 24 Hours, at Teesside, is the UK's other big 24 hour kart race. Like Daytona it attracts a huge entry and serious talent. Fellow BRKC driver Alex Vangeen is putting a team together under the BRKC banner; before I know it I'm signed up, paid up and looking into hotels. I'm home alone while Marianne is away sailing. Clearly I can't be trusted.
So, to Brentwood. My first visit to Essex has been a pleasant surprise: I wasn't expecting forested lanes and pretty little villages so close to the M25. As I park at Brentwood Raceway - a wide, smooth 800m circuit surrounded by the forest of Thorndon Country Park - I'm praying for rain. That may come as a surprise given the disaster that was round 4, but again, I've attempted to glean a little circuit knowledge before race day.
On Saturday evening, I met five of my fellow drivers - including Alex, my British 24 Hours team captain - for a pre-race test session. Which happened to take place on a sodden track. But unlike Matchams last month, this circuit retains a fraction of grip when it's wet. I enjoyed myself and set some quick times. Though not as quick as Alex, who appears to be something of a Rainmaster. This bodes well for our big race in the Frozen North.
Race day is cloudy and blustery. After a comfortable (if lonely) night in a nearby Holiday Inn, and a relaxed morning, I'm ready for anything. Alex and I and the other Saturday drivers stop one step short of a rain dance. But to no avail.
After just five laps of dry practice I feel more or less dialled in. The circuit is fairly simple, with a long straight followed by a flat-out 180 degree right hander which leads into a slower, more technical infield section. The final corner, in front of the pits, is the trickiest: a fast chicane with a wide, flat kerb which needs to be driven over. But hit it wrong and it bounces the kart: the loss of traction loses you time all the way down the following straight. I'm not sure I get it 100% right all day.
I've drawn a 10th place (out of 11) grid slot for my first heat and have a fleeting five and a half laps to make up places. Five and a half, because on this circuit, the start and finish lines are on opposite sides of the track. Nobody can think of a similar layout elsewhere.
I make my best start of the season and somehow find myself sixth after the first lap. Good pace and some neat passing sees me fourth at the flag, thoroughly pleased with myself. This is more like it. My delight redoubles when I realise I've managed to beat none other than the great Bradley Philpot, despite having started behind him.
There are rumbles of discontent in the ranks, though. This race has a significant injection of one-off local entries - ten or so of our total of 35. They all appear to be about eleven years old and there's talk of dirty driving, although I've yet to experience it.
In my next heat, though, I'm tagged into a spin at the second corner. I never see the culprit, but it tumbles me down the order. I recover to finish eighth.
Two more heats. In one I'm hobbled by a slow kart and hold station to finish eighth again; in the other I start third but lose two places to a pair of youngsters whose combined weight adds up to a box of Rice Krispies. But I'm driving solidly and making the best of what I have; I'm happy with tenth on the grid for the B final.
Today, tenth seems to be working for me: I blast up the inside into the first hairpin on lap 1, and people magically fall out of the way. For the second time today, I'm sixth at the end of lap 1.
And there I encounter BRKC stalwart and racing instructor James Auld. James is in the heavyweight class and carrying at least 10kg more weight, but for the next nine laps I'm alternately grinding my teeth in frustration and shaking my head in admiration. I'm quicker, and 4th placed driver Harry Wicks is tantalisingly within view, but James puts on a brilliant display of defensive driving. It's hard but absolutely fair: no weaving or bumping (aside from when I get clumsy on the brakes) - he just places his kart just so and keeps me at bay.
It's a valuable lesson and the most fun I've had in a kart all year. I'm sixth at the flag, 17th overall. It's been a good day: the result still isn't stellar, but no less than 7 of the local lads make the A final, so I'm effectively 10th.
With only 4 of our regular drivers in the A final, the BRKC are predominantly spectators. And we're not impressed. There is some shoddy driving, a subsequent stewards' enquiry, and tears from a couple of the local littl'uns afterwards. It's all a bit School Sports Day and in my opinion, not up to the high standards of the BRKC. If you want to play with the adults, you need to behave like one - as all of our excellent under-16 regulars do.
Still, a good event at a friendly circuit and for me, a solid result. And just two weeks to wait until the season finale...
Most of the drivers compete in other series beside the BRKC, and my interest is piqued one evening when the subject of the British 24 Hours is raised. I've mentioned elsewhere that I won the 24 Hours at Daytona Milton Keynes in 2009; I'll be returning with part of the same team later this year. The British 24 Hours, at Teesside, is the UK's other big 24 hour kart race. Like Daytona it attracts a huge entry and serious talent. Fellow BRKC driver Alex Vangeen is putting a team together under the BRKC banner; before I know it I'm signed up, paid up and looking into hotels. I'm home alone while Marianne is away sailing. Clearly I can't be trusted.
So, to Brentwood. My first visit to Essex has been a pleasant surprise: I wasn't expecting forested lanes and pretty little villages so close to the M25. As I park at Brentwood Raceway - a wide, smooth 800m circuit surrounded by the forest of Thorndon Country Park - I'm praying for rain. That may come as a surprise given the disaster that was round 4, but again, I've attempted to glean a little circuit knowledge before race day.
On Saturday evening, I met five of my fellow drivers - including Alex, my British 24 Hours team captain - for a pre-race test session. Which happened to take place on a sodden track. But unlike Matchams last month, this circuit retains a fraction of grip when it's wet. I enjoyed myself and set some quick times. Though not as quick as Alex, who appears to be something of a Rainmaster. This bodes well for our big race in the Frozen North.
Race day is cloudy and blustery. After a comfortable (if lonely) night in a nearby Holiday Inn, and a relaxed morning, I'm ready for anything. Alex and I and the other Saturday drivers stop one step short of a rain dance. But to no avail.
After just five laps of dry practice I feel more or less dialled in. The circuit is fairly simple, with a long straight followed by a flat-out 180 degree right hander which leads into a slower, more technical infield section. The final corner, in front of the pits, is the trickiest: a fast chicane with a wide, flat kerb which needs to be driven over. But hit it wrong and it bounces the kart: the loss of traction loses you time all the way down the following straight. I'm not sure I get it 100% right all day.
I've drawn a 10th place (out of 11) grid slot for my first heat and have a fleeting five and a half laps to make up places. Five and a half, because on this circuit, the start and finish lines are on opposite sides of the track. Nobody can think of a similar layout elsewhere.
I make my best start of the season and somehow find myself sixth after the first lap. Good pace and some neat passing sees me fourth at the flag, thoroughly pleased with myself. This is more like it. My delight redoubles when I realise I've managed to beat none other than the great Bradley Philpot, despite having started behind him.
There are rumbles of discontent in the ranks, though. This race has a significant injection of one-off local entries - ten or so of our total of 35. They all appear to be about eleven years old and there's talk of dirty driving, although I've yet to experience it.
In my next heat, though, I'm tagged into a spin at the second corner. I never see the culprit, but it tumbles me down the order. I recover to finish eighth.
Two more heats. In one I'm hobbled by a slow kart and hold station to finish eighth again; in the other I start third but lose two places to a pair of youngsters whose combined weight adds up to a box of Rice Krispies. But I'm driving solidly and making the best of what I have; I'm happy with tenth on the grid for the B final.
Today, tenth seems to be working for me: I blast up the inside into the first hairpin on lap 1, and people magically fall out of the way. For the second time today, I'm sixth at the end of lap 1.
And there I encounter BRKC stalwart and racing instructor James Auld. James is in the heavyweight class and carrying at least 10kg more weight, but for the next nine laps I'm alternately grinding my teeth in frustration and shaking my head in admiration. I'm quicker, and 4th placed driver Harry Wicks is tantalisingly within view, but James puts on a brilliant display of defensive driving. It's hard but absolutely fair: no weaving or bumping (aside from when I get clumsy on the brakes) - he just places his kart just so and keeps me at bay.
It's a valuable lesson and the most fun I've had in a kart all year. I'm sixth at the flag, 17th overall. It's been a good day: the result still isn't stellar, but no less than 7 of the local lads make the A final, so I'm effectively 10th.
With only 4 of our regular drivers in the A final, the BRKC are predominantly spectators. And we're not impressed. There is some shoddy driving, a subsequent stewards' enquiry, and tears from a couple of the local littl'uns afterwards. It's all a bit School Sports Day and in my opinion, not up to the high standards of the BRKC. If you want to play with the adults, you need to behave like one - as all of our excellent under-16 regulars do.
Still, a good event at a friendly circuit and for me, a solid result. And just two weeks to wait until the season finale...
Monday, 6 June 2011
BRKC Round 4. Matchams, Bournemouth, Sunday 5 June 2011
As I turn off the leafy lane into the entrance of Matchams Leisure Park, the clouds hang low overhead. Like Cambridgeshire last month, there's something spooky about this place. At one time it was clearly a vibrant destination, but these days it's a sprawling ghost town of abandoned buildings and roads that lead nowhere. It did briefly rise to notoriety in late 2008, when it hosted the ill-fated Lapland New Forest scam.
But spooky or not, as I thread my way up the access road towards the kart circuit at the far side of the park, I've got a good feeling about today. For I'm armed with a weapon I've not had before this season: knowledge. Matchams is reasonably close to my home in Southampton; yesterday, a karting friend and I entered a team endurance race. Against two stag groups and a smattering of casual karters we won easily; more importantly, I have an inkling of what lies in store.
The grid is thinner this month, the location less convenient than of late; the BRKC regulars are bolstered by some local talent. As I'm beginning to realise, local knowledge counts for a lot here.
At 420 metres according to the website, this is the shortest circuit we will visit this year. It feels a little longer, perhaps because it winds between trees. Or it could be that every lap takes such a toll that you feel it must be longer.
It's bumpy. Not rough or nobbly, but proper bounce-an-inch-off-your-seat-count-your-fillings bumpy. There are sections where just hanging on to the steering wheel is a challenge, let alone turning it. The second corner is a fast, tightening right-hander with a tyre wall to the left and what feels like a row of sleeping policemen underwheel; hit the bumps wrong and the kart simply launches you into the tyre wall.
Circuit owner George Lovell is proud of the quality of his karts, and rightly so: they're consistent and handle nicely, though their short wheelbase makes it difficult for me to cram my lanky frame in. I feel like an elephant in a shopping trolley.
Still, I'm quick in the test sessions and in the free practice before the heats. My first race is heat two, and I've drawn pole position. I'm sitting on the grid, raring to go with that slightly weak-boweled feeling that only adrenalin brings... when the rain starts to fall.
It's heavy enough that the circuit is soaked in seconds; I get away in the lead, but by the time we get down to turn two I can already feel the slick tyres slithering on the rutted surface. Tentative on the brakes, I get mugged by a local and lose a place straight away.
By lap three it's turned into the heat from hell. I've raced in the wet many times. I've won races in the wet. But I've never encountered a wet surface like this. Parts of it are rough enough that the tyres dig in, giving you precious nuggets of grip; but most of it is heavily rippled tarmac, worn smooth and coated in rubber. With a layer of water on top, the kart floats across it at pathetically slow speed, ignoring all attempts at direction by its hapless driver.
Over three heats and a final I try several techniques. None of them work aside from the locals' line through one hairpin: drive right around the outside of the corner with your right wheels in the dirt at the edge of the track. With hindsight, the correct method seems to be to pretend you're cruising round on an in lap. Any attempt to push the kart results in disaster.
Everybody is struggling to some extent, but I've found it harder than most. After perhaps the least enjoyable karting event of my life, I'm 19th out of 29 and have, incredibly, scored two points. But it's a poor showing: I've allowed my frustration to seep into my driving, making matters worse. I slink home, thoroughly disgruntled and wondering why I keep putting myself through this. Perhaps I need to face an uncomfortable truth: maybe I'm just not good enough to compete at this level.
But spooky or not, as I thread my way up the access road towards the kart circuit at the far side of the park, I've got a good feeling about today. For I'm armed with a weapon I've not had before this season: knowledge. Matchams is reasonably close to my home in Southampton; yesterday, a karting friend and I entered a team endurance race. Against two stag groups and a smattering of casual karters we won easily; more importantly, I have an inkling of what lies in store.
The grid is thinner this month, the location less convenient than of late; the BRKC regulars are bolstered by some local talent. As I'm beginning to realise, local knowledge counts for a lot here.
At 420 metres according to the website, this is the shortest circuit we will visit this year. It feels a little longer, perhaps because it winds between trees. Or it could be that every lap takes such a toll that you feel it must be longer.
It's bumpy. Not rough or nobbly, but proper bounce-an-inch-off-your-seat-count-your-fillings bumpy. There are sections where just hanging on to the steering wheel is a challenge, let alone turning it. The second corner is a fast, tightening right-hander with a tyre wall to the left and what feels like a row of sleeping policemen underwheel; hit the bumps wrong and the kart simply launches you into the tyre wall.
Circuit owner George Lovell is proud of the quality of his karts, and rightly so: they're consistent and handle nicely, though their short wheelbase makes it difficult for me to cram my lanky frame in. I feel like an elephant in a shopping trolley.
Still, I'm quick in the test sessions and in the free practice before the heats. My first race is heat two, and I've drawn pole position. I'm sitting on the grid, raring to go with that slightly weak-boweled feeling that only adrenalin brings... when the rain starts to fall.
It's heavy enough that the circuit is soaked in seconds; I get away in the lead, but by the time we get down to turn two I can already feel the slick tyres slithering on the rutted surface. Tentative on the brakes, I get mugged by a local and lose a place straight away.
By lap three it's turned into the heat from hell. I've raced in the wet many times. I've won races in the wet. But I've never encountered a wet surface like this. Parts of it are rough enough that the tyres dig in, giving you precious nuggets of grip; but most of it is heavily rippled tarmac, worn smooth and coated in rubber. With a layer of water on top, the kart floats across it at pathetically slow speed, ignoring all attempts at direction by its hapless driver.
Over three heats and a final I try several techniques. None of them work aside from the locals' line through one hairpin: drive right around the outside of the corner with your right wheels in the dirt at the edge of the track. With hindsight, the correct method seems to be to pretend you're cruising round on an in lap. Any attempt to push the kart results in disaster.
Everybody is struggling to some extent, but I've found it harder than most. After perhaps the least enjoyable karting event of my life, I'm 19th out of 29 and have, incredibly, scored two points. But it's a poor showing: I've allowed my frustration to seep into my driving, making matters worse. I slink home, thoroughly disgruntled and wondering why I keep putting myself through this. Perhaps I need to face an uncomfortable truth: maybe I'm just not good enough to compete at this level.
Monday, 9 May 2011
BRKC Round 3. Cambridge Kartsport, Sunday 8th May 2011
Deep in the Cambridgeshire flatlands, this month's venue is a sprawling former WWII depot with two circuits - one indoor and one outdoor - and bags of slightly eerie atmosphere. Grass growing between concrete slabs, decrepit red brick buildings, etc. We’re on the outdoor circuit - a fast, abrasive 700m loop with just five corners.
It’s a tad decrepit, but the catering appears better than average for a kart circuit: the burger van parked beside the track is doing a roaring trade. When I amble over for a cup of tea, I discover why. Tea and burgers are indeed palatable, but it’s the blonde lass serving them that’s causing a stir…
At its third meeting, this embryonic championship is growing up fast. The organisers are charming and efficient, the regular drivers beginning to forge acquaintanceships. And its ability to attract top-line talent continues to amaze me.
This month we're joined by none other than Formula Renault 3.5 driver Chris van der Drift – perhaps most famous (unfairly) for one of 2010's worst single seater accidents, in Superleague at Brands Hatch. Multiple fractures and a badly lacerated hand put him out for most of the season; nine months on he still limps. But he's back racing, and he's brought his close friend Brendon Hartley - former Red Bull F1 tester - along for a play.
You could imagine drivers like this not taking a kart race too seriously, and there's plenty of banter off-track. But when the helmets go on, it turns deadly serious: they, like everyone else, take no prisoners out on the circuit.
And they've got their work cut out. If nothing else, in fifteen years I've learned to spot a gifted karter when I see one, and BRKC organiser Bradley Philpot is one of the best I've ever seen. He's got serious competition from a number of stunningly fast youngsters, as well as more experienced drivers with a lorryload of trophies between them. It's easy to feel intimidated in such exalted company, but I know my stuff and have brought home a trophy or two of my own.
With eight heats each, plus a final, for forty drivers, it's a marathon of a day. For me, it is (again) a bit of a mixed bag. Last month at Hereford I left frustrated with myself for a number of errors. This month I'm better, but the luck isn't with me.
The karts are better than two months ago at Birmingham, but nowhere near as consistent as they were at Hereford. And the circuit is particularly weight-sensitive, as the heavies quickly discover. Cue a lot of barging - too much, in my opinion - and some heavy shunts.
Two corners into my very first heat I find myself buried in the tyre wall, victim of a three-way pile-up in front. Later in the day I'm shunted off the track twice in the same heat and finish it last, thoroughly disgruntled.
But in between are some good times. I scythe through from sixth on the grid to second at the flag in one heat, and make up ground in three others. But the losses hurt me, and I just miss the cut for the B final. This puts me on pole for the C final and gives me a shot at glory: if I win, I move up and compete in the B final.
But luck deserts me again: the kart is horrible, the worst I've had all day, and I'm powerless against the chasing pack. Later, I note that my laptimes in the final are a full second slower than my best, earlier in the day.
Final result: 26th, out of 40. Exhausted and depressed, I watch the A final and feel slightly better at the sight of Brendon Hartley struggling with the same kart that hobbled me.
With time and sleep comes perspective. The result is well below my potential, but a lot of it was out of my hands. My wheel-to-wheel combat skills are improving, and this event has taught me some stern lessons about anticipating danger and staying out of trouble.
I'm continually surprised at how different sprint racing is to endurance racing. Every kart feels different, and I'd have said I was reasonably good at finding the limit of a kart quickly: three laps, tops. In sprints you've got three corners (if you're lucky), and unlike endurance you will drive a different kart every time you go out on the circuit.
It's taxing, mentally and physically, and often frustrating. But the moments of magic make it utterly addictive. Three races down, three to go.
It’s a tad decrepit, but the catering appears better than average for a kart circuit: the burger van parked beside the track is doing a roaring trade. When I amble over for a cup of tea, I discover why. Tea and burgers are indeed palatable, but it’s the blonde lass serving them that’s causing a stir…
At its third meeting, this embryonic championship is growing up fast. The organisers are charming and efficient, the regular drivers beginning to forge acquaintanceships. And its ability to attract top-line talent continues to amaze me.
This month we're joined by none other than Formula Renault 3.5 driver Chris van der Drift – perhaps most famous (unfairly) for one of 2010's worst single seater accidents, in Superleague at Brands Hatch. Multiple fractures and a badly lacerated hand put him out for most of the season; nine months on he still limps. But he's back racing, and he's brought his close friend Brendon Hartley - former Red Bull F1 tester - along for a play.
You could imagine drivers like this not taking a kart race too seriously, and there's plenty of banter off-track. But when the helmets go on, it turns deadly serious: they, like everyone else, take no prisoners out on the circuit.
And they've got their work cut out. If nothing else, in fifteen years I've learned to spot a gifted karter when I see one, and BRKC organiser Bradley Philpot is one of the best I've ever seen. He's got serious competition from a number of stunningly fast youngsters, as well as more experienced drivers with a lorryload of trophies between them. It's easy to feel intimidated in such exalted company, but I know my stuff and have brought home a trophy or two of my own.
With eight heats each, plus a final, for forty drivers, it's a marathon of a day. For me, it is (again) a bit of a mixed bag. Last month at Hereford I left frustrated with myself for a number of errors. This month I'm better, but the luck isn't with me.
The karts are better than two months ago at Birmingham, but nowhere near as consistent as they were at Hereford. And the circuit is particularly weight-sensitive, as the heavies quickly discover. Cue a lot of barging - too much, in my opinion - and some heavy shunts.
Two corners into my very first heat I find myself buried in the tyre wall, victim of a three-way pile-up in front. Later in the day I'm shunted off the track twice in the same heat and finish it last, thoroughly disgruntled.
But in between are some good times. I scythe through from sixth on the grid to second at the flag in one heat, and make up ground in three others. But the losses hurt me, and I just miss the cut for the B final. This puts me on pole for the C final and gives me a shot at glory: if I win, I move up and compete in the B final.
But luck deserts me again: the kart is horrible, the worst I've had all day, and I'm powerless against the chasing pack. Later, I note that my laptimes in the final are a full second slower than my best, earlier in the day.
Final result: 26th, out of 40. Exhausted and depressed, I watch the A final and feel slightly better at the sight of Brendon Hartley struggling with the same kart that hobbled me.
With time and sleep comes perspective. The result is well below my potential, but a lot of it was out of my hands. My wheel-to-wheel combat skills are improving, and this event has taught me some stern lessons about anticipating danger and staying out of trouble.
I'm continually surprised at how different sprint racing is to endurance racing. Every kart feels different, and I'd have said I was reasonably good at finding the limit of a kart quickly: three laps, tops. In sprints you've got three corners (if you're lucky), and unlike endurance you will drive a different kart every time you go out on the circuit.
It's taxing, mentally and physically, and often frustrating. But the moments of magic make it utterly addictive. Three races down, three to go.
Tuesday, 5 April 2011
BRKC Round 2. Herefordshire Raceway, Sunday 3 April 2011
This time around we made a weekend of it: Marianne joined me for the trip up to Hereford. After a pleasant dinner in town on Saturday night, I left her exploring while I drove across country through intermittent showers to the tiny village of Weobley.
I've never seen a karting venue like it: up a single track road in the middle of nowhere, behind a farmhouse, and bounded on two sides by fields full of sheep. As I drive into the courtyard and park in front of an open barn, I watch a kart being driven across to the circuit pursued by a pair of Jack Russells.
During the day, I hear the circuit referred to as 'the track you'd build in your back garden'. It's run by three blokes and two dogs, is just 600m long and the laptime is a piffling 32 seconds. If, like me, you're used to the corporate monoliths of Daytona and Buckmore Park, it's a bit of an eye-opener.
But the karts are tidy and expertly maintained and an airy new clubhouse is nearing completion. And those three blokes (and two dogs) know their stuff. Between them they run a tricky multiple heat sprint event for 40 drivers without missing a beat or wasting a minute - something that Birmingham Wheels failed to do last month.
Short the circuit may be, but it's a real challenge. Narrow, twisty, and (today) intermittently wet, it includes the most difficult corner I have ever encountered, in a decade and a bit of karting: a ludicrously off-camber right-hander, down a steep drop, with no run-off. Take it too slowly and you'll be passed down the following straight; too fast, and the kart will hop, skip and hurl you broadside into the tyrewall.
The racing is not for the fainthearted. Drivers have flown in from Germany and Denmark. Moonlighting touring car racers rub shoulders with 16 year old prodigies and single seater racers.
I neatly sidestepped my race-rustiness last month, by virtue of a fairly straightforward circuit and familiar format. But there's no avoiding it in round 2. Of my 150 or so karting starts, three have been sprint races. I'm just not used to having only seven laps to get the job done, and it shows: unforced errors and dulled wheel-to-wheel skills leave me languishing in the bottom half of the table after three heats.
My points score puts me in the D final (there are five in all), and finally my day starts to turn around: I keep it on the road in soaking conditions, and win, which gives me another go from the back of the C final grid. Despite some on-track argy-bargy I make up a couple of places and finish sixth out of eight.
With my racing done for the day, I join the others to watch the A final. We watch in awe as F2 driver Ben Bailly makes mincemeat of a very strong field, demonstrating phenomenal kart control on a wet track. I've fallen far short of my best today, but I have to admit that my best wouldn't have been good enough.
In the end I was classified 20th out of 37 and scored a point. Not as bad as I first thought, and the experience has highlighted a large chink in my armour. The frontrunners are more than gifted. They're race-sharp, because they're racing every weekend. If I want to get among them, I can't simply turn up once a month and rely on my experience - especially since most of the events are sprints.
Ergo, I need some sprint practice. This might call for a return to Thruxton before the next round on May 8...
I've never seen a karting venue like it: up a single track road in the middle of nowhere, behind a farmhouse, and bounded on two sides by fields full of sheep. As I drive into the courtyard and park in front of an open barn, I watch a kart being driven across to the circuit pursued by a pair of Jack Russells.
During the day, I hear the circuit referred to as 'the track you'd build in your back garden'. It's run by three blokes and two dogs, is just 600m long and the laptime is a piffling 32 seconds. If, like me, you're used to the corporate monoliths of Daytona and Buckmore Park, it's a bit of an eye-opener.
But the karts are tidy and expertly maintained and an airy new clubhouse is nearing completion. And those three blokes (and two dogs) know their stuff. Between them they run a tricky multiple heat sprint event for 40 drivers without missing a beat or wasting a minute - something that Birmingham Wheels failed to do last month.
Short the circuit may be, but it's a real challenge. Narrow, twisty, and (today) intermittently wet, it includes the most difficult corner I have ever encountered, in a decade and a bit of karting: a ludicrously off-camber right-hander, down a steep drop, with no run-off. Take it too slowly and you'll be passed down the following straight; too fast, and the kart will hop, skip and hurl you broadside into the tyrewall.
The racing is not for the fainthearted. Drivers have flown in from Germany and Denmark. Moonlighting touring car racers rub shoulders with 16 year old prodigies and single seater racers.
I neatly sidestepped my race-rustiness last month, by virtue of a fairly straightforward circuit and familiar format. But there's no avoiding it in round 2. Of my 150 or so karting starts, three have been sprint races. I'm just not used to having only seven laps to get the job done, and it shows: unforced errors and dulled wheel-to-wheel skills leave me languishing in the bottom half of the table after three heats.
My points score puts me in the D final (there are five in all), and finally my day starts to turn around: I keep it on the road in soaking conditions, and win, which gives me another go from the back of the C final grid. Despite some on-track argy-bargy I make up a couple of places and finish sixth out of eight.
With my racing done for the day, I join the others to watch the A final. We watch in awe as F2 driver Ben Bailly makes mincemeat of a very strong field, demonstrating phenomenal kart control on a wet track. I've fallen far short of my best today, but I have to admit that my best wouldn't have been good enough.
In the end I was classified 20th out of 37 and scored a point. Not as bad as I first thought, and the experience has highlighted a large chink in my armour. The frontrunners are more than gifted. They're race-sharp, because they're racing every weekend. If I want to get among them, I can't simply turn up once a month and rely on my experience - especially since most of the events are sprints.
Ergo, I need some sprint practice. This might call for a return to Thruxton before the next round on May 8...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)