British 24 Hours, Teesside. Part 1

(Click here for part 2)

Friday 24 August

It begins...

A 65mph breeze tugs at the shoulder vents of my race suit, flaps an exposed length of radio cable against my neck. At the back of my mind, the tiny voice of self-preservation is reminding me to breathe. Ahead, the circuit slopes slightly downhill and snakes into the Esses, where I must pick the straightest line between jutting razor-toothed kerbs. Any more than a kiss of tyre on concrete will launch the kart - and me - skywards. Right, left, right; tiny movements on the steering wheel, resisting the growing urge to lift off the throttle... watch for the final kerb, which juts out further than the others. Jinking right, the kart skittering but holding... straighten up for the left-hand hairpin. No more than a dab of brake to shed 20mph or so, then sweep left, aiming for a point just beyond the apex, letting the rear wheels slide just a little as the speed bleeds away. Then back on the power for the right hander that immediately follows, trying not to slide or lift as we kiss the kerb and rocket out onto the back straight.

The familiar voice of Alex Vangeen, team captain, crackles in my headset.
"How's it looking out there?"
The breeze is back, flapping at my sleeves as I turn into the banked right hander at the bottom of the circuit. The grin threatens to split my brand-new helmet as I press the Push To Talk button on the steering wheel.
"Damn, it's good to be back..."

It's 2pm on Friday, 22 hours before the start of the biggest race on the calendar, and there's nowhere I'd rather be. After a rather fraught build-up - which included a last-minute driver substitution - the Corporate Chauffeurs BRKC team is all present and correct. Lewis Tindall, who sadly had to drop out due to injury, is here in spirit: we've used his enormous 6 by 3 metre awning to make the Teesside paddock our home.

The other drivers - Alex Vangeen, Lee Jones and supersub Stuart McKay - are preparing for their practice runs in an hour's time, and the all-important support crew - my wife Marianne and Alex's fiancé Lauren - are busying themselves setting up the camping gas stove, food, table and chairs... and learning how to use the radio gear. Almost a full day before we turn a wheel in anger, and we're already operating as a unit. Individually and collectively, we've prepared for this weekend down to the last detail, and it shows.

I peel into the pits after 40 laps, reasonably satisfied. The weather has stayed dry - not ideal, with rain forecast for the rest of the weekend - but I'm confident on track, with good rhythm through the flowing sequences of high-speed corners. There's work to do before I'm fully comfortable in the kart, though: after the beating I took last year I've added an extra layer of foam to my rib protector. Together with my seat insert it makes for a very tight fit, which is pinching me in right handers. As Alex and Lee take to the track, Marianne gets out the scissors and helps me cut away some of the foam over my left hip.

Alex has hired specialised radio gear for the weekend, which is a huge improvement over the makeshift kit we used last year. The pitwall has a proper noise-cancelling headset, and although everyone has to speak clearly and loudly, we can all hear each other after a little practice. As we're to discover, the radios will play a huge part in the outcome of our weekend. Lewis has also lent us his pitboard, but after a couple of attempts we abandon it: our awning sits right in front of the fast chicane, and the drivers are too busy hanging on for dear life to look at it.

By 4pm we've wrapped for the day, and it's been an excellent start; spirits are high as we congregate in the Beefeater beside our Premier Inn for dinner. We're joined by perennial British 24 Hour racer - and sometime BRKC driver - Andrew Bayliss, who will be competing for one of the Club Hire teams this weekend. He is, as ever, excellent company; although the food has gone downhill since we ate here last year, a pleasant evening is had by all. We're a little concerned about Lauren, though. She's all smiles as usual, but is suffering from a suspected case of shingles and is in some discomfort. I hope she's better tomorrow.

We part at 9pm with plans to meet at the circuit before 8am. The race starts at midday, an hour earlier than last year, and the morning will be more rushed than usual. I expect sleep to come fitfully, but am tired after a long day, and last's year's pre-race butterflies simply aren't there. I'm hugely excited about tomorrow, but I'm not nervous.

We're ready. What will be, will be.

Saturday 25 August

Raceday dawns cloudy and damp, as expected. By 8am we're all at the circuit; tea and porridge oats are brewing on the stove. Our kart, number 24, sits with the others on the infield; I take my seat insert across to double-check that it fits. It does. The kart looks neat and tidy with its yellow flashes in the sidepods, brand-new tyres on all four corners. Both engines start easily, and I familiarise myself with the throttle levers and the holes for chain lubrication: I'll need to find them in a hurry in the dark during pitstops later on.

We assemble for the briefing at 8.30am as rain begins to fall; race director Bob Pope and his team run through the usual details plus a couple of rule clarifications - and at last, the butterflies start to flutter. Finally, after months of preparation, it's about to get real.

At 9am, the engines begin to clatter into life. We've elected to do minimal running in practice to save the kart as much as possible. Each of us plans to do a few laps to find our feet in the wet, and leave it at that. Lee starts us off - with his huge experience he's best placed to check that everything is working - after fifteen minutes or so, he pits and I take over. In ten laps I'm reminded of the considerable grip this circuit generates in the wet. Having rediscovered the wet line and found the groove I pit and hand over to Stuart. He proceeds to set our fastest lap of the session - a low 1.39 - but the sinking feeling has set in.

We're around three seconds shy of the lead pace: our kart clearly has a problem. It's masked by the wet weather, but we're short of straight line speed. Lee pits on three separate occasions during his second run - once to cure a sticking brake, twice to have the throttle cables adjusted. With both engines firing in sync, and the brakes working properly, the kart is better - but the changes don't give us the injection of speed we need.

By the end of qualifying we're 13th in class - exactly where we qualified last year - out of 21. The weather has worsened during the second half of the session, and Stuart's lap stands as our best. The kart still feels slow, but the mechanics can't find any more problems. We'll have to start the race as we are and hope for the best. Despite the issues we're optimistic as the start approaches. It's the longest race of all, and there's everything to play for. We show Marianne and Lauren the ins and outs of throttles and chain lubrication, and I film a video diary as the karts form up for the Le Mans style start. Just like last year, the drivers will run across the circuit to their waiting karts. And just like last year, Alex will do the honours assisted by Lee.

At five to twelve we clear the circuit and wait anxiously behind the barrier, fingers crossed. Five hundred pairs of eyes are trained on the start marshal, who stands with Union Jack furled on the circuit infield. He counts down the minutes with raised fingers. Midday comes and goes by my watch, the final minute stretching interminably... then the flag is up, held for five long seconds, and dropped. We cheer Alex across the track, Lee blips the throttles as he slides into the seat... and all 67 karts are away. It's not the lightning start we managed last year, but it's clean. The circuit goes silent for a moment, as the field disappears down the hill. When it reappears, streaming into the Esses for the first of a thousand or more passes, Alex is unscathed. We breathe.

But he's on the radio within minutes, complaining of a serious lack of straight line speed. The circuit is drying, the laptimes dropping... and we're a full four seconds away from the leading pace. There's no point in pitting - we'll lose more time off track than on it - so it's a case of damage limitation. As a driver, there are few more frustrating experiences than driving your heart out while being passed left and right. We do what we can to keep Alex focused and motivated, counting the minutes until our first scheduled pitstop.

At 1.45 pm we're waiting at the garage, having forewarned the mechanics that kart 24 is coming in. Alex refuels and drives the kart straight down the hill; the mechanics lift it onto a stand and go to work. It takes three minutes for the head mechanic to diagnose a sticking valve on the left engine, and a further twelve to change it. Stuart is suited up and ready to go; we send him on his way and trudge back up the hill to assess the damage.

The timing system has been upgraded this year, with a nifty iPhone app to supplement the timing screens. Lauren has been monitoring it since the beginning, and it tells a dire story. We're dead last, 16 laps behind the leaders in our class. But with two fully functional engines, Stuart is lapping much closer to the leading pace. He's still a second or so slower, but is catching the teams in front of us hand over fist; our spirits are lifted.

As Alex rehydrates and posts a despondent Facebook update about our plight, I get changed into my overalls, wolf a handful of nuts and prepare for my stint at 4pm. As the lightest member of the team, my stints are the longest; the first is planned to be around two hours and ten minutes. As always, I face a challenge to balance my hydration; a last minute toilet stop makes me late to the pitlane.

But the others are ready, and I've plenty of time as Stuart coasts into the fuel bay - then notice that in the rush, I've forgotten my elbow pads. They're not essential, but are nice to have; Marianne runs back to the awning, and returns with seconds to spare. She helps me slide them on as Stuart appears, having started the engines himself. Lee and Alex run forward with cans of chain lube at the ready... and I'm struck cold.

I've left my my seat insert behind.

It's a hundred metres away under the awning, no time to fetch it... but as I jump into the kart and velcro my radio button onto the steering wheel, the shock is passing. Our race kart's seat isn't the armchair-sized item we encounter on some rental karts - in fact, with my seat insert, rib protector and extra foam in place it was an uncomfortably tight fit in practice. I'll slide around a little, but the Ribtec and foam will protect me from the worst. It's not a disaster.

The pitstop is clean and in moments I'm blasting out into the fray, straight into a melee of karts in three separate classes. I take a couple of laps to find the sweet spot of a kart I've never driven in the dry - and on my second flying lap, make my only mistake of the weekend. Chasing one of the faster Club Hire karts through the banked corner at the bottom of the circuit, I'm caught out when he brakes at least five metres too early for the tightening right hander; jinking left to avoid ramming him, I drop the kart into a half-spin. It's annoying but trivial: it costs five seconds.

Throughout the weekend, the rest of the team have alternated between voicing their concern that I avoid a repeat of last year's injuries, and taking the mick out of my bright green foam padding. I know they'll be worried that I'm in trouble without my seat insert; as soon as I find a little space, I get on the radio to reassure them. All is well.

Sadly the same can't be said of the kart. I'm driving quite well, adapting quickly to the Teesside race rhythm - the particular technique needed to maintain your pace while being passed by faster karts - but I'm still short of straight line speed. It's not as bad as Alex's tribulations earlier on, but I'm being overtaken on the straights by other standard hire karts. On the radio, Marianne tells me that my laptimes are consistently in the mid 1.23 bracket, with the leaders in the 1.22s. It makes the job harder, but I've been preparing for this all summer; I'm giving it everything I have and loving every second.

There are no boring laps at Teesside. Every single tour asks serious questions of driver and machinery, and stringing together a good one is the biggest thrill in karting. Through the fast chicane in front of the pits, you must ride the kerbs at 55mph, right foot pinned to the throttle stops, picking the line of least resistance and trusting that the loaded right tyres will hang on.

The hill beyond the pits is a favoured overtaking point for the owner drivers; with faster karts battling all around you, jostling for position at 70mph on the approach to turn 3, it can be a scary place. Turn 3 itself has haunted my dreams for eleven months. It's the most difficult corner on the circuit - a blisteringly fast, bumpy ninety degree right-hander with minimal runoff and ample opportunity for visiting the scenery. Pick the right line and you'll rocket through with a light bump and a shimmy through the steering wheel; slide six inches wide on the entry and the breath will be knocked out of you as the kart bounces towards the edge of the track and the wasteland beyond at 50mph.

If you do manage to negotiate turn 3 unscathed, there's barely time to breathe before the next sequence: a near-flat right hander followed immediately by a corkscrew left which turns steeply uphill. Here, it's crucial to maintain momentum: good speed up the hill and through the blind right-hander at its crest will transform the half-kilometre straight that leads into the Esses. The kart feels particularly tardy up the hill; I learn to get back on the throttle more smoothly, taking a tighter line over the kerbs and keeping the rear wheels in check, but am still losing ground.

With the stint three-quarters gone, I'm in good shape physically aside from a couple of developing blisters, and continue to nibble away at the laptimes. I set a best of 1.23.067 as Marianne gives me a five-minute time check; niggling anxiety about the impending pitstop jumps to the forefront of my mind. I lost a lot of time in pitstops last year - to mistakes and exhaustion - and am keen to avoid a repeat.

At two hours five minutes I hear the 'box' command over the radio; we've arranged that Marianne will wave a furled umbrella from the pitwall as a backup signal. As I round the final left hander and accelerate towards the start/finish line, the red umbrella is waving; I peel into the pitlane, ripping the velcroed radio button off the steering wheel, and stop as directed by the fuel marshal. I hop out, flooded with relief as my legs respond, and wait impatiently.

I've already decided to push the kart rather than starting it; as the marshal gives me the thumbs up I lean in. It moves easily, and once around the hairpin beyond the fuel bay I quickly get up to jogging pace. The rest of the team wait at the start of the pit exit; they're not allowed to help me until I reach them. I make the left turn, and Lee and Alex descend with cans of chain lube as Stuart jumps in. In ten seconds the engines are fired up and Stuart is threading his way between other karts towards the exit at the bottom of the hill. It's a smooth stop - near flawless, in fact - and I give the others a thumbs up as I remove my helmet.

It's five past six in the evening. Eighteen hours to go.

(Click here for part 2)

British 24 Hours, Teesside. Preview

To most people, mention of Teesside conjures images of smokestacks and toil, of heavy industry and docklands. But to people in our sport it's something else entirely.

It's nearly a mile and a half of hallowed racing tarmac, a huge, challenging, white-knuckle ride of a circuit. It's the longest and fastest of its kind in the world - and for many, the best. And on the last weekend in August, it hosts the Godfather of endurance kart races: the British 24 Hours.

Eighty teams featuring the cream of Europe's kart racers will go head to head in four classes - two flavours each of owner driver karts and hire karts. The owner teams supply, run and maintain their own karts; the hire teams run karts which are supplied and prepared by the circuit. Four races - each a sizeable event in its own right - run simultaneously through a day and a night of controlled mayhem; the teams with the best blend of stamina, cool heads, raw speed and luck will reap the spoils.

Needless to say, we don't take it lightly. Our team - the Corporate Chauffeurs BRKC Team - has been preparing since February. Even for a hire kart crew like ours the planning and logistics are significant. And even for experienced drivers like us, the physical and mental demands are enormous.

Years ago, while chatting to a colleague at work about karting, I mentioned that I trained for it.
"What do you need to train for?" she asked. "Surely you just sit there and drive..."

During a two-hour stint on an outdoor circuit, most drivers will lose around two litres of water, and burn 1,200 calories. That's about the same as an average runner - like me - burns during a 10 mile run. Over the course of the British 24 Hours, each of our four drivers will do three stints. You can do the maths. When I call it a marathon, I'm not exaggerating.

My training schedule hasn't been without its pitfalls. Having decided to ramp up my strength and stamina while simultaneously losing as much weight as I safely could, I pushed my body hard. Perhaps too hard. On three occasions I've been forced to halt training, felled by a virus, a nasty bout of food poisoning, and downright exhaustion. Hopefully, the battle against adversity has toughened me up.

Two great motivators have spurred me on. The first is the memory of last year's race, which was thrilling and magical and brutal and heartbreaking in equal measure. I'm determined to do better.

The second is the Olympics. As a keen sportsman I was excited about London 2012. But even I couldn't have predicted the extent to which it gripped and inspired not just me, but the nation. Whenever I face tough moments in training or worry about the race, I remember the Olympians. I remember that my battle is a walk in the park compared to theirs.

After months of anticipation we're almost down to the wire. Training complete, kit triple-checked, packing started for the long trip north.

The entry list is packed with familiar names: friends and rivals from the British Rental Kart Championship and across the karting community; drivers of national and international standard. I look forward to meeting them on and off track.

Sadly, one name will be absent: Lewis Tindall, who joined our team back in February, has injured himself while trying - heroically but unwisely - to catch a falling car gearbox. We'll miss him, and wish him a speedy recovery. He's found us an excellent replacement who will remain a secret for now.

You need luck as well as talent to win a race like this and we will all, as ever, be in the lap of the gods. But the Corporate Chauffeurs BRKC Team - Alex Vangeen (captain), Lee Jones, myself, our mystery guest, and our brilliant support crew - is as ready as it can be. The Olympians had their time to shine. The Paralympians will have theirs from 29 August.

Now, it's ours. To everyone competing this weekend: good luck, and stay safe.

To everyone else: watch for regular Facebook updates from Friday 24 August onwards.

Thruxton. 15 July 2012

"It's a very long race," says the race director. "If you feel tired or unwell, please come in the pits - for your safety and everyone else's."

As usual, I ignore him. The British 24 Hours is a very long race. This, at 45 minutes, is practically a sprint.

It's been almost a year since I last visited Thruxton, and it's good to be back on a rare (for 2012) sunny summer's morning. Just like last year, I'm here primarily to get a bit of track time and assess my stamina ahead of the big race at Teesside in six weeks' time. I've been training hard and trying to shave a few kilos off my already skinny frame. It's hard work - I miss my naan bread - but I've lost over half a stone since the BRKC race at Teesside in May.

Thruxton's once-interminable safety briefing has mercifully been shortened, and I'm soon rediscovering this twisty, physical circuit. Unusually for a race billed as 'endurance', we're using the shorter version, which disappoints me - I've always preferred the flow of the full circuit with its hairpin and fast chicane. But no matter.

In the past couple of years I've sampled a dozen new rental kart fleets, and only Teesside's prokarts match the speed of Thruxton's single-engine Thunderkarts. It's eye-wateringly expensive, and no less prone to kart disparity than anywhere else, but the fundamentals are good. Having last raced at Birmingham, whose karts would be troubled by a well-driven Dodgem, the opening laps are something of a culture shock. As is the circuit. Thruxton eats drivers whole and spits out the bones. It's fast, bumpy, twisty, unrelenting. And fast.

After weeks of rain, the circuit is short of grip, with lingering damp patches in a couple of places and no rubber whatsoever. As the flag falls at the end of the fifteen minute qualifying session I'm pleased to see my name at the top of the leaderboard, but the time, at 50.8 seconds, is very slow. I've done a 49.1 here in the past.

On reflection, it's probably a good thing that grip levels are poor. Forty-eight hours ago I was laid low with an upset stomach, every joint from neck to toes aching. I felt fine this morning, but an unnatural fatigue has crept in after just fifteen laps. I'm not sure if the karts are new - they look the same - but I don't remember the wheelbases being so short. I'm uncomfortably close to the steering-wheel, which adds to the muscle power needed to turn it.

With nearly half a second in hand I'm expecting to pull away from the field - as long as I can make a good start. As the lights blink green I'm away well and lead comfortably by the end of the first lap. But I'm wary of faster drivers whose pace was hidden in qualifying. I've sprung the odd surprise myself from lowly grid positions in the past.

But no challenge materialises. I pull away at over half a second a lap, and soon realise that the circuit and the kart pose the biggest threat to my win. Thruxton is anti-clockwise, and on the short configuration in particular you spend virtually all of the lap turning left. In my weakened state, the workrate saps me quickly, and by half distance I'm in serious trouble. My seat insert isn't quite big enough for these XXL-size seats, and I'm sliding around more than usual; the short wheelbase and relentless right-biased load push my injured right ankle - still not recovered from a skiing injury - into a painfully twisted position on the throttle pedal.

Thruxton has an LED information board at the start/finish line. If you know where to look, you can read off your lap time and laps completed as you pass. I've no idea how far behind me the second-placed driver is, but I'd guess at 12 seconds; I slow a little to give my body a break, watching his laptimes and trying to match his pace. The backmarkers make it difficult, and I do myself no favours with an over-ambitious passing attempt that costs me five seconds.

By 45 laps I can barely hold the wheel but am still in front and still lapping relatively consistently. My optimistic inner voice tells me I still have a decent lead, and that I'll make the flag without crashing or passing out. I hope it's right, try to stem the rising bile in my throat, and focus on the next corner.

51 laps. I'm steering whole sections of the circuit with my left index finger hooked through the bottom spoke of the wheel. My entire body is numb aside from my churning guts and blazing right ankle. I'm watching the startline marshal like a hawk, praying for the chequered flag.

At 53 laps, it's waving, and I can honestly say I've never been more relieved to see it. I even manage to lift a hand in salute.

I accept my winner's medal with a mix of satisfaction and consternation. What should have been straightforward was anything but, and I'm pleased to have prevailed. But unwell or not, I'm not happy with my overall condition. In six weeks' time I'll have to withstand six hours at the wheel, in three 2-hour stints. Teesside's long, flowing layout is nothing like as brutal as Thruxton's, but there's work to do before I'm ready.

Last year I was left disappointed with my performance after a variety of problems and insufficient preparation. This year, I and the rest of the British 24 Hours team - captain Alex Vangeen, Lee Jones and newcomer Lewis Tindall - are quietly determined to make up for 2011's disappointment, when we lost third place to a kart issue in the dying minutes of the race.

It's going to be an almighty fight at the sharp end, and we have every intention of being part of it. First practice starts on Friday 24 August.

Watch this space.

Trackside. 6 July 2012

The world holds its breath.

Gossamer curtains of spray hang in the air and tingle my cheeks. Around me the packed grandstand at Abbey, opposite the pitlane exit at Silverstone, is like a giant game of musical chairs. Hands are clasped around cups, flasks, cameras, phones. A thousand people struck deaf and dumb by a sound which renders all else silent.

The visceral scream of a Formula One engine.

We crane our necks as a black-and-white Sauber-Ferrari morphs out of the gloom to our right, towing a rooster tail of spray that tops out above the grandstands. The circuit looks as if it's surfaced in glass. I make out the red, black and white helmet of Kamui Kobayashi, and know I'm not alone in clenching my fists a little tighter. Practice, qualifying, race, or trip to the shops - Kamui has only one speed. Flat out.

The scream drops an octave as he brakes just short of the hundred-metre board. The car's rear wheels lock instantly on the streaming surface, the driver's white-gloved hands already moving as it starts to skip wide, trying to swap ends at a hundred and fifty miles an hour. A flash of opposite lock and the slide is checked, gearchanges thumping our chests. Slowing now, sweeping in towards the apex of the right-hander at still-impossible speed, Kobayashi taking a slightly wide line to avoid what looks like a lake at the kerb.

The car tries to rotate again as he treads the throttle with a dancer's touch, the staccato rise and fall of revs telegraphing every beat of man and machine's fight against the elements. Both outside wheels are beyond the exit kerb before the aerodynamics finally squash the treaded tyres through the water. With grip restored, the Sauber is flying again; one more skitter and it's gone, V8 wail fading away to our left.

"Come on Jenson! Let's be 'avin' ya!!"

Four hours later, and the crowd is restless. This sodden British summer is doing its worst, and eighty thousand of us stare glumly as raindrops pepper the growing puddles like machine-gun fire. We can see almost a mile of track - from the exit of Stowe to our right, through the Vale chicane and double right-hander of Club in front of us, all the way up the start-finish straight. We can also see right along the pitlane. It's a great spot.

But Silverstone is silent. Nearly forty minutes of the ninety-minute session gone, and no amount of cheering or Mexican waves have brought the cars out of the pits. The rules strictly limit their usage of wet weather tyres; with the weather forecast to stay dire, the teams have no option but to conserve them for qualifying and the race.

There's a growing edge of desperation in the voices on the Tannoy. Please, give us something to talk about. To cheer about.

In the pits, an engine fires, buzz-saw idle echoing out over the great circuit and its assembled masses. The crowd twitters, and waits. We've seen this before; it could be a false dawn. But now the revs rise, and... yes! A huge cheer rocks the grandstand as the car pulls out into the pitlane and ambles away from us towards the exit, red wet-weather light flashing below its rear wing.

From our vantage point we can't yet see who it is, but he's soon filling the giant screens all around the circuit. It's Kamui Kobayashi, of course. Nobody else has spent more time on track today. There's still a chance that he could return to the pits without completing a lap, and we hold our breath as he exits Stowe, accelerating towards us...

Passing the pit entry. Now we're on our feet, clapping and stamping; he passes us, treading very carefully through the huge puddle that caught out so many drivers in the junior formulae earlier on, and engages warp onto the start/finish straight. After more than half of the session, this will be the first timed lap.

Next time through, Kamui means business. We're on our feet again as the Sauber wiggles its hips under braking, floating its way to the apex of the Vale chicane. Kobayashi dances it right to the outside of the kerb at the exit, practically underneath us, and somehow finds some traction. The car leaps forward, heading straight for the final right hander and its inch-deep lake, and two thousand spectators share the same thought.

No way he's getting through there at that speed-

Kamui hits the puddle, the four furrows ploughed by the car's wheels deepening visibly. In split-second beats we watch the rear wheels begin to snap wide, the start of the inevitable spin-

But Kamui has other ideas. He backs off the throttle, just a little; the white-gloved hands whip the steering wheel a half-turn to the left... and the rear wheels respond, halting their slide, the car cocked at an angle of ten degrees.

And still, incredibly, angling towards the corner's apex, the start-finish straight beyond. Then it's through, drifting to the red-and-white striped kerb, held in check by a myriad tiny inputs of steering and throttle... and we're roaring our appreciation, drowning out the staccato scream as Kobayashi straightens up and powers away.

Silverstone hosts the most knowledgeable motorsport fans on Earth, and we know sublime skill when we see it. Formula One cars just aren't designed to be driven like this, and even we can't fully understand what it takes to dance along the knife-edge in the most difficult conditions imaginable.

Kobayashi's efforts bring out the rest of the field to join the fray, and we cheer the swashbuckling Hamilton, the ever-smooth Button. We gasp anew as the old Rainmaster himself - Schumacher - slithers his Mercedes through the puddles. We purse our lips at the obvious confidence and rediscovered speed of Ferrari's beleaguered Felipe Massa. And we silently pay our respects to the drivers of the black-and-red cars and their Marussia team - devastated just days before by a horrific testing accident. Maria de Villota is never far from our thoughts.

As the chequered flag waves, the crowd is already thinning - fighting its way out through the traffic chaos that will dominate headlines in the days to come. What with relentless rain and rivers of mud, we've rarely seen a tougher day at Silverstone.

Is it worth it? Just barely. But my day is made by the efforts of one man. One man who trailblazed for all the others. Who held an impossible four-wheel drift through a lake at Club Corner.

Kamui Kobayashi, you're my hero.

BRKC round 6. Birmingham, 3 June 2012

At 22.41 on Saturday 2 June, I posted this on Facebook:

Getting ready for the British Rental Kart Championship finale in Birmingham tomorrow. Sleep won't come easy tonight...

By 2.30am, I'm beginning to wish I'd kept my prophecy to myself. I've tried everything short of a pint of hard liquor, counted a whole field full of sheep. Nothing is working. The alarm is set for 5.40am.

Somehow, by 9.30am I'm in Birmingham, existing on sugar, caffeine and three hours of semi-slumber. And a lingering spike of adrenalin from a frightening moment on a flooded M40. Brad and Becca are already present and correct in the clubhouse, the end of season trophy table trembling under the weight of silverware. The championship trophies in particular are beautiful - cone-shaped wafers of silver that wouldn't disgrace a Formula One podium.

On its travels the BRKC goes to some scenic venues. Birmingham Wheels is not one of them. Buried deep in an industrial estate bordered by wasteland and a railway line, skyscrapers lining the horizon, it's a place to darken the sunniest of days. On this rain-lashed Sunday morning it's testing my love of the race to the limit.

Over the past three rounds, fellow racers Daryl and Lee have, between them, been looking after the bulkier bits of my race gear - enabling me to fly up for Round 5 at Teesside. They've both been a huge help to me and I'm very grateful. At 10am Daryl arrives, bang on time, and I'm reunited with my helmet, seat, and - crucially - wetsuit.

The car park is filling rapidly, and engines are finally clattering into life for the first of two pre-race test sessions; I'm in the second one; having kitted up I watch for a few minutes, trying to stay dry under the canopy in front of the clubhouse. Needless to say, it looks very slippery, and as Brad observed earlier, the karts sound overgeared - some of the clutches not fully engaging until the end of the back straight. The laptimes are hovering around the 1 minute 3 second mark, around 15 seconds slower than dry pace.

Finally it's my turn - 15 minutes later than billed - and I busy myself getting comfortable in the kart. Birmingham's fleet of Sodikarts are fitted with adjustable seats and pedals. It's a double-edged sword: sitting with my knees below my chin is a welcome change. But both seat and pedal assembly move under load, making it difficult to be precise. Heeding some good advice from Brad, I push my seat as far back as it will go to put as much weight as possible over the rear wheels.

Out on track I'm quickly up to speed. The conditions are tricky but driveable, the circuit quite interesting with its twisty infield, fast chicane and wide-open hairpin - but the kart is pooping the party. It accelerates with all the vigour of a hairdryer towing a 747; the pedals feel mushy and indistinct underfoot. The steering wheel is set at an angle that would make a truck driver feel at home. Did I mention that I don't like it?

After 20 minutes I set a time in the low 63 second bracket, which looks reasonable against the competition. We crowd into the clubhouse to be issued with our driver numbers for the day. There are 45 of us in all; no less than five drivers have a shot at championship glory today.

After a short briefing, we're sent out in groups for a ten minute free practice session. This time I set a low 62 in a kart which, ominously, feels completely different to the first. Once all three groups have finished, I'm astonished to see my name in third position overall. There are lots of variables at play today, but the pace isn't bad and I'm keeping it on the black stuff.

After his brilliant win at Teesside, Sean Brierley is one of the championship contenders, and looks a little green at the prospect of starting the very first heat from pole position.
"This is going to make or break my day..."

Ten minutes later he's much relieved, having easily held off Dan Truman and Harry Wicks. As heat 2 - of 18 - gets underway, I'm shutting out the world and checking that my clear visor is properly fitted.

I'm third on the grid for heat 3, behind Nick Powell and Chris Brookshaw; as I prod the throttle on the way to the grid, I get the sense that this kart is even more reluctant than the previous two. As the lights go green I'm hard on the throttle and going nowhere, losing a place into turn one. I gain it back as someone goes wide at turn two, and - to my surprise - am still third at the end of the first lap.

But I'm struggling for pace and gradually fall prey first to Nick, who lost ground at the start and had to work his way up, and Matthew Hamilton, who started at the back. I drag the kart home fifth and discover later that I set a best time of 62.5 - better than it felt.

I'm soaked to the skin, my old wetsuit providing little protection from the driving rain and standing water; off track it's a battle to get warm. I'm next on in heat 8; in between, some of the usual suspects are making their presence felt on the leaderboard. Lee Hackett cruises to an easy win in his first heat, from fourth on the grid; Rhianna Purcocks works her way up from seventh to second. Sean follows his first heat win with an excellent second - also from seventh on the grid - in heat 5.

As we roll out for Heat 8 the rain buckets down harder than ever and I feel for Becca, who has now been standing in the waterlogged pitlane with only an umbrella for cover, for over an hour.

I wouldn't have thought it possible to be any tardier away from the line without going backwards, but this kart is, incredibly, much slower than the last one. As I trundle out of the chicane with pedal to metal I'm jumping up and down in the seat to try and coax some speed out of it, hitting the steering wheel in disgust. I'd be better off on foot.

Conditions have worsened and the track is slicker than ever; despite my frustration I keep my head while others lose theirs, stay on track and manage to cross the line fifth. It's a good drive under the circumstances but I take no pleasure from it. The overall pace had slowed by a second, but I set a best time of 65.5 - a full three and a half seconds slower than my practice time.

With a longer lull until my final heat I grab my packed lunch from the car and try to stem the shivering with copious amounts of machine tea. With feeling restored and spirits lifting I check in with heavyweight regulars Alex and Anwar. Alex is having a reasonable day and looks to be heading for another heavyweight podium, while Anwar is virtually guaranteed the heavyweight title; typically, he's making mincemeat of much lighter drivers on track and heads the heavyweight leaderboard with half the heats completed.

Alex joins me for my final heat. He lines up second on the grid. I'm third, and seem to have drawn a slightly less comatose kart than last time. As we wait for the lights I spot the kart to my left rolling forward; it looks like a jumped start to me and as the lights blink green, he comes straight across the track and shoves me onto the grass before turn 1. My best start of the day is ruined and after the litany of frustration of the past few hours I'm flooded with icy fury.

Alex and James Kimbley have found their way through in the confusion; with a better kart to work with I pick James off and focus on reeling in Alex. The driver that hit me at the start has dropped behind, but he's very quick; he's soon past both of us and pulling away. I dispatch Alex at the exit of the hairpin a couple of laps later and am showered in oily water as he has to take to the puddle on the left to avoid hitting me. Mine was an aggressive move, but I'm not in the mood to be courteous. I take the flag third - again, not bad all things considered.

But a mixture of cold, wet, frustration and sleep deprivation has finally pushed me over the edge. I find the driver that put me on the grass and give him several pieces of my mind. He tries to explain himself, but I'm not interested; I squelch inside to wring out my gloves.

Bravely, he comes and finds me a few minutes later. It's Nick Powell, whom I've met before; I hadn't recognised him with his helmet on. He explains that he hadn't meant to push me off, that he'd driven into a narrowing gap and had another kart to his left. He apologises for his mistake; I apologise for shouting at him, and we shake on it. I'm left angry at myself for losing my cool and resolve not to let it happen again.

As the heats grind to a close I want nothing more than to get the final over with, put dry clothes on and go home. There are four finals, each of 12 laps. I've scraped into the B final, last but one on the grid; as we sit waiting to go I'm shivering so hard that I can barely hold the wheel.

But discomfort is forgotten in an instant as I sense a dribble of power beneath the right pedal. My start is good, but there's nowhere to go; I bring up the rear at the end of lap 1 but am not concerned: there are 11 to go - and at last, I'm in a kart as quick as those I drove in practice. The tangle of drivers ahead looks like an accident waiting to happen; I gain a place out of the chicane and get alongside the 10th placed driver under braking for the hairpin. Simultaneously, a number of others slide wide and I take the tight line on the exit.

Once it all shakes out I'm seventh, trying in vain to stay in touch with the flying Chris Brookshaw, and bearing down on Chris Anderson. As one Chris disappears into the spray I overtake the other; with nine laps gone the leaders are exiting the hairpin as I approach it; tantalisingly close, but there are no more opportunities.

I take the flag sixth, having been twelfth at the end of the first lap, and set my fastest lap of the day on the final tour - 62.031. It's easily my best race of the day, and will put me 17th overall; my spirits lift a little. They lift further at the prospect of dry underwear; as the A final gets underway I'm hidden away in the empty signing-on hut, dry and warm for the first time in six hours.

By all accounts the final is a processional affair at the front, with an easy win for local hero (and BRKC newbie) Danny Henney ahead of Michael Weddell and Matthew Hamilton. I'm not surprised to see two of the Scots contingent on the podium - this sort of weather must be a walk in the park for them.

There's a short delay while Brad works out the final championship positions; after the flurry of race podiums, Lee Hackett is crowned champion ahead of Sean Brierley and Michael Weddell. It's a popular and well deserved victory; despite a small weight penalty Lee has more than held his own against some outstanding competition, only once finishing outside the top seven and logging two podiums including a dominant win at Hereford. Sean and Michael have also logged a win and a podium each, and shown the consistency needed to fight at the sharp end of this championship.

Anwar wins the heavyweight title ahead of the absent Lee Jones (he's on holiday in Turkey) and Alex Vangeen. Quality drivers all: having partnered Alex and Lee at the British 24 Hours I know exactly what it takes to beat them.

I say my goodbyes and escape with a mix of relief and frustration. My result was lifted from poor to mediocre by a good final, but I haven't enjoyed today. The multiple heat format partially disguised the huge disparity between some of the karts, but even the best of them were downright unpleasant to drive. The circuit staff are a genial lot and seemed better organised today than they were on our first visit in 2011. But they haven't made enough of an effort to keep it fair for everybody. Needless to say I'm not impressed.

I've been doing this a long time and know the rental karting mantra well, but a two or more second disparity over a 60 second lap is not good enough. Where the BRKC goes, I go (assuming I'm on the same continent), but it will test my loyalty to the limit if we return to Birmingham in 2013.

And so ends BRKC 2012. 2011's strong start has been well and truly eclipsed, with over 100 drivers entered and grids of 50 or more at most of the rounds. I'm sad to have missed Manchester and Matchams, but it's been a pleasure to meet and write about so many new people. We'll reunite for the O-plate at Whilton Mill in October and I look forward to that. Bradley makes it all look easy, but I'm well aware of the huge amount of work he and Becca put in behind the scenes to make the BRKC happen. The best championship I've ever competed in got better still in 2012, and long may it continue.

As our champion prepares for the Indoor World Karting Championships in Germany, and our runner-up gets his head around the idea of heading to California for the Sport Kart Grand Nationals, I'm turning my attention to the Elite Karting League. This is a new team championship run by Teesside Karting, who take their excellent fleet of prokarts to every round.

I'll be joining the Southampton Scorpions - and many other BRKC regulars - for round 3 of the EKL at Clay Pigeon in July. New circuit, new format, weight equalised... but the karts are old friends. Can't wait.

BRKC round 5. Teesside, 12-13 May 2012 (part two)

(Scroll down for part one)

Now it's real.

8.15am on Sunday. It's a beautiful spring morning at Teesside, and the adrenalin is beginning to flow. The circuit is quiet, the chatter a little less boisterous than yesterday. The atmosphere itself seems to hum with purpose.

I've slept briefly but well, and half a pint of Premier Inn coffee is doing its thing. After yesterday's practice debacle I seriously considered going to bed in my kneepads, but I've settled for arriving early and making sure all my ducks are in a row. Yesterday's 28-strong grid has swelled to 46 for the main event, and I catch up with some of the regulars: reigning champion Chris Hackworth, whom I've not seen since Round two at PFI, and Alex Vangeen (who watched but didn't compete on Saturday) among others.

Bob and Bradley conduct the briefing which runs us through the format for the day: we've been split into two groups, each of which will do a 15 minute qualifying session followed by a 15 lap race. The top 11 finishers from each group will form the grid of the 15 lap A final, with the rest in the B final; as a bonus, the top eight B final finishers will progress to the back of the A final grid.

I'm in group two, which suits me fine: having used the fast chicane in front of the pits on Saturday, we're bypassing it today, which significantly changes the entry to turn one. As qualifying gets underway I'm at the pitwall, watching intently. It's quickly obvious that this corner shows up driving styles in minute detail: Chris Hackworth is turning in on the nose, letting the rear of his kart slip wide as he tries to manhandle it through without lifting. Andrew Bayliss and Lee Jones are marble-smooth, hardly seeming to steer at all. Rhianna Purcocks' hands are a blur of steering correction but she looks very quick, keeping both the front and rear tyres nibbling on the ragged edge.

After their allotted fifteen minutes they line up on the grid, three abreast, with most of the usual suspects - Chris, Rhianna, Hereford winner Lee Hackett - near the front. And almost from the moment the flag drops, it's clear that today's winners and losers will be separated by the tiniest of margins. After fifteen breathless laps, Chris wins by the skin of his teeth - the top five covered by less than three quarters of a second.

Our turn. I've been allocated kart 65, which has just finished 19th in the hands of Chris Bate. I'm praying that it's the driver rather than the kart that's off the pace, but sense as soon as I reach the infield that the power delivery is flatter than the kart I drove on Saturday. It's not disastrous, and the handling is fine; I could change it, but risk ending up worse off.

I qualify 16th of 23, exactly a second away from pole. Some of that is down to weight - I'm nearly 80kg kitted up today - but it's not good. At least I've got the inside line for turn 1.

The flag lifts, drops, and we're away. I gain a place in turn 1 but am hung out to dry in the traffic jam at the hairpin and lose at least two places. Years of experience have taught me not to lose heart at times like these, but I face a battle to keep my race from going down the toilet. Matters aren't helped when, squeezed three abreast into the right hander at the end of the banking, I run out of room and tap the driver to my left into a spin. I raise a hand in apology and race on, half expecting to be black-flagged - but nothing happens.

I knuckle down and focus on the electric-blue suit of Alex Vangeen, two places and five metres ahead. The driver in between is a little slow out of the last corner and I catch him as we reach the start-finish straight. Right on his bumper, I lift a fraction to avoid hitting him - and am passed into turn one by the two drivers behind. Momentum is everything at Teesside, and I've just been reminded the hard way.

But I'm still in touch with Alex; over the remaining twelve laps the gap waxes and wanes as we both fight our way through the field - but although I get close, I can't pass him and take the flag 14th. After a terrible start it's not too bad: I'll be 6th on the grid for the B final.

Bob announces a breather before the finals; I chat briefly to Stuart Lindsay and the Hacketts. Lee is having another strong day, despite suffering from an upset stomach, and his father Lawrence confesses to having printed out every post of this blog. I'm impressed at his commitment - even I've never done that - and am delighted to hear that people enjoy my ramblings.

As I roll into my grid slot - on the far left of the second row - I notice that Alex is directly in front of me again, his kart angled aggressively towards the right. The inside line for turn one is vital; we'll be at a slight disadvantage at the start.

As the flag drops I rocket away - this kart (no 18) far stronger off the line than the last one - and slot into fifth position as we sweep into turn one. Alex is a little wide into the infield hairpin; I close up to his bumper and dispatch him as we exit the right-hander onto the back straight. This is more like it.

Round two winner Aaron McManus is just ahead with Chris Brookshaw and Ben Allward fighting tooth and nail for the lead in front of him. They draw slowly away - but I'm keeping Aaron honest while steadily dropping the chasing pack. There's half a chance of a coveted BRKC podium, and I drive the most inch-perfect race of my season in pursuit of it - but it's not to be. Aaron makes no mistakes, the front two hold it together and I cross the line a still-satisfied fourth.

But there's no time to rest - we're allocated new karts and sent straight out for the A final. Along with the three that finished ahead of me, Alex and Lee have scraped in as well. Our karts are the leftovers from the 30-strong fleet, and have been sitting in the pitlane all day. I'm praying for a rocketship but am not hugely optimistic. That's a good thing, because having lined up 26th, I'm stone last by the end of the first lap. Alex is just ahead: clearly we've both drawn badly. Although it's probably only 5-6 tenths of a second slower than my B final kart, this one feels horrible: gripless and gutless. 

I drag it round to 27th, ahead of only Alex and two very unlucky front runners: Rhianna Purcocks and Daniel Truman. A little disappointing - mid to high teens would have been representative - but the BRKC's clever scoring system means I've come away with ten points. Although I'm disappointed with my raw pace, my consistency has been very good, often enabling me to beat faster drivers. T'was ever thus...

Back in the pitlane, it's mayhem as usual, and it takes a little while to get to the heart of the story at the front. The big - nay, huge - news is that Sean Brierley has won, having kept his head under huge pressure from Chris Hackworth, among others. And Ben Allward has surely produced one of the drives of the weekend to finish third overall, having finished second in the B final and streaked through from 24th on the grid.

A little more digging reveals that poor Rhianna has been desperately unlucky again. Having led for several laps, she was tagged in turn 1 by Chris, who sportingly let her repass him and almost certainly cost himself a win in the process. But shortly afterwards she suffered a puncture and had to pit, dropping to 29th overall. She is understandably upset - but I know I'm not alone in believing that her time will come, and soon.

For now, it's time to cheer the podiums; as Sean takes the top step, someone nearby is heard to mutter, "Oh God, Facebook is going to be a nightmare now..."

Andrew Bayliss has, on the quiet, done an excellent job to win the heavyweights ahead of Lee, while Alex notches up another podium despite his A-final woes.

We leave Alex and Sean chasing each other around the paddock armed with their bottles of bubbly, and begin to disperse. It's been another epic BRKC weekend - and incredibly, deep into our second season, we still don't have a repeat overall winner. Bob and the Teesside crew have done us proud and I look forward to returning.

I say my goodbyes and while away a pleasant afternoon on the North York moors before heading back to Leeds for my flight. Flybe eventually did come up with the goods, and I arrived home to a mountain of food, courtesy of my lovely wife. Exhausted though I was, sleep had to wait, for there was a Grand Prix to catch up on. It was 2am before I crawled into bed, still buzzing from a day which had seen two new winners crowned. And a welcome return to the top step for one of F1's great teams.

I can't wait to get going again, and mercifully the wait is short: the BRKC finale is just 17 days away. Birmingham here we come...

BRKC round 5. Teesside, 12-13 May 2012 (Part one)

"Flybe regret to announce a delay to the departure of flight 176 to Southampton..."

It's 8pm on Sunday evening at England's highest airport. The wind is moaning through the roof girders, flapping exposed wires in the half-finished terminal extension. Beyond the windows, a Ryanair 737 bucks and yaws as its pilots try and wrestle it onto the runway in a thirty mile-an-hour crosswind.

There are perhaps fifty passengers left in the terminal, and we're feeling more abandoned by the second. Around us, shutters are being pulled across restaurant fronts, lights powering down, staff evaporating. There's nothing left to eat except Pringles. The departure board says our plane will be here in an hour and a half. But we're not optimistic. Idly, I calculate how long it would take to walk the 250 or so miles home.

Four days, I reckon. Might be quicker than waiting...

Wind back 31 hours, and I'm feeling pretty smug about my decision to fly north for BRKC round 5. Middlesbrough is a seven-hour drive from Southampton on a good day; instead, I've spent a relaxed hour in a departure lounge overlooking the airfield at Southampton, followed by fifty minutes on a plane and an hour and a quarter's drive. Even factoring in a rental car mixup, it's taken me four hours, door-to-door - and I've arrived at my Premier Inn in time for qualifying at the Spanish Grand Prix. Result.

There's nothing like the tingle of arriving at a race track, and nowhere gets the nerves jangling more than Teesside. It's the longest, fastest kart circuit on the planet; although we'll be using a shorter configuration this weekend, its high-speed sweepers thrill like nowhere else.

The place is buzzing, literally - the air filled with the tinny scream of two-stroke engines. As I head for the pitlane, they're drowned out by a V8 thrum. An Audi R8 rumbles into the car park and glides into a spot beside a Lamborghini Gallardo. I search for familiar faces and wonder vaguely at the supercar count.

In the pitlane, Lee Jones is just getting into a fearsome-looking kart with steering-wheel paddles and front brakes, while Sean Brierley - also suited up - looks on. BRKC founder Bradley and his (long-suffering) other half Becca fill me in: they're taking turns to test BRKC driver Martin Stone's 125cc gearbox kart. On track, karts are turning into the fast right hander - the first corner on the shorter circuit - at huge speed; in my fascination I completely miss the main attraction behind me.

A slicked-back photographer squats in front of a scarlet Ferrari over which a tall brunette is draped. I try not to stare - the poor girl looks embarrassed enough as it is - but I get the impression that there's a pretty lass somewhere beneath the makeup, fake eyelashes and unflattering painted-on pantsuit.

Becca hits it on the head, as usual. "There's a proud father out there somewhere..."

Lee has kindly stored some of my bulky gear in between races; I retrieve it as the circuit falls silent. In the briefing room, 28 drivers assemble for our Iron Man practice event: a 20 minute practice session followed by a 40 minute race. Circuit owner Bob Pope runs through a typically succinct Teesside briefing, and time suddenly speeds up: drivers are already out in the pitlane for practice, and I'm not ready. My plethora of padding takes time to fit, and I've frittered away priceless minutes gabbing.

"Are you racing?" Bob asks with a grin, as I realise that I've put my right elbow pad on my left knee. Everyone else is sitting in the karts, ready to go; I dial back the panic and tell him not to wait. It's a long session, and I can afford to miss a lap or two.

Two minutes later I'm in my kart, without my rib protector, and still with mismatched pads. And thirty seconds after that, my mind is emptied of all but the essentials: hang on tight and go very fast. It's nine months since we came tantalisingly close to a debut podium in the British 24 Hours, and it feels wonderful to be back. Even without its breathtaking back section this circuit is a wild ride.

In twenty or so laps I get back in the groove; the kart feels punchy enough and I'm overtaken only once: by Bradley Philpot, who sails by with his customary wave. As we line up and wait our turn to be called forward to the grid, I'm moderately confident. But the sinking feeling sets in quickly: I'm 19th, out of 28. There are some talented lightweights about, but I expected better.

Still, it's a long race. As the Union Jack flag drops I'm away well, the field remarkably clean through the fast chicane. Instead of carrying on past the pits we turn right, into a long, fast 180 degree sweeper which leads straight into the Esses with their notorious razor toothed kerbs.

Up ahead, Sean Brierley is locked in battle with one of the Scottish contingent (I think); a little ambitious into the hairpin, he has the door shut in his face and spins into my path. I jink right to avoid him and wonder if a repeat of Hereford is on the cards: crash on Saturday, podium on Sunday...

Either I've suddenly found some pace or the drivers who qualified ahead have lost theirs; after four laps I've made up several places and find myself in clear air, three seconds behind the familiar blue suit of Andrew Bayliss. Andrew's an occasional BRKC entrant - in the heavyweight class - and tends to be at the sharp end when he turns up. Over the next thirty laps I push hard, make no mistakes, but can do no more than maintain the gap. He's embroiled in a tight battle with a white suit - whose name escapes me - and I wait in vain for them to trip each other up.

I've learned not to look behind if I can avoid it, so I'm a little surprised to be nudged under braking for the infield hairpin. Over the next lap the nudging increases in violence, and peaks with a hard rap into the right-hander before the back straight. It's enough to push me wide; when I turn to glare (through my tinted visor) at the culprit, I'm shocked to see Rhianna Purcocks inching her way past. She waves a hand in apology and makes a remarkably expressive gesture which I take to mean that she was being nudged herself.

Sure enough, she's followed through by a dark-suited tailgater, and I realise that for many laps I've been at the head of a long train of karts. I tuck back in and give chase, but run out of time; I'm 14th at the flag, a little disappointed to lose places so late, but happy enough with my efforts.

We disperse to various hotels and reunite for dinner at a nearby restaurant. At eight o'clock on a Saturday night it is, predictably, heaving; there's no obvious space for a table of 20. Over the next hour, as grumbling stomachs begin to drown out the chatter, organiser David Hird starts to look a little hunted. He and Becca and I look daggers at the occupied table which we think is ours, and debate turfing them out. But half of them are children, and Hell hath no fury like a six-year old parted from a chocolate brownie sundae.

Finally we're seated, and I find myself next to Andrew Bayliss. It's my first real opportunity to talk to him, and I discover that a) karting is only the tip of his motorsport iceberg, and b) he's rather good at impressions. I'm under strict orders not to name names, but one particular Rory Bremner has me choking on my lasagne. Across from us is newcomer Adithyan Ellan, who looks to be enjoying himself, although he's a little wide-eyed at the level of competition on track. I don't blame him.

It's nearly 11pm when the lights dim and 'Happy birthday' rings out over the loudspeakers, and the staff present Becca with an ice cream sundae complete with candle. As the applause dies down, she pipes up.
"If you think this is going to make up for you going karting on my birthday..."

It's time for bed. I accept a kind offer of a lift home from Lee - and shortly afterwards, we remember that there are two Premier Inns called Stockton on Tees. Ah, well. Everyone ends up in the right beds eventually. It's an early start tomorrow but as ever, sleep comes fitfully. Playtime is over...