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...
Friday 30 September 2011
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)
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