Saturday 15 October at midday. It's been in my diary - in the back of my mind - for six months. Now, with forty-four hours until the lights go green, I worry.
I worry that my training - delayed by a minor operation last month - is too little, too late. I worry about my teammates, two of whom are unknown to me. Will they be up to the task? Do they want to stand on the podium, to recapture past glories, as much as I do? Conversely, will I live up to their standards? Am I fit enough, quick enough, consistent enough, committed enough?
I worry about my shortage of track time in the 2-stroke DMax karts. Perhaps 80 laps in all; is it enough? Will it come back to haunt me in the early laps, or in the small hours when I'm running on caffeine and adrenalin? And I worry, a little, about the danger. About the thought of encountering a crashed kart on the racing line in the dead of night. At seventy miles an hour.
But in amongst the fretting, the vain attempt to ignore the elements out of my control, lurks a growing tingle of excitement. The chance to use my years of experience, my modicum of driving talent. The thrill of the race.
A 24 hour motor race is a supreme test of skill and stamina. But more than that, it's a million tiny details. It's making our five-man team gel so that we operate as a unit, making sure that everyone is happy, fed and rested. It's making the right strategy calls, being prepared for any eventuality and reacting decisively when the unexpected happens. It's accepting that, whatever we do, Fate is fickle.
To finish is an achievement; to win is a dream come true. For amateur racers like us, Daytona is the glittering prize. Come what may, it's going to be memorable.
Watch this space.
Thursday, 13 October 2011
Friday, 7 October 2011
BRKC 0-plate. Sutton Circuit, 2 October 2011
"This," someone observes, "is going to be carnage."
It's a freakishly hot October Sunday in the sleepy depths of Leicestershire, and the gang's (nearly) all here. BRKC 2011 is revived for one last hurrah before we look to 2012, and as usual, the regulars will go head-to-head with super-competitive circuit locals.
But there are differences today: BRKC champion Chris Hackworth is a notable absentee, and our exalted leader Bradley Philpot will be mediating, rather than racing. There are a couple of welcome additions, too: Jack Stanley returns to the BRKC having missed most of the season due to other commitments, and Ben Greene, who joined our team for the British 24 Hours, has come fully into the BRKC fold. And he's brought the family along: it's great to catch up with Jo and two-year-old Eva, who sports a miniature BRKC-branded hoodie and definitely qualifies as our youngest member.
At 9.30am, it's already been a long day for me, but the rigours of a 6am start and 140 mile drive are held at bay by a hefty breakfast and 'wake-the-dead' coffee. As I sign in and join Ben for a track walk, the last wisps of tiredness are washed away by an insistent, addictive trickle of adrenalin.
For the BRKC crowd, a steep learning curve lies ahead. None of us has driven the circuit before, and the race format is new to most of us. An eight minute practice/qualifying session will be followed by two back-to-back 15 minute races. The grid for the second race will be the finishing order of the first, in reverse. The top ten points scorers from the two heats will progress to a one-lap qualifying shootout and a 15 minute final. And one last detail could change everything: we'll all be weight-equalised at 85kg. It could be my imagination, but some of the lightweights look a little hunted, and there's a new glint in the eyes of the heavies. Today, there will be no excuses.
On foot, the circuit looks a mite tricky: a six-corner, 700m tour with a mix of medium speed long radius corners and a couple of big stops. It's tight and technical, and I can see ample potential for the aforementioned carnage. The single engine Sodikarts aren't going to break any speed records but they and the circuit will reward patience and a light touch.
It's an historic day for me. When my trusty old Sparco karting suit finally let me down at Teesside after a decade of service, I decided to splash out on a replacement. My old boots are of similar vintage and have always been slightly too big, so I retired them, too. After much browsing and online deliberation I settled on a Sparco Profi - a mid-range suit similar to my old one - and a top-of-the-range pair of Sparco Formula K boots. And since I was on a roll, I called time on years of discomfort and injuries caused by ill-fitting seat inserts, and bought a customised insert from Tillett Racing Seats. This event is a perfect opportunity to test the new gear before serious demands are placed on it at Daytona, in two weeks' time.
First impressions of Sutton Circuit have been good: it looks a slickly-run, no-nonsense outfit. After a short briefing, we're underway on time. I'm carrying 7.5kg of lead weight in specially designed slots in the kart's left sidepod, to bring me up to the 85kg minimum. My new suit and boots fit snugly, and the insert slots neatly into the kart's seat; I'm instantly comfortable.
The pitlane has an unusual hairpin exit onto the start-finish straight, and the race starts are unique here: we're to be sent out of the pitlane line astern, with no overtaking before the first corner. As soon as we pass the apex, the race is on. This has been the source of much discussion - and some vitriol - on Facebook, but as soon as I get down to Turn 1 it starts to make sense. Both entry and exit are very, very tight and it's ludicrously easy to lock the brakes.
The rest of the lap is a balancing act: keeping the tyres nibbling the edge of adhesion through the long corners, staying neat and tidy into the hairpin and taking a late apex. It could be a touch of Placebo effect, but my new boots seem to give me better feel and precision on the pedals. And although this kart is a world away from the DMax two-stroke machine I tested a week ago, they share a tendency to lock up at the slightest provocation: the practice is standing me in good stead.
After twelve laps I set a best of 40.453, good enough for third in my group. Once all 45 drivers have qualified, we're split into mixed-pace groups for the two heats: I will start third on the grid in group 2. It's a solid start. The other names on the list are unfamiliar except two: Daniel Truman and James Auld, my nemesis from the Brentwood round. I blanch inwardly at the prospect of keeping James at bay for twenty laps.
The viewing terrace outside the paddock building is slightly raised, and affords an excellent view of the circuit; we crowd the railings as Group 1 streams out of the pits. Everybody behaves themselves in Turn 1 but from then on there's no quarter given; we're wincing as the field barrels three-abreast into the narrow braking zone for the hairpin. Incredibly, they're through with minimal contact; after that they begin to spread out and a trend for the day is set: the first heat is fairly processional while the second, with the slowest drivers at the front and the fastest at the back, is highly entertaining.
By midway through the second heat I'm away from the action, adjusting my kit and putting my brain in gear - when I hear my name called in reception. The race director tells me that kart 3 - my kart for the race - has been replaced after a couple of complaints. I'll now be driving kart 10. It's a stroke of luck - though as Sean Brierley points out, I'll be going out on cold tyres.
Showtime. As we wait for the off I hear a shout from behind. James gives me the thumbs up. As I reciprocate, my resolve hardens. James is a nice chap and an excellent driver. And I'm damned if I'm going to give him an inch. I focus on the two in front - a Sutton regular and BRKC debutante Scott Winter - and picture myself sweeping past them.
The marshal waves, and we're off, sweeping around the hairpin and accelerating down to turn 1. The rubber is indeed a touch cool; I slide a little wide on the exit and feel James nudge me. The rest of the lap is neat and tidy though, and the hot weather warms the tyres quickly. I focus on reeling in the second placed driver. But the circuit is devilishly difficult to pass on, and I can't find a way by. All the while I'm aware of James, close behind, ready to jump on the slightest mistake. It's a processional race, but a stern challenge: grip and momentum are at a premium and it's vital not to slide the kart at all.
I take the flag a satisfied third; back in the pits there's no time for rest. We stay in our karts as the marshals rearrange us into reverse finishing order for the second race. In moments we're off again, the field bunching into the first corner as nervy drivers jump too hard on the brakes. Now I'm chasing James, who puts a neat move on the fifth-placed driver, forcing him wide into the turn 3 sweep. Right on James' tail, I follow him through. It's going well, and I'm enjoying myself.
But a lap later, disaster strikes. I'm looking for a way past James, who defends the inside line into the hairpin. I take the normal line, hoping to get a better exit - when the kart behind me locks up and cannons straight into James' rear bumper. He's spun right around, into my path, and I'm forced onto the grass beyond the hairpin. The field streams by as I clatter back onto the track, and all the good work of the early laps is undone. I'm last but one, half a lap ahead of poor James.
Focus. It would be so easy to overcompensate now; I force myself to keep doing what I've been doing: push as hard as I dare, keep the rear of the kart in check, and concentrate on picking off the drivers in front. The laps fly by, but it's working: I'm up to third, hassling the driver in second as we flash through the double-apex final corner for the last time. Fifty metres ahead, the chequered flag is waving; my exit is better and I'm alongside as we cross the line - but it's not enough. I'm third, by half a kart-length.
Back in the pits I glug a litre of water and cool myself under the air conditioner in the changing area. The races are short but intense, and the weather is ridiculous: it's the hottest day ever recorded in the UK in October. I'm not knocking it though. As I commiserate with James and swap experiences with the others, a warm sense of satisfaction descends. I've done well - it's easily my best showing in a BRKC race - and have a chance of making the final. It's going to be tight - only the top ten of 45 go through - and will depend on the results of upcoming races.
I join Brad, Becca, Jo, little Eva and the others on the pitwall to watch the next race. We're looking forward to it, as five BRKC drivers - Anwar, Sean, Alex, Lee and Jack - will go head to head. At the front, the first race is processional as we've come to expect - a blue-suited Sutton local leads Anwar and Sean, who hold station throughout. Behind them, Alex, Lee and Jack duke it out for best of the rest. There's nothing between them, and they cross the line millimetres apart - with Lee in front.
In minutes they're underway again, in reverse order, and the three-way battle is resumed. We're alternately cheering and wincing as they attack and parry on the tight circuit; they're all driving superbly and nobody can gain an advantage. We're all so focused on the entertainment provided by my three former teammates that we nearly miss the trouble brewing behind. Anwar and the blue-suited local have clashed a couple of times as they struggle through from the back; fists are being shaken.
Alex wins by the skin of his teeth; Lee is second after pulling a stunning move on Jack in the last corner. I'm turning away, talking to one of the others, when I hear shouts from further down the pitwall. People are pointing, wide-eyed: out on the circuit, Blue-Suit has shunted Anwar onto the grass - after the chequered flag.
Back in the pitlane, Blue-Suit is raging at the marshals, the drivers, the spectators... several others get involved and the marshals narrowly avert a full-on fistfight. Anwar, to his credit, refuses to be drawn in. It blows over quickly but leaves a bad taste - the behaviour on and off track was unsporting, dangerous and utterly contrary to the spirit of the BRKC. I'm disappointed not to see the driver in question escorted off the premises.
We regroup and watch the final race, in which Ben Greene acquits himself well at his first BRKC meeting with a second and a fourth place. He's borrowed my seat insert to test, pronounces it excellent, and is considering a purchase of his own. I expect to be on Tillet's Christmas card list.
Back in reception they're tallying the scores... and I've narrowly missed the final. By my calculation I had done enough, but it turns out that instead of the top ten overall making the cut, as I had thought, it's the top two from each group. The top scoring BRKC regulars - Alex, Lee, Ben, Harry Wicks and myself - have all scored 16 points. They're using fastest laptimes to classify drivers that have tied, and mine is good enough for ninth or tenth overall.
But only Alex, Lee and Ben go through, because Harry and I finished third in our groups. It's a flawed system in my opinion, as it could promote lower scoring drivers in a weak group over high-scoring drivers in a strong group. But that's the way it is. I get changed and watch the final, and try to shake off the disappointment.
By recent standards it's a calm race; after a 1 lap qualy shootout, Alex drives brilliantly to third place, behind a pair of locals. We cheer the podium, dash out of the way to avoid the champagne waterfall, and say our farewells. The BRKC will reunite in just 14 weeks time at Daytona Manchester, for Round 1 of the 2012 championship. Sadly I can't be there, as I'll be sunning myself on a beach in South Africa - but I'll be present and correct for Round 2.
For today, for me, there's much to celebrate. Despite missing the final I've been at the top of my game and the weight equalisation has definitely favoured me. At 77kg I'm not excessively heavy, but the discrepancy to the lightweights makes for a bigger laptime penalty than I realised. For the first time in a BRKC race I've shown what I can do. In 2012 the 70kg minimum will even up the field, and I look forward to that.
It's a long slog back down to Southampton, into the setting sun, and I've plenty of time to turn my thoughts to the next challenge. Two years on from our 2009 win in the 24 Hours, here's hoping for a triumphant return to Daytona...
It's a freakishly hot October Sunday in the sleepy depths of Leicestershire, and the gang's (nearly) all here. BRKC 2011 is revived for one last hurrah before we look to 2012, and as usual, the regulars will go head-to-head with super-competitive circuit locals.
But there are differences today: BRKC champion Chris Hackworth is a notable absentee, and our exalted leader Bradley Philpot will be mediating, rather than racing. There are a couple of welcome additions, too: Jack Stanley returns to the BRKC having missed most of the season due to other commitments, and Ben Greene, who joined our team for the British 24 Hours, has come fully into the BRKC fold. And he's brought the family along: it's great to catch up with Jo and two-year-old Eva, who sports a miniature BRKC-branded hoodie and definitely qualifies as our youngest member.
At 9.30am, it's already been a long day for me, but the rigours of a 6am start and 140 mile drive are held at bay by a hefty breakfast and 'wake-the-dead' coffee. As I sign in and join Ben for a track walk, the last wisps of tiredness are washed away by an insistent, addictive trickle of adrenalin.
For the BRKC crowd, a steep learning curve lies ahead. None of us has driven the circuit before, and the race format is new to most of us. An eight minute practice/qualifying session will be followed by two back-to-back 15 minute races. The grid for the second race will be the finishing order of the first, in reverse. The top ten points scorers from the two heats will progress to a one-lap qualifying shootout and a 15 minute final. And one last detail could change everything: we'll all be weight-equalised at 85kg. It could be my imagination, but some of the lightweights look a little hunted, and there's a new glint in the eyes of the heavies. Today, there will be no excuses.
On foot, the circuit looks a mite tricky: a six-corner, 700m tour with a mix of medium speed long radius corners and a couple of big stops. It's tight and technical, and I can see ample potential for the aforementioned carnage. The single engine Sodikarts aren't going to break any speed records but they and the circuit will reward patience and a light touch.
It's an historic day for me. When my trusty old Sparco karting suit finally let me down at Teesside after a decade of service, I decided to splash out on a replacement. My old boots are of similar vintage and have always been slightly too big, so I retired them, too. After much browsing and online deliberation I settled on a Sparco Profi - a mid-range suit similar to my old one - and a top-of-the-range pair of Sparco Formula K boots. And since I was on a roll, I called time on years of discomfort and injuries caused by ill-fitting seat inserts, and bought a customised insert from Tillett Racing Seats. This event is a perfect opportunity to test the new gear before serious demands are placed on it at Daytona, in two weeks' time.
First impressions of Sutton Circuit have been good: it looks a slickly-run, no-nonsense outfit. After a short briefing, we're underway on time. I'm carrying 7.5kg of lead weight in specially designed slots in the kart's left sidepod, to bring me up to the 85kg minimum. My new suit and boots fit snugly, and the insert slots neatly into the kart's seat; I'm instantly comfortable.
The pitlane has an unusual hairpin exit onto the start-finish straight, and the race starts are unique here: we're to be sent out of the pitlane line astern, with no overtaking before the first corner. As soon as we pass the apex, the race is on. This has been the source of much discussion - and some vitriol - on Facebook, but as soon as I get down to Turn 1 it starts to make sense. Both entry and exit are very, very tight and it's ludicrously easy to lock the brakes.
The rest of the lap is a balancing act: keeping the tyres nibbling the edge of adhesion through the long corners, staying neat and tidy into the hairpin and taking a late apex. It could be a touch of Placebo effect, but my new boots seem to give me better feel and precision on the pedals. And although this kart is a world away from the DMax two-stroke machine I tested a week ago, they share a tendency to lock up at the slightest provocation: the practice is standing me in good stead.
After twelve laps I set a best of 40.453, good enough for third in my group. Once all 45 drivers have qualified, we're split into mixed-pace groups for the two heats: I will start third on the grid in group 2. It's a solid start. The other names on the list are unfamiliar except two: Daniel Truman and James Auld, my nemesis from the Brentwood round. I blanch inwardly at the prospect of keeping James at bay for twenty laps.
The viewing terrace outside the paddock building is slightly raised, and affords an excellent view of the circuit; we crowd the railings as Group 1 streams out of the pits. Everybody behaves themselves in Turn 1 but from then on there's no quarter given; we're wincing as the field barrels three-abreast into the narrow braking zone for the hairpin. Incredibly, they're through with minimal contact; after that they begin to spread out and a trend for the day is set: the first heat is fairly processional while the second, with the slowest drivers at the front and the fastest at the back, is highly entertaining.
By midway through the second heat I'm away from the action, adjusting my kit and putting my brain in gear - when I hear my name called in reception. The race director tells me that kart 3 - my kart for the race - has been replaced after a couple of complaints. I'll now be driving kart 10. It's a stroke of luck - though as Sean Brierley points out, I'll be going out on cold tyres.
Showtime. As we wait for the off I hear a shout from behind. James gives me the thumbs up. As I reciprocate, my resolve hardens. James is a nice chap and an excellent driver. And I'm damned if I'm going to give him an inch. I focus on the two in front - a Sutton regular and BRKC debutante Scott Winter - and picture myself sweeping past them.
The marshal waves, and we're off, sweeping around the hairpin and accelerating down to turn 1. The rubber is indeed a touch cool; I slide a little wide on the exit and feel James nudge me. The rest of the lap is neat and tidy though, and the hot weather warms the tyres quickly. I focus on reeling in the second placed driver. But the circuit is devilishly difficult to pass on, and I can't find a way by. All the while I'm aware of James, close behind, ready to jump on the slightest mistake. It's a processional race, but a stern challenge: grip and momentum are at a premium and it's vital not to slide the kart at all.
I take the flag a satisfied third; back in the pits there's no time for rest. We stay in our karts as the marshals rearrange us into reverse finishing order for the second race. In moments we're off again, the field bunching into the first corner as nervy drivers jump too hard on the brakes. Now I'm chasing James, who puts a neat move on the fifth-placed driver, forcing him wide into the turn 3 sweep. Right on James' tail, I follow him through. It's going well, and I'm enjoying myself.
But a lap later, disaster strikes. I'm looking for a way past James, who defends the inside line into the hairpin. I take the normal line, hoping to get a better exit - when the kart behind me locks up and cannons straight into James' rear bumper. He's spun right around, into my path, and I'm forced onto the grass beyond the hairpin. The field streams by as I clatter back onto the track, and all the good work of the early laps is undone. I'm last but one, half a lap ahead of poor James.
Focus. It would be so easy to overcompensate now; I force myself to keep doing what I've been doing: push as hard as I dare, keep the rear of the kart in check, and concentrate on picking off the drivers in front. The laps fly by, but it's working: I'm up to third, hassling the driver in second as we flash through the double-apex final corner for the last time. Fifty metres ahead, the chequered flag is waving; my exit is better and I'm alongside as we cross the line - but it's not enough. I'm third, by half a kart-length.
Back in the pits I glug a litre of water and cool myself under the air conditioner in the changing area. The races are short but intense, and the weather is ridiculous: it's the hottest day ever recorded in the UK in October. I'm not knocking it though. As I commiserate with James and swap experiences with the others, a warm sense of satisfaction descends. I've done well - it's easily my best showing in a BRKC race - and have a chance of making the final. It's going to be tight - only the top ten of 45 go through - and will depend on the results of upcoming races.
I join Brad, Becca, Jo, little Eva and the others on the pitwall to watch the next race. We're looking forward to it, as five BRKC drivers - Anwar, Sean, Alex, Lee and Jack - will go head to head. At the front, the first race is processional as we've come to expect - a blue-suited Sutton local leads Anwar and Sean, who hold station throughout. Behind them, Alex, Lee and Jack duke it out for best of the rest. There's nothing between them, and they cross the line millimetres apart - with Lee in front.
In minutes they're underway again, in reverse order, and the three-way battle is resumed. We're alternately cheering and wincing as they attack and parry on the tight circuit; they're all driving superbly and nobody can gain an advantage. We're all so focused on the entertainment provided by my three former teammates that we nearly miss the trouble brewing behind. Anwar and the blue-suited local have clashed a couple of times as they struggle through from the back; fists are being shaken.
Alex wins by the skin of his teeth; Lee is second after pulling a stunning move on Jack in the last corner. I'm turning away, talking to one of the others, when I hear shouts from further down the pitwall. People are pointing, wide-eyed: out on the circuit, Blue-Suit has shunted Anwar onto the grass - after the chequered flag.
Back in the pitlane, Blue-Suit is raging at the marshals, the drivers, the spectators... several others get involved and the marshals narrowly avert a full-on fistfight. Anwar, to his credit, refuses to be drawn in. It blows over quickly but leaves a bad taste - the behaviour on and off track was unsporting, dangerous and utterly contrary to the spirit of the BRKC. I'm disappointed not to see the driver in question escorted off the premises.
We regroup and watch the final race, in which Ben Greene acquits himself well at his first BRKC meeting with a second and a fourth place. He's borrowed my seat insert to test, pronounces it excellent, and is considering a purchase of his own. I expect to be on Tillet's Christmas card list.
Back in reception they're tallying the scores... and I've narrowly missed the final. By my calculation I had done enough, but it turns out that instead of the top ten overall making the cut, as I had thought, it's the top two from each group. The top scoring BRKC regulars - Alex, Lee, Ben, Harry Wicks and myself - have all scored 16 points. They're using fastest laptimes to classify drivers that have tied, and mine is good enough for ninth or tenth overall.
But only Alex, Lee and Ben go through, because Harry and I finished third in our groups. It's a flawed system in my opinion, as it could promote lower scoring drivers in a weak group over high-scoring drivers in a strong group. But that's the way it is. I get changed and watch the final, and try to shake off the disappointment.
By recent standards it's a calm race; after a 1 lap qualy shootout, Alex drives brilliantly to third place, behind a pair of locals. We cheer the podium, dash out of the way to avoid the champagne waterfall, and say our farewells. The BRKC will reunite in just 14 weeks time at Daytona Manchester, for Round 1 of the 2012 championship. Sadly I can't be there, as I'll be sunning myself on a beach in South Africa - but I'll be present and correct for Round 2.
For today, for me, there's much to celebrate. Despite missing the final I've been at the top of my game and the weight equalisation has definitely favoured me. At 77kg I'm not excessively heavy, but the discrepancy to the lightweights makes for a bigger laptime penalty than I realised. For the first time in a BRKC race I've shown what I can do. In 2012 the 70kg minimum will even up the field, and I look forward to that.
It's a long slog back down to Southampton, into the setting sun, and I've plenty of time to turn my thoughts to the next challenge. Two years on from our 2009 win in the 24 Hours, here's hoping for a triumphant return to Daytona...
Friday, 30 September 2011
Daytona Milton Keynes, 23 September 2011
Ohshit.
A moment frozen in time. Two metres wide of the kerb at turn 9, Daytona's fast left-hander - and under the helmet, sweat is suddenly cold on my forehead. The kart is near-sideways on the dusty, off-line tarmac, at the thick end of sixty miles an hour; I've got the steering wheel wrenched as far right as it will go, but the tyre walls loom.
Time speeds up; a squirt of throttle half-pushes the rear into line as the tyres kiss the grass - and the rear bumper thwacks the edge of the tyre wall, kicking the kart straight as we barrel past. I'm braking hard, trying not to lock up, trying to keep out of the catchment fences beyond the hairpin, twenty metres away.
Crisis averted. I negotiate the hairpin at a crawl, and breathe. Kart: undamaged. Body: undamaged. Underwear: mildly soiled, but serviceable. It's rare that I'm genuinely frightened in a kart, but that was, to quote Monty Halls, 'moderately close'.
After a dozen years and thousands of laps driving this circuit in 13 horsepower prokarts, I've moved up a gear. Daytona's 22 horsepower D-Max karts have been in situ for three years, and tonight is my long-overdue first taste of the two-stroke, high-revving machines. It's come not a moment too soon: in three weeks' time I will be racing a D-Max in the Daytona 24 Hours, as one-fifth of the Race Drivers Inc team. It's a dry, balmy Friday evening, and I have two hours of practice time. Early indications are that I'm going to need every second.
It might still have four wheels and a seat, but the D-Max is a completely different animal to the prokart. Virtually every detail is new to me: tyres, weight (20kg lighter according to the seat of my pants), wheelbase (several inches shorter according to my legs), and, of course, the power delivery. A prokart's power is delivered in a constant swell from idle to maximum; this two-stroke engine feels gutless at first press of the throttle pedal, but once the revs rise into the power band it's as if warp has engaged: the rear tyres will spin on a dry track, and the next corner is reeled towards you at breathtaking speed. It's very hard to be objective with one's backside this close to the Tarmac, but I'd guess that we're cresting the brow of the hill at around 70mph.
I spend five laps grinning stupidly and shouting "Wheee!" at every press of the right pedal, and then get down to the serious business of unlearning the circuit. My prokart-honed rhythm is all wrong; every corner arrives sooner and faster than I expect, and the circuit seems to have gained an extra two turns. Turn 1, so easily flat-out in a prokart that it serves only as a prelude to the fast chicane that follows, has morphed into a ragged-edge, wide-eyed thrill ride. Likewise the downhill kink before turn 9, which leads onto the back straight.
After fifteen laps, a lot of squealing rubber and the aforementioned brown trouser moment, I pit to have a look at the laptimes. I'm very slow - barely into the 1 minute 9 bracket. I've been faster around here in a prokart. It's disappointing, but the circuit is clearly having an off night: nobody's managed better than a mid 1.08. On a good day the karts are capable of 1.05s.
I'm joined tonight by Jack Stanley - former teammate and future Daytona 24 Hours captain. Jack has plenty of DMax experience and is full of useful tips. Our weights are virtually identical: karts and talent notwithstanding, I should be able to match him. After my first session, I'm 1.3 seconds slower. Not too bad, but there's work to be done.
Although the weather conditions are perfect, our on-track companions leave much to be desired. Over the next hour and a half, barely a minute passes without a hapless driver buried in the tyrewall; the attendant yellow warning flags mean I'm forced to abandon dozens of good laps. I know what you're thinking. Yes, racing drivers will always find something to moan about.
Still, in between the disruptions, I learn. I learn to be super-gentle on the brakes, to stop the rear wheels locking over the bumps into turns two and nine. Where a prokart is leaden-footed, the DMax is on tiptoes, quick to snap into oversteer; I learn to anticipate it, use its responsiveness. And I begin to learn to get back on the power before every apex, to stop the engine falling out of its narrow powerband.
After nearly seventy laps I set a best of 1.07.381. Jack has set the fastest time of the night, a 1.06.886. I'm less than half a second adrift, and still learning: I'm happy with that. After a lot of locked brakes and sweaty moments early on, I'm beginning to get comfortable and find the consistency I'll need.
Eleven days after a minor operation, I'm not at my physical best, but my body has stood up well. Better still, my hands are unblistered, courtesy of a new set of motocross-spec palm protectors. It's taken a significant mental effort to keep the DMax on track, though; more than ever, the Daytona 24 Hours is going to demand total focus.
With a little over two weeks to go, I can't wait - but there's the small matter of the BRKC O-plate to get through first. A one off, weight-equalised race on a new circuit against a mix of the usual BRKC suspects and a mighty quick group of locals.
Fun times. Watch this space...
A moment frozen in time. Two metres wide of the kerb at turn 9, Daytona's fast left-hander - and under the helmet, sweat is suddenly cold on my forehead. The kart is near-sideways on the dusty, off-line tarmac, at the thick end of sixty miles an hour; I've got the steering wheel wrenched as far right as it will go, but the tyre walls loom.
Time speeds up; a squirt of throttle half-pushes the rear into line as the tyres kiss the grass - and the rear bumper thwacks the edge of the tyre wall, kicking the kart straight as we barrel past. I'm braking hard, trying not to lock up, trying to keep out of the catchment fences beyond the hairpin, twenty metres away.
Crisis averted. I negotiate the hairpin at a crawl, and breathe. Kart: undamaged. Body: undamaged. Underwear: mildly soiled, but serviceable. It's rare that I'm genuinely frightened in a kart, but that was, to quote Monty Halls, 'moderately close'.
After a dozen years and thousands of laps driving this circuit in 13 horsepower prokarts, I've moved up a gear. Daytona's 22 horsepower D-Max karts have been in situ for three years, and tonight is my long-overdue first taste of the two-stroke, high-revving machines. It's come not a moment too soon: in three weeks' time I will be racing a D-Max in the Daytona 24 Hours, as one-fifth of the Race Drivers Inc team. It's a dry, balmy Friday evening, and I have two hours of practice time. Early indications are that I'm going to need every second.
It might still have four wheels and a seat, but the D-Max is a completely different animal to the prokart. Virtually every detail is new to me: tyres, weight (20kg lighter according to the seat of my pants), wheelbase (several inches shorter according to my legs), and, of course, the power delivery. A prokart's power is delivered in a constant swell from idle to maximum; this two-stroke engine feels gutless at first press of the throttle pedal, but once the revs rise into the power band it's as if warp has engaged: the rear tyres will spin on a dry track, and the next corner is reeled towards you at breathtaking speed. It's very hard to be objective with one's backside this close to the Tarmac, but I'd guess that we're cresting the brow of the hill at around 70mph.
I spend five laps grinning stupidly and shouting "Wheee!" at every press of the right pedal, and then get down to the serious business of unlearning the circuit. My prokart-honed rhythm is all wrong; every corner arrives sooner and faster than I expect, and the circuit seems to have gained an extra two turns. Turn 1, so easily flat-out in a prokart that it serves only as a prelude to the fast chicane that follows, has morphed into a ragged-edge, wide-eyed thrill ride. Likewise the downhill kink before turn 9, which leads onto the back straight.
After fifteen laps, a lot of squealing rubber and the aforementioned brown trouser moment, I pit to have a look at the laptimes. I'm very slow - barely into the 1 minute 9 bracket. I've been faster around here in a prokart. It's disappointing, but the circuit is clearly having an off night: nobody's managed better than a mid 1.08. On a good day the karts are capable of 1.05s.
I'm joined tonight by Jack Stanley - former teammate and future Daytona 24 Hours captain. Jack has plenty of DMax experience and is full of useful tips. Our weights are virtually identical: karts and talent notwithstanding, I should be able to match him. After my first session, I'm 1.3 seconds slower. Not too bad, but there's work to be done.
Although the weather conditions are perfect, our on-track companions leave much to be desired. Over the next hour and a half, barely a minute passes without a hapless driver buried in the tyrewall; the attendant yellow warning flags mean I'm forced to abandon dozens of good laps. I know what you're thinking. Yes, racing drivers will always find something to moan about.
Still, in between the disruptions, I learn. I learn to be super-gentle on the brakes, to stop the rear wheels locking over the bumps into turns two and nine. Where a prokart is leaden-footed, the DMax is on tiptoes, quick to snap into oversteer; I learn to anticipate it, use its responsiveness. And I begin to learn to get back on the power before every apex, to stop the engine falling out of its narrow powerband.
After nearly seventy laps I set a best of 1.07.381. Jack has set the fastest time of the night, a 1.06.886. I'm less than half a second adrift, and still learning: I'm happy with that. After a lot of locked brakes and sweaty moments early on, I'm beginning to get comfortable and find the consistency I'll need.
Eleven days after a minor operation, I'm not at my physical best, but my body has stood up well. Better still, my hands are unblistered, courtesy of a new set of motocross-spec palm protectors. It's taken a significant mental effort to keep the DMax on track, though; more than ever, the Daytona 24 Hours is going to demand total focus.
With a little over two weeks to go, I can't wait - but there's the small matter of the BRKC O-plate to get through first. A one off, weight-equalised race on a new circuit against a mix of the usual BRKC suspects and a mighty quick group of locals.
Fun times. Watch this space...
Monday, 5 September 2011
British 24 Hours. Teesside, 26-28 August 2011 - part two
(Click here for part one)
Saturday 27 - Sunday 28 August
4.55pm. As I pass the pits I'm hardly looking at the track now. I'm searching the sea of colour trackside for a sign. Any sign telling me to pit. Finally I catch a glimpse of a familiar helmet, a beckoning hand. At last: Lee is suited up and raring to go. With renewed vigour, I do one more lap and peel off into the pitlane. Traffic in the fuel bay ahead clears as I arrive; I stop the engines, clamber out as the marshal begins to fill the tank.
Fatigue hits me like a sledgehammer and I stagger, grabbing hold of the steering wheel as the marshal finishes and ushers me forward. I have to push the kart fifty metres: around a 180 degree corner and along the pitlane to a tape set at shoulder height, beyond which the team waits. But it won't move. Fighting back panic as the seconds bleed away, I lean in, push with all of my fading strength, and coax it into a dribble of motion. Finally I make it to the tape, where my numbed hands slip off the wheel. Somebody shouts behind me, and there's a flurry of motion behind the now freewheeling kart. I stand upright. I have nothing left.
I have little memory of the hour that follows. When I come to, I'm sitting under the gazebo, back in my street clothes. Marianne feeds me tea. Alex feeds me information. From the outside, my stint wasn't nearly as disastrous as it felt. My laptimes weren't as quick as they should have been, but they were consistent. Amazingly, I made up a couple of places. We're solidly inside the top ten in our class, having started 13th. I'm frustrated with the way things have gone, but I haven't hurt the team effort as much as I thought. Having wanted nothing more than to go home in a sulk after getting out of the kart, I've pulled myself together and am able to contemplate my second stint in five hours' time.
On track, Lee is flying, lapping quicker than Alex and I despite being heavier; like all exceptional drivers, he makes it look easy. We're looking forward to seeing what Ben can do: he's the lightest of all and comes with a glittering CV.
As the end of Lee's stint nears, we're assembled in the pits again. So far all four drivers have taken part in each pitstop; we'll need a better solution overnight so that each of us can get some sleep. Lee comes in a little earlier than we were expecting. But aside from the left engine, again reluctant to fire, it's a clean stop. Helmet off, Lee reveals that the kart was virtually out of fuel: his combination of weight and speed means that he can't run the full two hours.
At six hours in, the team is settling into a routine. Marianne has been in charge of the stopwatches almost since the start, and has been taking her turn on the radio - keeping the driver on track informed of laptimes, position, and incidents on track. The rest of us alternate between time on the pitwall, filling our faces and resting our weary bones. Jo has kept us company in between taking care of little Eva, and now brings her down to the circuit to watch Daddy strut his stuff. As Ben blasts past to set our fastest lap of the race so far, Eva beams around at all of us, and giggles.
After a hearty dinner of chili con carne and chips, I film a video diary and retire to our tent to put my head down for an hour. My body is a little battered but basically sound, my ribs mercifully undamaged. At 10.30pm I emerge refreshed and ready to go, spirits undampened by the light rain. I'm a different person to the broken man of six hours ago: such is the way of endurance racing.
This pitstop includes a visit to the garage for scheduled maintenance, and involves the whole team. Having done sterling work on track in the wet, as always, Alex leaps out of the kart and helps Lee start it; I hop in for the short drive down the hill, where Ben and Jo are waiting. Ben helps me adjust my radio cables as the maintenance crew swing into action with spanners and oil; three minutes later the kart is refreshed. Ben and Alex start me up and off I go. I don't notice at the time, but Marianne is there too. She's off to one side, filming my departure.
From the outset, this stint is a world away from the first. With all of my gear adjusted and working as it should, and my ribs adequately shielded, I can at last focus on the driving and enjoy this incredible circuit. The rain has died off, but the circuit is damp to begin with; three laps into my stint I'm laughing out loud as I thread the kart through the Esses at sixty miles an hour with spray speckling my visor.
Marianne is on the radio urging me on; once the circuit has dried I'm lapping a second quicker than in my first stint, while most karts seem to be lapping slower. Having been overtaken left right and centre earlier, now I'm scything through the field. My day is made when I overtake kart no.1 - Team Banzai, Bradley's team. Brad isn't at the wheel, but it's a real coup given that their kart is a couple of seconds per lap faster than ours.
Despite strong padding my right knee is starting to take a beating from the steering column supports, as usual - but I don't want the stint to end. In fact I miss my first radio call to pit and come in a lap later. Again, sadly, my pitstop is a mess. I forget to detach my radio cable from the wheel and hop out. The result is similar to THAT scene from 'My Big Fat Greek Wedding'.
The marshal helps me out while still filling the tank and no time is lost - but my visor has somehow locked shut and steams up instantly, blinding me. I push the kart straight into a bollard, cursing as somebody helps me back it up. Navigating by guesswork, I roll it down the pitlane. The team receive it gratefully; once I get my visor up I'm hugely impressed to see Jo bent over the rear spraying lubricant onto the chain as Lee jumps in. For the second time, I can't get the left engine started and am beginning to get a complex about it - but later discover that it's recalcitrant for everyone. As Lee roars down the pitlane, the clock strikes 1am.
Half distance.
As the graveyard shift wears on and the drivers take turns to snatch a few hours' rest, the girls come into their own. With Eva tucked up in bed, Jo has been keeping Marianne company on the pitwall; in a race like this it's vital to watch the driver on track at all times. I stay with them until the end of Lee's stint, adding my own video diary to the two Marianne has filmed in the meantime.
By ten to three, Ben is awake and raring to go; we bring Lee in and send him on his way. There's a surreal sheen to everything now, as our body clocks fight the flood of adrenalin and caffeine, and the undiminished roar of the karts shuts out all other sound.
Again, Lee has put in an excellent stint, but it's taken its toll. Even allowing for the harsh lighting, he looks pale, but waves it off and joins us on the pitwall. We're now fifth in class; aside from a brief visit to the garage to fix a snapped throttle cable early on, the kart has run faultlessly. None of us has put a wheel wrong and we've all used our BRKC-honed overtaking skills to good effect in the traffic. Despite my troubles in the first stint, we're doing very well for a novice team. The podium is probably a dream too far, but it won't stop us trying.
I stay with Marianne until 3.40am, watching Ben set a string of ultra-fast laps, before heading off to bed. She watches over Ben alone until she's relieved by Alex and Lee, and finally crawls into bed at 5am. She's an absolute star, and I'm very proud of her.
I snap awake, snug in my sleeping bag, to find Marianne curled up next to me. It takes me a moment to realise what has awoken me: the circuit is silent. A chill strikes me. There's only one reason for all the karts to have stopped. A serious accident. I'm tempted to go and see. But I need sleep if I'm to avoid an accident of my own. Hoping it's not Ben, I drift off again. Later I'm to discover that the race was stopped for 40 minutes while the paramedics treated an injured driver.
6am. I crawl out of the tent into a chilly dawn, the sky like polished chrome. I feel as if I've done twelve rounds with a cement truck but my body reports that, although it doesn't appreciate all the abuse, it will stand up to one more stint in the kart.
I find Lee on the pitwall and grab a granola bar as we watch Alex tearing round. After a total of five hours in the kart, he'll be running on wits and adrenalin now, but there's no outward sign of it: he looks committed but controlled, as always. Lee tells me that we're a little behind schedule with the timing of our stops, because of his and Alex's added fuel consumption. My stint will have to be over two hours, perhaps as much as 2 hours 15 minutes. I nod, silence the complaints from various parts of my body, and hope I'll be able to hold on.
By the time Alex pits, I'm as ready as I'll ever be. Hoping to avoid the problems I had with my suit early on, I've wired the radio cable differently, running it through the groin zip of my suit instead of at the top. It's a tidy stop, and I'm soon rocketing down the pitlane. It's turning into a beautiful morning, perfect conditions for racing, and I'm feeling as good as I could reasonably expect.
Within two laps I'm aware of an ominous breeze around my armpits: sure enough, my suit has unzipped itself again. It's taken longer than last time, but is obviously not caused by the radio cable as I had thought. Sustained high speed and perished Velcro look to be the cause: time for a new set of overalls, methinks. I spend a few laps zipping it up and finally get the Velcro to stick. It stays in place for the rest of the stint.
The first forty minutes are a little fraught, what with the suit and a sudden desperate need to pee. But it stabilises; I'm driving quite well, and find myself passing swathes of tired drivers and ailing karts with relative ease. With the sun rising over the bottom end of the circuit, it's easier to mark time than in previous stints, and my spirits lift when I spot Marianne watching from the pitwall at around 8am.
Into my final hour, it's teeth-gritting time, as the repeated impacts on my right knee begin to break through the adrenalin. But after more than 200 laps I'm loving this circuit more than ever. With its huge scale and breathtaking high speed corners, it's a tremendous challenge. Somehow it seems right that the Belgian Grand Prix coincides with this race. Daytona Milton Keynes will always be home for me, but Teesside is my Spa.
I'm sure 9am is fast approaching, and the fuel is sloshing around in the bottom of the tank between my legs. Marianne is clearly visible on the pitwall, in her turquoise coat, and I'm waiting for her to raise our bright blue pitboard to call me in. The kart roars as healthily as ever, but I'm super-tuned for the slightest hint of a splutter. We're cutting it fine this time, as we have to. The fuel is running out, and so is my stamina.
At last! As I round the final corner, the bright blue circle is waving. I peel straight into the pitlane with a tiny pang of regret. But there's still work to do: I detach the radio cable, stop the engines, leap out, ready myself, heave the kart with all my might, push it around the hairpin, under the tape, and hand it over. Lee is in and gone. Third time lucky: I've managed a decent pitstop.
Alex is all smiles, full of praise - keeping my spirits high, as he has done since the beginning. We're fourth in class, the highest we have been all race. But I'm done, in more ways than one. The adrenalin drains like water from a bath, and my body starts to crash. Fuelled by a gallon of tea and a bacon buttie, I film our last in-race video diary, in which I utter the fateful words 'Anything can still happen...'
Lee's final pitstop goes like clockwork, and we're still fourth as we send Ben on his way for the final stint to the flag, a little over two hours away. Lee has clearly taken a beating, and looks grey and ill. We're concerned, but he waves it off, as usual, and runs to the toilet. A few minutes later he's back, much relieved, and clutching a burger and chips. What he'd thought he was a stomach bug turned out to be extreme hunger.
12.10pm. Marianne and I are in the briefing room watching the timing screens, when the green blob next to Team BRKC changes to a black square. I frown, ask the man next to me what it means.
'In the pits, I think.'
Through the window, I spot Alex running up the hill from the pits with a face like thunder.
Shit.
We run down to the garage. Ben is out of the kart, which is up on stands as the mechanics go to work. He reports that the chain on the right engine snapped, and has clearly done a superb job to get back to the pits under his own power. But soon it's clear that the problem is more serious: the driveshaft has sheared and a new engine is required. It takes ten very long minutes - phenomenally fast for such a big job - before rubber connects with tarmac again, and the engines are fired up. Ben rockets out onto the track and we trudge up to the briefing room to examine the damage to our race.
It's bleak: we've dropped from fourth in class to tenth. With just forty minutes to go, there's little hope of improvement. Alex is virtually in tears, but in our exhaustion, Lee and I are more philosophical. This sort of thing happens. There was nothing more we could have done. And crucially, we haven't lost a podium place because of it.
As 1pm approaches, everyone assembles by the track to cheer their men across the line. We clap and cheer as Ben takes the chequered flag - ninth, as it turned out - and I don't know about the others, but I go a little blurry as I hug my wife. We've all given everything we had, plus a little more, and we've brought the kart home safely. We've made the top ten, finished higher than we qualified, and all of us are in one piece.
We all stay for the presentation and catch up with friends in other teams. No fewer than four of the teams present contain some BRKC drivers, and two have made the podium: Bradley's team Banzai have won the club hire class, and Jack Stanley's team have finished second in our class. In seven weeks time, Jack will captain my team for the Daytona 24 Hours. I hope it's a good omen.
For now, it's time for Team BRKC to disband, and it's a sad moment. If they gave out medals for team spirit we'd have a motherlode, and everyone has worked incredibly hard on and off track to make the experience as memorable as it could be. Alex brought us together in the first place, and his boundless enthusiasm kept us together in the leadup to the race and throughout; Lee brought decades of experience, a van full of useful kit, and gave us our visual identity with his specially-produced stickers and team hoodies.
Ben very kindly stepped in at short notice when two other drivers had to drop out; along with his superb wheel skills he brought the radio gear which took our race to another level; his seemingly endless reserves of energy kept us going to the end. And of course, he brought Jo, who proved not only great company but very handy with a can of chain lube; and Eva, surely capable of melting the hardest of hearts.
And me? I tried my best not to do anything stupid on track, and put down some words and video as a record. And, of course, I brought Marianne, who took to her pitwall duties like a veteran.
It's been the toughest race of my life and as the dust settles, I'm sure that all our thoughts are turning to how we can do better. There are already plans for the BRKC to return to Teesside in 2012 - probably with more than one team.
I look forward to taking on the world's best over 24 hours again. 2011 was a learning year. Next time, we'll be prepared.
(Click here for part one)
Saturday 27 - Sunday 28 August
4.55pm. As I pass the pits I'm hardly looking at the track now. I'm searching the sea of colour trackside for a sign. Any sign telling me to pit. Finally I catch a glimpse of a familiar helmet, a beckoning hand. At last: Lee is suited up and raring to go. With renewed vigour, I do one more lap and peel off into the pitlane. Traffic in the fuel bay ahead clears as I arrive; I stop the engines, clamber out as the marshal begins to fill the tank.
Fatigue hits me like a sledgehammer and I stagger, grabbing hold of the steering wheel as the marshal finishes and ushers me forward. I have to push the kart fifty metres: around a 180 degree corner and along the pitlane to a tape set at shoulder height, beyond which the team waits. But it won't move. Fighting back panic as the seconds bleed away, I lean in, push with all of my fading strength, and coax it into a dribble of motion. Finally I make it to the tape, where my numbed hands slip off the wheel. Somebody shouts behind me, and there's a flurry of motion behind the now freewheeling kart. I stand upright. I have nothing left.
I have little memory of the hour that follows. When I come to, I'm sitting under the gazebo, back in my street clothes. Marianne feeds me tea. Alex feeds me information. From the outside, my stint wasn't nearly as disastrous as it felt. My laptimes weren't as quick as they should have been, but they were consistent. Amazingly, I made up a couple of places. We're solidly inside the top ten in our class, having started 13th. I'm frustrated with the way things have gone, but I haven't hurt the team effort as much as I thought. Having wanted nothing more than to go home in a sulk after getting out of the kart, I've pulled myself together and am able to contemplate my second stint in five hours' time.
On track, Lee is flying, lapping quicker than Alex and I despite being heavier; like all exceptional drivers, he makes it look easy. We're looking forward to seeing what Ben can do: he's the lightest of all and comes with a glittering CV.
As the end of Lee's stint nears, we're assembled in the pits again. So far all four drivers have taken part in each pitstop; we'll need a better solution overnight so that each of us can get some sleep. Lee comes in a little earlier than we were expecting. But aside from the left engine, again reluctant to fire, it's a clean stop. Helmet off, Lee reveals that the kart was virtually out of fuel: his combination of weight and speed means that he can't run the full two hours.
At six hours in, the team is settling into a routine. Marianne has been in charge of the stopwatches almost since the start, and has been taking her turn on the radio - keeping the driver on track informed of laptimes, position, and incidents on track. The rest of us alternate between time on the pitwall, filling our faces and resting our weary bones. Jo has kept us company in between taking care of little Eva, and now brings her down to the circuit to watch Daddy strut his stuff. As Ben blasts past to set our fastest lap of the race so far, Eva beams around at all of us, and giggles.
After a hearty dinner of chili con carne and chips, I film a video diary and retire to our tent to put my head down for an hour. My body is a little battered but basically sound, my ribs mercifully undamaged. At 10.30pm I emerge refreshed and ready to go, spirits undampened by the light rain. I'm a different person to the broken man of six hours ago: such is the way of endurance racing.
This pitstop includes a visit to the garage for scheduled maintenance, and involves the whole team. Having done sterling work on track in the wet, as always, Alex leaps out of the kart and helps Lee start it; I hop in for the short drive down the hill, where Ben and Jo are waiting. Ben helps me adjust my radio cables as the maintenance crew swing into action with spanners and oil; three minutes later the kart is refreshed. Ben and Alex start me up and off I go. I don't notice at the time, but Marianne is there too. She's off to one side, filming my departure.
From the outset, this stint is a world away from the first. With all of my gear adjusted and working as it should, and my ribs adequately shielded, I can at last focus on the driving and enjoy this incredible circuit. The rain has died off, but the circuit is damp to begin with; three laps into my stint I'm laughing out loud as I thread the kart through the Esses at sixty miles an hour with spray speckling my visor.
Marianne is on the radio urging me on; once the circuit has dried I'm lapping a second quicker than in my first stint, while most karts seem to be lapping slower. Having been overtaken left right and centre earlier, now I'm scything through the field. My day is made when I overtake kart no.1 - Team Banzai, Bradley's team. Brad isn't at the wheel, but it's a real coup given that their kart is a couple of seconds per lap faster than ours.
Despite strong padding my right knee is starting to take a beating from the steering column supports, as usual - but I don't want the stint to end. In fact I miss my first radio call to pit and come in a lap later. Again, sadly, my pitstop is a mess. I forget to detach my radio cable from the wheel and hop out. The result is similar to THAT scene from 'My Big Fat Greek Wedding'.
The marshal helps me out while still filling the tank and no time is lost - but my visor has somehow locked shut and steams up instantly, blinding me. I push the kart straight into a bollard, cursing as somebody helps me back it up. Navigating by guesswork, I roll it down the pitlane. The team receive it gratefully; once I get my visor up I'm hugely impressed to see Jo bent over the rear spraying lubricant onto the chain as Lee jumps in. For the second time, I can't get the left engine started and am beginning to get a complex about it - but later discover that it's recalcitrant for everyone. As Lee roars down the pitlane, the clock strikes 1am.
Half distance.
As the graveyard shift wears on and the drivers take turns to snatch a few hours' rest, the girls come into their own. With Eva tucked up in bed, Jo has been keeping Marianne company on the pitwall; in a race like this it's vital to watch the driver on track at all times. I stay with them until the end of Lee's stint, adding my own video diary to the two Marianne has filmed in the meantime.
By ten to three, Ben is awake and raring to go; we bring Lee in and send him on his way. There's a surreal sheen to everything now, as our body clocks fight the flood of adrenalin and caffeine, and the undiminished roar of the karts shuts out all other sound.
Again, Lee has put in an excellent stint, but it's taken its toll. Even allowing for the harsh lighting, he looks pale, but waves it off and joins us on the pitwall. We're now fifth in class; aside from a brief visit to the garage to fix a snapped throttle cable early on, the kart has run faultlessly. None of us has put a wheel wrong and we've all used our BRKC-honed overtaking skills to good effect in the traffic. Despite my troubles in the first stint, we're doing very well for a novice team. The podium is probably a dream too far, but it won't stop us trying.
I stay with Marianne until 3.40am, watching Ben set a string of ultra-fast laps, before heading off to bed. She watches over Ben alone until she's relieved by Alex and Lee, and finally crawls into bed at 5am. She's an absolute star, and I'm very proud of her.
I snap awake, snug in my sleeping bag, to find Marianne curled up next to me. It takes me a moment to realise what has awoken me: the circuit is silent. A chill strikes me. There's only one reason for all the karts to have stopped. A serious accident. I'm tempted to go and see. But I need sleep if I'm to avoid an accident of my own. Hoping it's not Ben, I drift off again. Later I'm to discover that the race was stopped for 40 minutes while the paramedics treated an injured driver.
6am. I crawl out of the tent into a chilly dawn, the sky like polished chrome. I feel as if I've done twelve rounds with a cement truck but my body reports that, although it doesn't appreciate all the abuse, it will stand up to one more stint in the kart.
I find Lee on the pitwall and grab a granola bar as we watch Alex tearing round. After a total of five hours in the kart, he'll be running on wits and adrenalin now, but there's no outward sign of it: he looks committed but controlled, as always. Lee tells me that we're a little behind schedule with the timing of our stops, because of his and Alex's added fuel consumption. My stint will have to be over two hours, perhaps as much as 2 hours 15 minutes. I nod, silence the complaints from various parts of my body, and hope I'll be able to hold on.
By the time Alex pits, I'm as ready as I'll ever be. Hoping to avoid the problems I had with my suit early on, I've wired the radio cable differently, running it through the groin zip of my suit instead of at the top. It's a tidy stop, and I'm soon rocketing down the pitlane. It's turning into a beautiful morning, perfect conditions for racing, and I'm feeling as good as I could reasonably expect.
Within two laps I'm aware of an ominous breeze around my armpits: sure enough, my suit has unzipped itself again. It's taken longer than last time, but is obviously not caused by the radio cable as I had thought. Sustained high speed and perished Velcro look to be the cause: time for a new set of overalls, methinks. I spend a few laps zipping it up and finally get the Velcro to stick. It stays in place for the rest of the stint.
The first forty minutes are a little fraught, what with the suit and a sudden desperate need to pee. But it stabilises; I'm driving quite well, and find myself passing swathes of tired drivers and ailing karts with relative ease. With the sun rising over the bottom end of the circuit, it's easier to mark time than in previous stints, and my spirits lift when I spot Marianne watching from the pitwall at around 8am.
Into my final hour, it's teeth-gritting time, as the repeated impacts on my right knee begin to break through the adrenalin. But after more than 200 laps I'm loving this circuit more than ever. With its huge scale and breathtaking high speed corners, it's a tremendous challenge. Somehow it seems right that the Belgian Grand Prix coincides with this race. Daytona Milton Keynes will always be home for me, but Teesside is my Spa.
I'm sure 9am is fast approaching, and the fuel is sloshing around in the bottom of the tank between my legs. Marianne is clearly visible on the pitwall, in her turquoise coat, and I'm waiting for her to raise our bright blue pitboard to call me in. The kart roars as healthily as ever, but I'm super-tuned for the slightest hint of a splutter. We're cutting it fine this time, as we have to. The fuel is running out, and so is my stamina.
At last! As I round the final corner, the bright blue circle is waving. I peel straight into the pitlane with a tiny pang of regret. But there's still work to do: I detach the radio cable, stop the engines, leap out, ready myself, heave the kart with all my might, push it around the hairpin, under the tape, and hand it over. Lee is in and gone. Third time lucky: I've managed a decent pitstop.
Alex is all smiles, full of praise - keeping my spirits high, as he has done since the beginning. We're fourth in class, the highest we have been all race. But I'm done, in more ways than one. The adrenalin drains like water from a bath, and my body starts to crash. Fuelled by a gallon of tea and a bacon buttie, I film our last in-race video diary, in which I utter the fateful words 'Anything can still happen...'
Lee's final pitstop goes like clockwork, and we're still fourth as we send Ben on his way for the final stint to the flag, a little over two hours away. Lee has clearly taken a beating, and looks grey and ill. We're concerned, but he waves it off, as usual, and runs to the toilet. A few minutes later he's back, much relieved, and clutching a burger and chips. What he'd thought he was a stomach bug turned out to be extreme hunger.
12.10pm. Marianne and I are in the briefing room watching the timing screens, when the green blob next to Team BRKC changes to a black square. I frown, ask the man next to me what it means.
'In the pits, I think.'
Through the window, I spot Alex running up the hill from the pits with a face like thunder.
Shit.
We run down to the garage. Ben is out of the kart, which is up on stands as the mechanics go to work. He reports that the chain on the right engine snapped, and has clearly done a superb job to get back to the pits under his own power. But soon it's clear that the problem is more serious: the driveshaft has sheared and a new engine is required. It takes ten very long minutes - phenomenally fast for such a big job - before rubber connects with tarmac again, and the engines are fired up. Ben rockets out onto the track and we trudge up to the briefing room to examine the damage to our race.
It's bleak: we've dropped from fourth in class to tenth. With just forty minutes to go, there's little hope of improvement. Alex is virtually in tears, but in our exhaustion, Lee and I are more philosophical. This sort of thing happens. There was nothing more we could have done. And crucially, we haven't lost a podium place because of it.
As 1pm approaches, everyone assembles by the track to cheer their men across the line. We clap and cheer as Ben takes the chequered flag - ninth, as it turned out - and I don't know about the others, but I go a little blurry as I hug my wife. We've all given everything we had, plus a little more, and we've brought the kart home safely. We've made the top ten, finished higher than we qualified, and all of us are in one piece.
We all stay for the presentation and catch up with friends in other teams. No fewer than four of the teams present contain some BRKC drivers, and two have made the podium: Bradley's team Banzai have won the club hire class, and Jack Stanley's team have finished second in our class. In seven weeks time, Jack will captain my team for the Daytona 24 Hours. I hope it's a good omen.
For now, it's time for Team BRKC to disband, and it's a sad moment. If they gave out medals for team spirit we'd have a motherlode, and everyone has worked incredibly hard on and off track to make the experience as memorable as it could be. Alex brought us together in the first place, and his boundless enthusiasm kept us together in the leadup to the race and throughout; Lee brought decades of experience, a van full of useful kit, and gave us our visual identity with his specially-produced stickers and team hoodies.
Ben very kindly stepped in at short notice when two other drivers had to drop out; along with his superb wheel skills he brought the radio gear which took our race to another level; his seemingly endless reserves of energy kept us going to the end. And of course, he brought Jo, who proved not only great company but very handy with a can of chain lube; and Eva, surely capable of melting the hardest of hearts.
And me? I tried my best not to do anything stupid on track, and put down some words and video as a record. And, of course, I brought Marianne, who took to her pitwall duties like a veteran.
It's been the toughest race of my life and as the dust settles, I'm sure that all our thoughts are turning to how we can do better. There are already plans for the BRKC to return to Teesside in 2012 - probably with more than one team.
I look forward to taking on the world's best over 24 hours again. 2011 was a learning year. Next time, we'll be prepared.
(Click here for part one)
Thursday, 1 September 2011
British 24 Hours. Teesside, 26-28 August 2011 - part one
(Click here for part two)
Friday 26 August
Seated on the bench beside me is a two-year old called Eva. She's beaming up at me and waving. Despite myself, I beam and wave back. My enthusiasm for other people's children is generally held well in check, but this little girl is adorable.
I had many predictions for how the biggest race weekend of my life might begin, but this wasn't one of them.
Team BRKC Corporate Chauffeurs has assembled at the Beefeater beside our hotel in Middlesbrough for a pre-race dinner. Four of us will be driving: myself, Alex Vangeen (our captain), Lee Jones and Benjamin Greene. All of us are British Rental Kart Championship regulars except Ben, who has kindly stepped in at short notice.
Joining us are my wife Marianne, Ben's girlfriend Jo, and the aforementioned Eva. The latter two are an unexpected and welcome addition; as we're to discover, all three will play an important part in the trial to come.
For as we enjoy a fine meal, get to know each other and take turns entertaining Eva, none of us are under any illusions about the scale of the task that faces us. The British 24 Hours will feature 76 teams from all over the world, in three different classes. Ben and I have yet to drive the circuit, but Alex and Lee have practiced today; we've all seen enough to know that the competition, the track and the weather will make huge demands of us in the next day and a half.
We part at 10pm and attempt to get an early night. But despite an excellent Premier Inn bed, sleep comes fitfully for me. I rarely sleep properly the night before a big race; across Teesside I imagine 400 other drivers having the same problem...
Saturday 27 August
Race day dawns clear but quickly clouds over. By the time we reach the circuit at 8am, rain is already threatening. With five hours until the start, mayhem reigns: the car parks are full, and the tarmac areas behind the pits and paddock buildings are crammed with motorhomes and awnings. Karts are everywhere - on stands, in pieces, swarmed over by mechanics as drivers munch bacon butties and discuss strategy. These are the owner teams which make up half of the entry. They take up most of the space, and I feel a touch out of my depth as we trudge between them.
But we soon find Alex and the others and set up our base under the trackside gazebo which we erected yesterday. Marianne goes off to check that our tent is still in place; the four drivers assemble around our kart, which stands amongst 35 others outside the maintenance garages. We've been allocated number 89; I can't think of any significance in the number, but hope it proves lucky.
Ben and Lee are old hands at this; Lee busies himself attaching team stickers (which he had produced himself) to the kart's bargeboards, while Ben shows us the nifty radio systems which he's wired into each of our helmets.
Mindful of the fact that my skinny backside requires a seat insert to stop the kart from beating me to a pulp, I wander off to find one. And dodge the first bullet of the weekend: at barely 8:30am on race day, they've already run out. The stores manager remembers that there's a reject one with a split knocking about, and offers to show me. I'm awash with relief: the split is small, and the insert will do.
The race briefing is at 8.30am. It's friendly and perfunctory: the organisers assume that we wouldn't be here if we didn't know what we were doing. We're asked to keep it clean, to respect the other classes on track. Our hire class is the slowest, around five seconds per lap slower than the owner karts: we'll need to be vigilant on track.
After the requisite bacon buttie breakfast, Marianne and I film the first of the weekend's video diaries. Having tested the circuit's wifi and found it wanting, I've already decided not to attempt uploading videos on the fly, as I had planned. Perhaps it's just as well: we'll have enough to think about.
For now, it's time to think about learning the track. At 10am, seventy-six twin-engined karts roar into life, and Alex takes no. 89 out to turn the first wheels in anger for team BRKC. It's a big moment - we've all made quite a journey to be here, on several levels - but there's little time to think about it. I focus on preparing for my turn, acclimatising to the radio gear fitted to my helmet. I'll have half an hour to learn the longest, fastest kart circuit in the world - and it's wet.
Alex comes in and vacates the kart and as usual, the butterflies disappear as I make myself comfortable. Even before I've left the pitlane I can tell that the kart is a peach - it pulls strongly, steers accurately, responds precisely to my throttle and brake inputs. Even on slick tyres on a wet surface, it generates remarkable grip and traction. That's partly due to the circuit - rain is hardly uncommon in this part of the world, and the tarmac has been laid accordingly. Watching practice yesterday, I was astonished at the cornering speeds.
The rain has stopped, but the circuit is still wet; I do around twenty laps and set a best of 1 minute 29 seconds - around eight seconds away from a normal dry time. The circuit is nothing short of magnificent - eye-poppingly fast, with huge sweeping corners, a tricky uphill left-hander and a white-knuckle ride through the Esses: a tarmac snake between treacherous razor-toothed kerbs. Scream if you want to go faster...
By the time Lee and Ben have practiced, the circuit is bone dry. We pit to have the kart refueled, and Alex takes it out again for the last few minutes to try the dry conditions and set a qualifying time. We qualify 13th in class and 52nd overall - fairly mediocre, but qualifying isn't especially important in a race like this. At midday the circuit falls silent for the last time until lunchtime on Sunday; we film another video diary as the karts form up on the grid, discuss strategy and try in vain to relax.
Alex has elected to start the race; I will take the second stint, followed by Lee and Ben. We plan to rotate in that order until the end, running two hour stints - the limit of the kart's fuel range. It's simple - in theory - and minimises the time spent in the pits.
At five to one the engines are started and Alex takes his place with the other drivers on the far side of the track, opposite the karts which are lined up side by side. It's an old-school Le Mans start - when the Union Jack is waved, the drivers will run across, jump in the karts and go. Each team is allowed one person to push the kart away; Lee asks if I want to do it. But I suspect that his added muscle and racing nous is tailor made for times like these, and rejoin the others behind the barrier.
As the one minute sign is shown, our nerves are at snapping point, everyone watching the start marshal who stands behind the grid, flag furled. In the blink of an eye it raises, drops, and five hundred voices drown out the engines as we cheer our men across to the karts. Lee blips the throttles, the kart already moving before Alex swings neatly into the seat. It's a sublime start, everyone else moving in slow motion as kart 89 is off and away. Once the mayhem of the start dies down, we lie 42nd, having made up ten places. Brilliant!
An hour later we stand openmouthed and dry throated by the barrier. On the circuit, the red flags are out; a kart is upended over the barriers on the infield, both engines aflame with the driver trapped underneath. The marshals are there in seconds and two drivers stop to help. The flames are doused, the driver extricated as the ambulance arrives on the scene. It's a frightening sight, as for many minutes the two paramedics work on the driver, out of sight on the grass beyond the barrier. But eventually he's up, waving shakily as he's escorted into the ambulance, and we cheer in relief. As the race is restarted, the mood lightens, but we're reminded that this is no cakewalk. There are real dangers out there on the track, and there are still 22 and a half hours to go.
At five to three I put my helmet on, and the talking stops. All of the baggage that comes with endurance racing - the travelling, the fretting, the logistics - all of it falls away to leave the core. This, ultimately, is why we do it: we're addicted to making a racing machine go as fast as it can. A simple pleasure, but a fiendishly complex craft.
The outside world begins to recede as I wait patiently in the pitlane, movement a blur around me. Ben checks my radio cables again. Alex is on his way in; with seconds to go the butterflies are long gone. The pitstop is crucial, but as the driver, my role is the simplest: jump in and go. Alex enters the empty fuel bay, leaps out, waits as the marshal fills the tank, then pushes the kart around to the pitlane exit where we wait. This is the rule here: the driver must push the kart alone.
I throw my seat insert onto the seat and leap in; Ben velcros my push-to-talk button to the steering wheel. Behind me, Lee and Alex are spraying lubrication oil onto both drive chains. A brief delay as the left engine refuses to fire, then it roars into life and I'm away, accelerating hard down the pitlane, onto the circuit.
It's completely dry now, conditions I've not yet experienced, and I'm expecting to take a lap or two to come up to speed. But before those two laps are out, several problems begin to rear their ugly heads. I've elected to wear earplugs, which instantly proves a costly mistake. In the pitlane, standing still, I could clearly hear the radio through them; on track, through the roar of the engines, I can't hear a thing. Worse, the earplugs aren't up to the task: the seal breaks with every vibration, setting up a deafening oscillation that muddies my focus and gives me a headache.
Within a lap I'm beginning to feel extra breeze around my armpits; looking down, I'm aghast to find that my suit has unzipped itself almost to my navel and is flapping madly in the wind. There's a risk I could be black-flagged for safety reasons and I battle to zip it up with my gloved hands. It's an old suit and some of the velcro has perished; the combination of wind and the weight of the radio cable is pulling the zip down. Eventually I unfasten the radio cable from the wheel and tuck it inside. But the zip refuses to stay put, and I'm forced to yank it up twice per lap.
At the bottom of the hill after the pits is a fast right hander which requires balls of titanium. Turn in as fast as you dare, hang on and pray. At the exit there is no kerb or conventional runoff, just an expanse of mudflat: go off at speed here and the consequences could be disastrous.
From the outset it's my nemesis: there's a bump beyond the kerb which bounces all four wheels off the ground. My backside lifts an inch out of the seat, my feet leave the pedals - and as I reconnect, there's a crunching in my left side, accompanied by enough pain to shoot stars across my field of view. My rib protector is set at its usual position - but I realise it's too low for this circuit. No way I could have known in advance, and no means of doing anything about it.
A familiar red and white helmet flashes past as if I'm standing still, the driver lifting his hand in recognition. Bradley Philpot, BRKC founder. I know I must be slow, but his speed adds depression to my list of woes. It's many laps before I remember that he's in a different class of faster karts. Nevertheless, the World and his wife seem to be whistling past me; it feels as if I'm going backwards.
As the stint from hell grinds on through a haze of pain and growing exhaustion, I'm dimly aware of the sun breaking through and bathing the circuit in afternoon sunshine. As the laps reel off it seems to sink lower, and I begin to fret about the pitstop. We have a pit board as a backup signal if the radios fail. I've seen no sign of it, and worry that I'm looking in the wrong place. At speed, with a fast chicane to negotiate in front of the pits, it's difficult to pick out our gazebo amongs the row of greens, whites and blues. Not looking where I'm going, I miss my turn in point for the fast chicane and gather up a heart-in-mouth moment, swearing.
All I want is for it to end...
(Click here for part two)
Friday 26 August
Seated on the bench beside me is a two-year old called Eva. She's beaming up at me and waving. Despite myself, I beam and wave back. My enthusiasm for other people's children is generally held well in check, but this little girl is adorable.
I had many predictions for how the biggest race weekend of my life might begin, but this wasn't one of them.
Team BRKC Corporate Chauffeurs has assembled at the Beefeater beside our hotel in Middlesbrough for a pre-race dinner. Four of us will be driving: myself, Alex Vangeen (our captain), Lee Jones and Benjamin Greene. All of us are British Rental Kart Championship regulars except Ben, who has kindly stepped in at short notice.
Joining us are my wife Marianne, Ben's girlfriend Jo, and the aforementioned Eva. The latter two are an unexpected and welcome addition; as we're to discover, all three will play an important part in the trial to come.
For as we enjoy a fine meal, get to know each other and take turns entertaining Eva, none of us are under any illusions about the scale of the task that faces us. The British 24 Hours will feature 76 teams from all over the world, in three different classes. Ben and I have yet to drive the circuit, but Alex and Lee have practiced today; we've all seen enough to know that the competition, the track and the weather will make huge demands of us in the next day and a half.
We part at 10pm and attempt to get an early night. But despite an excellent Premier Inn bed, sleep comes fitfully for me. I rarely sleep properly the night before a big race; across Teesside I imagine 400 other drivers having the same problem...
Saturday 27 August
Race day dawns clear but quickly clouds over. By the time we reach the circuit at 8am, rain is already threatening. With five hours until the start, mayhem reigns: the car parks are full, and the tarmac areas behind the pits and paddock buildings are crammed with motorhomes and awnings. Karts are everywhere - on stands, in pieces, swarmed over by mechanics as drivers munch bacon butties and discuss strategy. These are the owner teams which make up half of the entry. They take up most of the space, and I feel a touch out of my depth as we trudge between them.
But we soon find Alex and the others and set up our base under the trackside gazebo which we erected yesterday. Marianne goes off to check that our tent is still in place; the four drivers assemble around our kart, which stands amongst 35 others outside the maintenance garages. We've been allocated number 89; I can't think of any significance in the number, but hope it proves lucky.
Ben and Lee are old hands at this; Lee busies himself attaching team stickers (which he had produced himself) to the kart's bargeboards, while Ben shows us the nifty radio systems which he's wired into each of our helmets.
Mindful of the fact that my skinny backside requires a seat insert to stop the kart from beating me to a pulp, I wander off to find one. And dodge the first bullet of the weekend: at barely 8:30am on race day, they've already run out. The stores manager remembers that there's a reject one with a split knocking about, and offers to show me. I'm awash with relief: the split is small, and the insert will do.
The race briefing is at 8.30am. It's friendly and perfunctory: the organisers assume that we wouldn't be here if we didn't know what we were doing. We're asked to keep it clean, to respect the other classes on track. Our hire class is the slowest, around five seconds per lap slower than the owner karts: we'll need to be vigilant on track.
After the requisite bacon buttie breakfast, Marianne and I film the first of the weekend's video diaries. Having tested the circuit's wifi and found it wanting, I've already decided not to attempt uploading videos on the fly, as I had planned. Perhaps it's just as well: we'll have enough to think about.
For now, it's time to think about learning the track. At 10am, seventy-six twin-engined karts roar into life, and Alex takes no. 89 out to turn the first wheels in anger for team BRKC. It's a big moment - we've all made quite a journey to be here, on several levels - but there's little time to think about it. I focus on preparing for my turn, acclimatising to the radio gear fitted to my helmet. I'll have half an hour to learn the longest, fastest kart circuit in the world - and it's wet.
Alex comes in and vacates the kart and as usual, the butterflies disappear as I make myself comfortable. Even before I've left the pitlane I can tell that the kart is a peach - it pulls strongly, steers accurately, responds precisely to my throttle and brake inputs. Even on slick tyres on a wet surface, it generates remarkable grip and traction. That's partly due to the circuit - rain is hardly uncommon in this part of the world, and the tarmac has been laid accordingly. Watching practice yesterday, I was astonished at the cornering speeds.
The rain has stopped, but the circuit is still wet; I do around twenty laps and set a best of 1 minute 29 seconds - around eight seconds away from a normal dry time. The circuit is nothing short of magnificent - eye-poppingly fast, with huge sweeping corners, a tricky uphill left-hander and a white-knuckle ride through the Esses: a tarmac snake between treacherous razor-toothed kerbs. Scream if you want to go faster...
By the time Lee and Ben have practiced, the circuit is bone dry. We pit to have the kart refueled, and Alex takes it out again for the last few minutes to try the dry conditions and set a qualifying time. We qualify 13th in class and 52nd overall - fairly mediocre, but qualifying isn't especially important in a race like this. At midday the circuit falls silent for the last time until lunchtime on Sunday; we film another video diary as the karts form up on the grid, discuss strategy and try in vain to relax.
Alex has elected to start the race; I will take the second stint, followed by Lee and Ben. We plan to rotate in that order until the end, running two hour stints - the limit of the kart's fuel range. It's simple - in theory - and minimises the time spent in the pits.
At five to one the engines are started and Alex takes his place with the other drivers on the far side of the track, opposite the karts which are lined up side by side. It's an old-school Le Mans start - when the Union Jack is waved, the drivers will run across, jump in the karts and go. Each team is allowed one person to push the kart away; Lee asks if I want to do it. But I suspect that his added muscle and racing nous is tailor made for times like these, and rejoin the others behind the barrier.
As the one minute sign is shown, our nerves are at snapping point, everyone watching the start marshal who stands behind the grid, flag furled. In the blink of an eye it raises, drops, and five hundred voices drown out the engines as we cheer our men across to the karts. Lee blips the throttles, the kart already moving before Alex swings neatly into the seat. It's a sublime start, everyone else moving in slow motion as kart 89 is off and away. Once the mayhem of the start dies down, we lie 42nd, having made up ten places. Brilliant!
An hour later we stand openmouthed and dry throated by the barrier. On the circuit, the red flags are out; a kart is upended over the barriers on the infield, both engines aflame with the driver trapped underneath. The marshals are there in seconds and two drivers stop to help. The flames are doused, the driver extricated as the ambulance arrives on the scene. It's a frightening sight, as for many minutes the two paramedics work on the driver, out of sight on the grass beyond the barrier. But eventually he's up, waving shakily as he's escorted into the ambulance, and we cheer in relief. As the race is restarted, the mood lightens, but we're reminded that this is no cakewalk. There are real dangers out there on the track, and there are still 22 and a half hours to go.
At five to three I put my helmet on, and the talking stops. All of the baggage that comes with endurance racing - the travelling, the fretting, the logistics - all of it falls away to leave the core. This, ultimately, is why we do it: we're addicted to making a racing machine go as fast as it can. A simple pleasure, but a fiendishly complex craft.
The outside world begins to recede as I wait patiently in the pitlane, movement a blur around me. Ben checks my radio cables again. Alex is on his way in; with seconds to go the butterflies are long gone. The pitstop is crucial, but as the driver, my role is the simplest: jump in and go. Alex enters the empty fuel bay, leaps out, waits as the marshal fills the tank, then pushes the kart around to the pitlane exit where we wait. This is the rule here: the driver must push the kart alone.
I throw my seat insert onto the seat and leap in; Ben velcros my push-to-talk button to the steering wheel. Behind me, Lee and Alex are spraying lubrication oil onto both drive chains. A brief delay as the left engine refuses to fire, then it roars into life and I'm away, accelerating hard down the pitlane, onto the circuit.
It's completely dry now, conditions I've not yet experienced, and I'm expecting to take a lap or two to come up to speed. But before those two laps are out, several problems begin to rear their ugly heads. I've elected to wear earplugs, which instantly proves a costly mistake. In the pitlane, standing still, I could clearly hear the radio through them; on track, through the roar of the engines, I can't hear a thing. Worse, the earplugs aren't up to the task: the seal breaks with every vibration, setting up a deafening oscillation that muddies my focus and gives me a headache.
Within a lap I'm beginning to feel extra breeze around my armpits; looking down, I'm aghast to find that my suit has unzipped itself almost to my navel and is flapping madly in the wind. There's a risk I could be black-flagged for safety reasons and I battle to zip it up with my gloved hands. It's an old suit and some of the velcro has perished; the combination of wind and the weight of the radio cable is pulling the zip down. Eventually I unfasten the radio cable from the wheel and tuck it inside. But the zip refuses to stay put, and I'm forced to yank it up twice per lap.
At the bottom of the hill after the pits is a fast right hander which requires balls of titanium. Turn in as fast as you dare, hang on and pray. At the exit there is no kerb or conventional runoff, just an expanse of mudflat: go off at speed here and the consequences could be disastrous.
From the outset it's my nemesis: there's a bump beyond the kerb which bounces all four wheels off the ground. My backside lifts an inch out of the seat, my feet leave the pedals - and as I reconnect, there's a crunching in my left side, accompanied by enough pain to shoot stars across my field of view. My rib protector is set at its usual position - but I realise it's too low for this circuit. No way I could have known in advance, and no means of doing anything about it.
A familiar red and white helmet flashes past as if I'm standing still, the driver lifting his hand in recognition. Bradley Philpot, BRKC founder. I know I must be slow, but his speed adds depression to my list of woes. It's many laps before I remember that he's in a different class of faster karts. Nevertheless, the World and his wife seem to be whistling past me; it feels as if I'm going backwards.
As the stint from hell grinds on through a haze of pain and growing exhaustion, I'm dimly aware of the sun breaking through and bathing the circuit in afternoon sunshine. As the laps reel off it seems to sink lower, and I begin to fret about the pitstop. We have a pit board as a backup signal if the radios fail. I've seen no sign of it, and worry that I'm looking in the wrong place. At speed, with a fast chicane to negotiate in front of the pits, it's difficult to pick out our gazebo amongs the row of greens, whites and blues. Not looking where I'm going, I miss my turn in point for the fast chicane and gather up a heart-in-mouth moment, swearing.
All I want is for it to end...
(Click here for part two)
Sunday, 7 August 2011
Thruxton. 31 July 2011
"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...
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...
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.
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