Part Two
(scroll down for part one)
12.50am, Sunday. Under the team gazebo, Ben is a bundle of energy as always: stowing gear, ingesting calories, talking ten to the dozen. I'm contemplating dragging myself away from the action to get some sleep, and Jack hunches in a chair looking like death warmed up - barely ten minutes before he's due on track. I tease him about this on camera, knowing full well that he'll snap into action when the time comes.
I've not written much about our esteemed captain so far, partly because the timing of our stints means I tend to be resting when he's driving, and vice versa. But he's been quietly getting on with the job of leading this team and extracting every last ounce of performance from the kart on track. His all-white overalls and helmet closely resemble the Stig's, and the comparison is apt. I know few faster, none more consistent.
In the clubhouse, the upstairs lounge is strewn with bodies - on coveted couches, on the floor, slumped over tables. It looks like the aftermath of a free cocktail party. I've been tasked with waking up Jon and sending him down to the pitlane, and strike gold: he's asleep on a couch. I shake him awake, send him on his way, and take his place.
Downtime.
4.30am. An insistent beeping jars me awake from a dream-laden half-sleep. I've had two-and-a-half hours. It's not enough, but it will do. My body reports only minor damage from the 160 or so laps I've driven thus far. It's complaining louder about the time of day - early mornings and I get along like oil and water - but is soon silenced by the pull of the race.
Outside, the temperature is nudging freezing, the noise relentless: the hoarse roar of the prokarts underpinning the falsetto buzz of the DMaxes. Shivering, I sip coffee and stare at the timing screen. A full minute passes before I dare to believe the evidence of my own eyes.
We're fourth. And remarkably, one of the prokart teams is still in front of us, which means that if the race finished right now, we'd be on the podium. Ben is on track and lapping very quickly; Jon, who has just finished, reports that our third maintenance stop coincided with the end of his stint. Which means that we've saved a pitstop, around three minutes. It all seems to be falling into place, but I try not to think about it and focus on readying myself for my stint in just over an hour's time. We have a secret weapon, too: Ben is miked up, as usual, and his friend Paul Lycett is keeping him informed over the radio in between stints for his prokart team.
Jon leaves to get some more rest – he’ll take the wheel for a fourth time to bring the kart home in six hours’ time – and I’m alone on the pitwall. We try never to leave a driver on track unattended, but without the help of non-driving teammates – as we had at Teesside – it’s unavoidable. I risk leaving the pitwall twice. Once to hang my kit up in the changing rooms in an attempt to defrost it, and once to get changed. Ben continues to lap consistently fast; I know he must be suffering with his injured ribs, but there’s no sign of it.
At 6am, I wave our white pitboard and send up a silent prayer. The timing of pitstops is something of a lottery: with one fuel bay for 23 karts, queueing and losing time is a real risk. Because of the circuit layout, drivers have to complete another lap once called – in the space of seventy seconds, an empty pitlane can easily become a full one.
This time, my roll of the dice has been a little unlucky – another kart pits thirty seconds before Ben, and we’re delayed by a minute or so as we have to queue. It’s the luck of the draw; by the time I’ve given Ben an encouraging (and non-agonising, I hope) clap on the shoulder, jumped in and accelerated out of the pits, I’ve got plenty else to think about.
In the six hours since I last took the wheel, the grip has deteriorated further – a slippery combination of near-freezing tarmac and tyres closing on their nine hundredth lap. They take a full three laps to warm, and the other karts are notably more conservative than they were earlier on – even the foolhardy have realised that venturing offline for a do-or-die lunge is highly likely to end badly.
Still, there’s always one. I find myself behind a Dmax kart so erratically driven that I’m wary of being run off the road when I try to pass. He’s two seconds a lap slower, clearly not on the same part of the leaderboard, but instead of letting me by and getting on with his race, he’s intent on keeping me behind – compromising both of us. After two laps I’m impatient, pressing hard for a gap as he gets ever more obstructive. Finally, as he sticks obstinately to the inside down the hill, I take a deep breath and overtake him around the outside in the fast kink before turn 8. I’m off the racing line at sixty miles an hour with no room for error and lots of solid things to hit if it all goes wrong. The kart skitters but holds, Numbskull manages not to do anything foolish and I’m through, braking for turn eight and wondering, fleetingly, if I’m getting too old for this shit.
A minute later I’m reminded that at 37 I’m a spring chicken, when I catch – with difficulty – and pass Kam Ho, captain of the RDI Pro 1 team. It was Kam and his team who chased us all the way to the flag in 2009; this year, they’re utterly dominating the prokart class. He’s got two decades and change on me, yet is putting half the Dmax field to shame out here at six-thirty on a Sunday morning. I lift a hand in salute and hope I’ll be that committed – and quick - at sixty.
Numbskull aside, I'm enjoying myself; although I sense the overall pace is slower, I’m working my way through the traffic more easily than in my first stint. There’s not a moment’s respite, though, and now more than ever vigilance is key. As the first grey wash of dawn lightens the eastern sky the track, incredibly, worsens further; I lock up and overshoot turn 4 while passing a prokart, a manoeuvre I’ve completed a dozen times today. Morning dew is settling on the track, making the tarmac offline more treacherous than ever.
Nevertheless, it’s going well. Right up until the point when it’s not. Fifty laps in, I exit turn 8 with the throttle floored as usual, but the kart runs into an invisible brick wall at half speed. Throttle or engine, I can’t tell – but the whole field is streaming by. With heart plummeting I do another lap, jumping on and off the throttle, hoping it will fix itself. But it’s no use. I peel into the pits, vacate the kart and try to ignore the timing screen as the mechanics go to work.
Chris is there, and I’m glad to see him – for most of my stint our gazebo has been ominously empty and I’d been worrying that he’d overslept. He should really have been on watch since the beginning of my stint, but it’s his first 24 hour race and we perhaps haven’t been clear enough about the procedure. He thinks I’m in for a scheduled maintenance stop and his face falls when I fill him in.
It takes seventeen minutes for the crew to fix the kart – so long that I briefly consider abandoning the rest of my stint and sending Chris out. But he looks wan with exhaustion and is suffering with pain in his hands and forearms. His stint needs to be shortened, not lengthened.
With the kart’s health restored, I return to the track as the sun begins to rise. The combination of dew and stone-cold tyres makes for an eventful out-lap; I’ve never encountered such little grip on an allegedly dry track. My final fifteen or so tours pass without incident; Chris calls me in and my driving duties come to an end. As always, there will be plenty to analyse and learn from the experience, but for now there’s little to do but support the others as they try to limit the damage.
As Chris leaves the pits we’re in twelfth place. The podium dream is all but gone; with four hours to go, nothing short of a miracle – and extreme bad luck for several other teams – will do. Jack arrives a little late to relieve me, having had trouble with his car’s central locking. I silence his apologies with the bad news; he is, predictably, gutted.
By now my every fibre is crying out for sustenance; I leave the race behind, buy an enormous Full English from the ever-friendly staff in the clubhouse and dully watch the last ten laps of the Korean Grand Prix. Yet another Vettel win fails to lift my spirits, but the food is excellent and the calories do the job.
I'm back on the pitwall for the start of Jack's stint. There's a delay at the fuel bay - queueing or a technical issue, I'm not sure which - but Jack is finally on his way in the morning sunshine. The temperature is rising fast, the dew drying, and the laptimes begin to drop.
Ben, Jo and Eva are back, and I'm glad of their support; we're eleventh and the best we can hope for is a top ten finish now. Jack is giving it everything he has and our spirits lift as we watch him reeling in the tenth-placed team. It's not much to aim for, but it's all we've got. In his Stig outfit he's very distinctive; after filming a rather downbeat video diary I wander around to the outside of turn 9 and watch him holding the kart on the ragged edge through the fast left-hander.
At 10.30am, Jack hands the kart over to Jon after a fine, and totally incident-free, stint. It's our fastest pitstop of the race, and as Jon heads onto the track we're ninth.
But, just as Marianne, Jonathan and Beth arrive to cheer us to the end, the race is red flagged; disbelievingly, we watch Jon's white-helmeted figure trudging back to the pits as the kart is brought in on the back of the recovery vehicle. Jon is furious; when he calms down we learn that it's the throttle again. This time it stuck open at the top of the hill into turn 7 and sent him into the tyres; subsequently the kart refused to start.
It's twelve minutes before he's underway again and we've slipped out of the top ten. But barely five laps later, disaster turns to farce when he grinds to a halt again - this time on the run up to the final turn - and is stationary for six minutes. We'd seen him clout the kerb exiting the hairpin; allegedly this stalled the kart and he'd flooded the engine in his haste to get it restarted. I say allegedly, because it's all a bit of a blur now, and increasingly irrelevant. Our race has, officially, gone down the toilet.
Amazingly, the last 35 laps pass without further incident; undaunted by the setbacks, Jon strings together some very fast laps and drags us back to tenth by the flag. We cheer him across the line, swap our commiserations, clap the winners onto the podium and disperse to lick our wounds.
It wasn't the result we wanted or deserved, and as the fatigue eased I know I'm not alone in feeling deeply frustrated that we weren't able to show our class. But there are always positives, and being part of such a talented, determined, hardworking team was definitely one of them. We all did absolutely everything we could, and I think we can take pride in knowing that our best is pretty damn good.
The support, too, went a long way towards easing the pain. Marianne, Jonathan, Beth, Ben, Jo, Eva, Alex and Lauren all took turns to cheer us on, and we really appreciated it.
Fate is fickle and 2011 wasn't our year at Daytona. But we've notched it up to experience. Bring on 2012.
Monday 31 October 2011
Thursday 27 October 2011
Daytona 24 Hours. 15-16 October 2011
Part One
Facebook status update, Daytona Motorsport, 12.28pm on 15 October 2011:
"Daytona 24 Hours Update, Hour 1 - Kart 125 shed a back wheel after kerbing."
With 23 hours and 32 minutes to go, we're beginning to realise that today just isn't our day. So far Kart 125 - our kart - has made three unscheduled visits to the pits - one for (blameless) accident damage in practice, and two wheel failures. Yes, two - the second a frightening rear wheel detachment which could easily have caused a huge accident. And worse still, the organisers are, with minimal evidence, publicly blaming us for the failures. We're last of the 34 runners and several laps down.
Needless to say, the Race Drivers Inc DMax 2 team isn't feeling the love right now. Some of us might even, for an instant, have entertained the notion of packing up and going home.
But we don't, of course. All of us - Jack Stanley (our captain), Jon Beagles, Alan Arnold, Chris Bateman and myself - have invested too much time, energy and effort to give up now. We've all been here before. We didn't like it then, and we don't like it now. So we dig deep, and begin to fight back.
At 1.30pm, we make our first scheduled pitstop. Jon brings the kart into the fuel bay and hands over to Alan without a hitch, and I breathe a sigh of relief. It's starting to settle, the kart running faultlessly; we've caught the back of the field and are rewarded with the sight of our team name beginning to climb the leaderboard.
I relax slightly, and take stock of the positives. It's a beautiful October day, warm and sunny, and Marianne is here to cheer us on. My brother Jonathan and his wife Beth - Milton Keynes locals - joined us for the start and will be back later on. Ben Bailey - British 24 Hours teammate - is here too with girlfriend Jo and daughter Eva, although he's not scheduled to race. All the girls are proudly sporting their BRKC tops; although today our allegiance is to Race Drivers Inc - fielding no less than six teams here - so many of us race under both banners that the line is blurred.
Alan looks to be running smoothly, setting solid laptimes and making up places. With fifteen minutes to go until I take over, I start to shut out the world - visualising the circuit in my head, letting the adrenalin tingle my fingertips as I prepare my gear.
Alan takes me by surprise by coming in a lap earlier than expected, and it's a brief rush to make the final adjustments to my gear and dash over to the fuel bay. But there's time in hand: I arrive as Alan coasts to a stop and the mechanics go to work.
After thirty seconds the fuel cap is screwed on and I get the thumbs up. Fit seat insert, jump in, pull ignition switch, push the electric starter button... and nothing happens. I try again to no avail, heart sinking, hand already in the air to signal a problem.
The crew take ninety seconds to diagnose a dead battery, whip it out and run through the fiddly process of fitting a new one. It's an eternity, as kart after kart wails past the start/finish line. Finally I'm rocketing out of the pits with the 125cc engine screaming tinnily behind me, the kart edgy on cold tyres. I've already forgotten the delay.
After the nightmare of pain and stress that was my opening stint at Teesside, I've taken steps to make sure it doesn't happen again: my new custom seat insert keeps me comfortable and correctly positioned in the kart, and my motocross-spec palm protectors keep my hands in one piece. Marianne has made me some miniature mufflers which I wear inside my helmet: they protect my ears from the worst of the noise.
And it's good: I'm flying in the late-afternoon sunshine. The circuit has been partly resurfaced since I last drove it: the tricky bumps into the fast chicane at turn 2 and in the braking area for the turn 8 left hander have gone. Turn 8 in particular is transformed; hang on tight through the flat-out, 65mph kink beforehand, watch for the jutting kerb on the right, brake as late as you dare and turn in, trying to keep the rear wheels from sliding as you get back on the power. Hit the sweet spot and the unloaded left wheels will ride the concrete kerb like a pillow as you're leaning hard on the rights. Exit as smoothly as possible, staying off the rumble strips on the outside kerb. If you've hooked it all up, the peaky little engine will already be in its power band; engage warp and power up the back straight.
But fifteen laps in, I feel the engine falter into turn 6. It catches again fleetingly, long enough for me to make it up the hill into turn 7. But at the apex, it falls silent. The dash display goes blank. I roll through the corner and pull to the inside of the track, off the racing line, hand already in the air.
The only marshal in my line of sight is at turn 8, over a hundred metres away at the bottom of the hill. It takes him a long time to notice me, and longer still to get a yellow flag up to signal approaching drivers. I'm out of the way, but it's a quick part of the circuit and a common overtaking point: karts are rushing past, two and three abreast. Not impressed, I flick my visor up and voice my opinion in words of one syllable.
Finally there's a yellow flag, and a second marshal is checking the engine. It's the battery again - seemingly a common problem on these karts - and they have a spare to hand. I expected to be walking back to the pits, but am underway again in two minutes. It's infuriating, but could have been so much worse. I force myself to concentrate; it's too easy at times like to these to make a silly mistake and put it in the wall.
With 34 karts on track, this 1360 metre circuit is a busy place; I'm constantly seeking out gaps, trying to squeeze between battling prokarts and barkmarkers in the DMax class. The physical demands are considerable, but it's the mental effort that takes its toll. The DMax kart is a wonderful thing to drive, but it demands precision and focus, and punishes clumsiness. Halfway through my stint a moment's lapse sees me lock up and spin under braking for the turn 4 hairpin. A harmless moment that costs three seconds, but it's a wake-up call. I'm not up to scratch in these karts yet and need to work harder on my consistency.
Still, when I pit at 4.30pm after 90 minutes at the wheel, I feel I've driven a good stint. Chris is in and gone with a thumbs-up, and I rejoin the others on the pitwall. Despite my stoppage we're knocking on the door of the top twenty, having made up 12 places in the last couple of hours. But Jack greets me with some bad news: Alan has a family emergency at home and has had to leave after only one of his three stints. I'm gutted for him and hope all's well. Ben has stepped in to save the rest of us from a very long night: the race director has cleared him to race. Sad though the circumstances are, it's great to have him in the team.
Before the race, Jack and I had some minor concerns about Chris, whom we'd never raced with before, and who seemed short on experience. I watch him like a hawk for the first half of his stint, armed with my stopwatch, before relaxing. Fears unfounded. He looks comfortable and assured and his laptimes, while not mightily fast, are just fine.
At 5pm we're graced with the presence of Alex Vangeen, BRKC regular and British 24 Hours teammate, and his girlfriend Lauren. They've dropped in on their way out to dinner, and it's a real pleasure to see them. After our disastrous start, we're blessed with plenty of enthusiastic support, and it's a huge boost to the team's morale. Alex is visibly itching to borrow a helmet and get out on the track. I suspect Lauren has to drag him away.
Beth arrives to collect Marianne just before 6pm, and I'm a little glum as I say goodbye. We'll not see them again until the morning. I eat a passable dinner of chili con carne, drink some tea and catch up with qualifying for the Korean Grand Prix - playing on repeat on the big screens in the clubhouse. As darkness follows a spectacular sunset, the floodlights blink on and the temperatures begin to plummet. The atmosphere changes noticeably - banter turns to quiet chatter, music in the clubhouse stops and the trackside PA system falls silent. Teams, supporters and track personnel knuckle down for a gruelling night.
I chat briefly with Aaron Cambden, who drove for our winning team in 2009. Not racing this weekend, he's here to demonstrate an F1 simulator, which seems to be doing a roaring trade in the upstairs lounge. It's good to catch up; I nab one of the comfortable couches and put my head down for an hour before my second stint, at 10.30pm.
I'm back on the pitwall in time for Ben's stint at 9pm. It'll be his first time on track today, but he knows this place blindfold: I know it won't take him long to get up to speed. He's suffering a little from a rib injury sustained in a karting accident a week ago; we send him out with a rib protector and my seat insert.
This time it's a clean stop; Jon reports that the kart is running perfectly, and heads off to get some rest. Aside from my battery issue it's been a clear run since our early dramas; we've clawed our way back into the top ten. It's a miraculous recovery, but I try not to get my hopes up. The night is young.
Ben puts in a typically excellent stint, running at the same pace as the leaders and gaining places hand over fist. I'm raring to go by the time he rolls into the fuel bay. Out of the kart, he sits down on the red-and-white bollards, holding his ribs; I have time only for a sympathetic pat on the back before the kart is ready. No battery worries this time.
I could see from the timing screens that the race pace had slowed considerably as night fell. It's always the way: as temperatures drop so do grip levels. Last time I was on track it was a warm, sunny afternoon. Now it's a clear night with the temperature in the low single figures, and the effect is dramatic: two laps in, the tyres still aren't fully warm.
Even once everything - driver included - is up to speed, the kart feels edgy in fast corners and hair-trigger twitchy under braking. The field seems more clumped than earlier on - battling trains of karts interspersed with empty sections of track - and I'm struggling to get by. I'm not helped by super-slippery tarmac offline and some very obstructive prokarts. Some of the drivers seem to have missed the memo about being in a different race to us; having been clouted three times (once deliberately) by the same driver, my patience finally runs out. I flip him the finger as I finally go by, and dispatch the next few prokarts with rather less than my customary courtesy.
A few laps later I spot a kart in the catchment fences as I brake for the turn 10 hairpin. The driver is motionless, and I'm struck cold as I negotiate the final corner and accelerate past the pits. Seconds later the red flags are out, and I roll to a stop at turn 4. We're stationary for nearly ten minutes; later I'm relieved to hear that the driver was only winded following a brake failure. There's never a good time for a brake failure, but turn 10 is the biggest stop on the circuit, where we shed around 40mph in fifteen metres.
Daytona have been running their customary maintenance stops: every six hours each kart is called in, in number order, for a five-minute health check. To keep things fair, every kart is held for five minutes even if the checks are completed sooner. Two years ago we made great use of these by coinciding each with a fuel stop and driver change - thus minimising the overall number of pitstops. It was a tricky strategy to manage because the timing of these stops was out of our hands, but it won us the race.
This year, in the DMax, we've not even attempted it: the fuel range is too marginal and even a ten minute delay on a maintenance stop would scupper us. So, two-thirds of the way through my second stint, I find myself in the pits. Thirty metres away, kart 125 is up on stands in the starkly lit garage with three mechanics working on it. As ever there's a sense of going backwards, of the race passing you by, and every second drags. It seems like a particularly long stop, but at the time I assume that's just me. Later I discover that they did find a problem - more electrics, I think - and took extra time to repair it.
Eventually I'm back out under the floodlights and pushing hard. Daytona made much noise about their brand-new, multifunction dash readouts before the race. These show the driver a wealth of useful information: position, laptimes, gap to the next kart, and so on. Great stuff - except they're not working. They're just ballast.
There is, however, a master clock on the start/finish gantry. That is useful - one of the many things that made Teesside so draining was the lack of any sense of time. Here, I know exactly how long I've been out and roughly how much longer I'm scheduled to be on track. It helps me pace myself mentally and physically. It also gives me a rough idea of my laptimes.
Finding myself between clumps of karts, I put the hammer down and string together a series of eight clear laps, glancing at the clock each time I pass under it. I'm in the one minute, seven second band - close to two seconds slower than at the start of the race. Such is the effect of cold, slippery tarmac, floodlights, and tyre wear.
Exiting the last corner around 11.30pm, I glance across at the team gazebo and spot Beth at the pitwall! I raise a hand in pleased surprise; next time around I confirm that Marianne and Jonathan are there as well. It's great - and slightly bemusing - to see them back, and I rattle through the final laps of my stint with uplifted spirits.
In the pitlane, the fuel bay is clear and Chris is at the ready, holding his seat insert. It's a good stop; once he's away I check the main timing screen. We're sixth. Despite all the dramas the sheer quality of this team, plus a lot of hard work, has brought us twenty-eight places up the leaderboard since hour one. Thoroughly pleased, I join my wife, brother and sister-in-law on the pitwall, and discover that a) they always planned to come back to surprise me and b) they've brought hot chocolate. Tonight's just getting better and better.
Ben and Jack are about as well, and for a little while, it's great to relax in the cold with a steaming hot, sugary drink, watch the action on track and absorb the unique atmosphere of a 24 hour race. Once Da Family has gone home to bed I film a short video diary - the third of the day. As I finish, I glance at the timer on the startline gantry.
12.45. We're barely past half distance.
(Part Two to follow)
Facebook status update, Daytona Motorsport, 12.28pm on 15 October 2011:
"Daytona 24 Hours Update, Hour 1 - Kart 125 shed a back wheel after kerbing."
With 23 hours and 32 minutes to go, we're beginning to realise that today just isn't our day. So far Kart 125 - our kart - has made three unscheduled visits to the pits - one for (blameless) accident damage in practice, and two wheel failures. Yes, two - the second a frightening rear wheel detachment which could easily have caused a huge accident. And worse still, the organisers are, with minimal evidence, publicly blaming us for the failures. We're last of the 34 runners and several laps down.
Needless to say, the Race Drivers Inc DMax 2 team isn't feeling the love right now. Some of us might even, for an instant, have entertained the notion of packing up and going home.
But we don't, of course. All of us - Jack Stanley (our captain), Jon Beagles, Alan Arnold, Chris Bateman and myself - have invested too much time, energy and effort to give up now. We've all been here before. We didn't like it then, and we don't like it now. So we dig deep, and begin to fight back.
At 1.30pm, we make our first scheduled pitstop. Jon brings the kart into the fuel bay and hands over to Alan without a hitch, and I breathe a sigh of relief. It's starting to settle, the kart running faultlessly; we've caught the back of the field and are rewarded with the sight of our team name beginning to climb the leaderboard.
I relax slightly, and take stock of the positives. It's a beautiful October day, warm and sunny, and Marianne is here to cheer us on. My brother Jonathan and his wife Beth - Milton Keynes locals - joined us for the start and will be back later on. Ben Bailey - British 24 Hours teammate - is here too with girlfriend Jo and daughter Eva, although he's not scheduled to race. All the girls are proudly sporting their BRKC tops; although today our allegiance is to Race Drivers Inc - fielding no less than six teams here - so many of us race under both banners that the line is blurred.
Alan looks to be running smoothly, setting solid laptimes and making up places. With fifteen minutes to go until I take over, I start to shut out the world - visualising the circuit in my head, letting the adrenalin tingle my fingertips as I prepare my gear.
Alan takes me by surprise by coming in a lap earlier than expected, and it's a brief rush to make the final adjustments to my gear and dash over to the fuel bay. But there's time in hand: I arrive as Alan coasts to a stop and the mechanics go to work.
After thirty seconds the fuel cap is screwed on and I get the thumbs up. Fit seat insert, jump in, pull ignition switch, push the electric starter button... and nothing happens. I try again to no avail, heart sinking, hand already in the air to signal a problem.
The crew take ninety seconds to diagnose a dead battery, whip it out and run through the fiddly process of fitting a new one. It's an eternity, as kart after kart wails past the start/finish line. Finally I'm rocketing out of the pits with the 125cc engine screaming tinnily behind me, the kart edgy on cold tyres. I've already forgotten the delay.
After the nightmare of pain and stress that was my opening stint at Teesside, I've taken steps to make sure it doesn't happen again: my new custom seat insert keeps me comfortable and correctly positioned in the kart, and my motocross-spec palm protectors keep my hands in one piece. Marianne has made me some miniature mufflers which I wear inside my helmet: they protect my ears from the worst of the noise.
And it's good: I'm flying in the late-afternoon sunshine. The circuit has been partly resurfaced since I last drove it: the tricky bumps into the fast chicane at turn 2 and in the braking area for the turn 8 left hander have gone. Turn 8 in particular is transformed; hang on tight through the flat-out, 65mph kink beforehand, watch for the jutting kerb on the right, brake as late as you dare and turn in, trying to keep the rear wheels from sliding as you get back on the power. Hit the sweet spot and the unloaded left wheels will ride the concrete kerb like a pillow as you're leaning hard on the rights. Exit as smoothly as possible, staying off the rumble strips on the outside kerb. If you've hooked it all up, the peaky little engine will already be in its power band; engage warp and power up the back straight.
But fifteen laps in, I feel the engine falter into turn 6. It catches again fleetingly, long enough for me to make it up the hill into turn 7. But at the apex, it falls silent. The dash display goes blank. I roll through the corner and pull to the inside of the track, off the racing line, hand already in the air.
The only marshal in my line of sight is at turn 8, over a hundred metres away at the bottom of the hill. It takes him a long time to notice me, and longer still to get a yellow flag up to signal approaching drivers. I'm out of the way, but it's a quick part of the circuit and a common overtaking point: karts are rushing past, two and three abreast. Not impressed, I flick my visor up and voice my opinion in words of one syllable.
Finally there's a yellow flag, and a second marshal is checking the engine. It's the battery again - seemingly a common problem on these karts - and they have a spare to hand. I expected to be walking back to the pits, but am underway again in two minutes. It's infuriating, but could have been so much worse. I force myself to concentrate; it's too easy at times like to these to make a silly mistake and put it in the wall.
With 34 karts on track, this 1360 metre circuit is a busy place; I'm constantly seeking out gaps, trying to squeeze between battling prokarts and barkmarkers in the DMax class. The physical demands are considerable, but it's the mental effort that takes its toll. The DMax kart is a wonderful thing to drive, but it demands precision and focus, and punishes clumsiness. Halfway through my stint a moment's lapse sees me lock up and spin under braking for the turn 4 hairpin. A harmless moment that costs three seconds, but it's a wake-up call. I'm not up to scratch in these karts yet and need to work harder on my consistency.
Still, when I pit at 4.30pm after 90 minutes at the wheel, I feel I've driven a good stint. Chris is in and gone with a thumbs-up, and I rejoin the others on the pitwall. Despite my stoppage we're knocking on the door of the top twenty, having made up 12 places in the last couple of hours. But Jack greets me with some bad news: Alan has a family emergency at home and has had to leave after only one of his three stints. I'm gutted for him and hope all's well. Ben has stepped in to save the rest of us from a very long night: the race director has cleared him to race. Sad though the circumstances are, it's great to have him in the team.
Before the race, Jack and I had some minor concerns about Chris, whom we'd never raced with before, and who seemed short on experience. I watch him like a hawk for the first half of his stint, armed with my stopwatch, before relaxing. Fears unfounded. He looks comfortable and assured and his laptimes, while not mightily fast, are just fine.
At 5pm we're graced with the presence of Alex Vangeen, BRKC regular and British 24 Hours teammate, and his girlfriend Lauren. They've dropped in on their way out to dinner, and it's a real pleasure to see them. After our disastrous start, we're blessed with plenty of enthusiastic support, and it's a huge boost to the team's morale. Alex is visibly itching to borrow a helmet and get out on the track. I suspect Lauren has to drag him away.
Beth arrives to collect Marianne just before 6pm, and I'm a little glum as I say goodbye. We'll not see them again until the morning. I eat a passable dinner of chili con carne, drink some tea and catch up with qualifying for the Korean Grand Prix - playing on repeat on the big screens in the clubhouse. As darkness follows a spectacular sunset, the floodlights blink on and the temperatures begin to plummet. The atmosphere changes noticeably - banter turns to quiet chatter, music in the clubhouse stops and the trackside PA system falls silent. Teams, supporters and track personnel knuckle down for a gruelling night.
I chat briefly with Aaron Cambden, who drove for our winning team in 2009. Not racing this weekend, he's here to demonstrate an F1 simulator, which seems to be doing a roaring trade in the upstairs lounge. It's good to catch up; I nab one of the comfortable couches and put my head down for an hour before my second stint, at 10.30pm.
I'm back on the pitwall in time for Ben's stint at 9pm. It'll be his first time on track today, but he knows this place blindfold: I know it won't take him long to get up to speed. He's suffering a little from a rib injury sustained in a karting accident a week ago; we send him out with a rib protector and my seat insert.
This time it's a clean stop; Jon reports that the kart is running perfectly, and heads off to get some rest. Aside from my battery issue it's been a clear run since our early dramas; we've clawed our way back into the top ten. It's a miraculous recovery, but I try not to get my hopes up. The night is young.
Ben puts in a typically excellent stint, running at the same pace as the leaders and gaining places hand over fist. I'm raring to go by the time he rolls into the fuel bay. Out of the kart, he sits down on the red-and-white bollards, holding his ribs; I have time only for a sympathetic pat on the back before the kart is ready. No battery worries this time.
I could see from the timing screens that the race pace had slowed considerably as night fell. It's always the way: as temperatures drop so do grip levels. Last time I was on track it was a warm, sunny afternoon. Now it's a clear night with the temperature in the low single figures, and the effect is dramatic: two laps in, the tyres still aren't fully warm.
Even once everything - driver included - is up to speed, the kart feels edgy in fast corners and hair-trigger twitchy under braking. The field seems more clumped than earlier on - battling trains of karts interspersed with empty sections of track - and I'm struggling to get by. I'm not helped by super-slippery tarmac offline and some very obstructive prokarts. Some of the drivers seem to have missed the memo about being in a different race to us; having been clouted three times (once deliberately) by the same driver, my patience finally runs out. I flip him the finger as I finally go by, and dispatch the next few prokarts with rather less than my customary courtesy.
A few laps later I spot a kart in the catchment fences as I brake for the turn 10 hairpin. The driver is motionless, and I'm struck cold as I negotiate the final corner and accelerate past the pits. Seconds later the red flags are out, and I roll to a stop at turn 4. We're stationary for nearly ten minutes; later I'm relieved to hear that the driver was only winded following a brake failure. There's never a good time for a brake failure, but turn 10 is the biggest stop on the circuit, where we shed around 40mph in fifteen metres.
Daytona have been running their customary maintenance stops: every six hours each kart is called in, in number order, for a five-minute health check. To keep things fair, every kart is held for five minutes even if the checks are completed sooner. Two years ago we made great use of these by coinciding each with a fuel stop and driver change - thus minimising the overall number of pitstops. It was a tricky strategy to manage because the timing of these stops was out of our hands, but it won us the race.
This year, in the DMax, we've not even attempted it: the fuel range is too marginal and even a ten minute delay on a maintenance stop would scupper us. So, two-thirds of the way through my second stint, I find myself in the pits. Thirty metres away, kart 125 is up on stands in the starkly lit garage with three mechanics working on it. As ever there's a sense of going backwards, of the race passing you by, and every second drags. It seems like a particularly long stop, but at the time I assume that's just me. Later I discover that they did find a problem - more electrics, I think - and took extra time to repair it.
Eventually I'm back out under the floodlights and pushing hard. Daytona made much noise about their brand-new, multifunction dash readouts before the race. These show the driver a wealth of useful information: position, laptimes, gap to the next kart, and so on. Great stuff - except they're not working. They're just ballast.
There is, however, a master clock on the start/finish gantry. That is useful - one of the many things that made Teesside so draining was the lack of any sense of time. Here, I know exactly how long I've been out and roughly how much longer I'm scheduled to be on track. It helps me pace myself mentally and physically. It also gives me a rough idea of my laptimes.
Finding myself between clumps of karts, I put the hammer down and string together a series of eight clear laps, glancing at the clock each time I pass under it. I'm in the one minute, seven second band - close to two seconds slower than at the start of the race. Such is the effect of cold, slippery tarmac, floodlights, and tyre wear.
Exiting the last corner around 11.30pm, I glance across at the team gazebo and spot Beth at the pitwall! I raise a hand in pleased surprise; next time around I confirm that Marianne and Jonathan are there as well. It's great - and slightly bemusing - to see them back, and I rattle through the final laps of my stint with uplifted spirits.
In the pitlane, the fuel bay is clear and Chris is at the ready, holding his seat insert. It's a good stop; once he's away I check the main timing screen. We're sixth. Despite all the dramas the sheer quality of this team, plus a lot of hard work, has brought us twenty-eight places up the leaderboard since hour one. Thoroughly pleased, I join my wife, brother and sister-in-law on the pitwall, and discover that a) they always planned to come back to surprise me and b) they've brought hot chocolate. Tonight's just getting better and better.
Ben and Jack are about as well, and for a little while, it's great to relax in the cold with a steaming hot, sugary drink, watch the action on track and absorb the unique atmosphere of a 24 hour race. Once Da Family has gone home to bed I film a short video diary - the third of the day. As I finish, I glance at the timer on the startline gantry.
12.45. We're barely past half distance.
(Part Two to follow)
Thursday 13 October 2011
Daytona 24 Hours preview
Saturday 15 October at midday. It's been in my diary - in the back of my mind - for six months. Now, with forty-four hours until the lights go green, I worry.
I worry that my training - delayed by a minor operation last month - is too little, too late. I worry about my teammates, two of whom are unknown to me. Will they be up to the task? Do they want to stand on the podium, to recapture past glories, as much as I do? Conversely, will I live up to their standards? Am I fit enough, quick enough, consistent enough, committed enough?
I worry about my shortage of track time in the 2-stroke DMax karts. Perhaps 80 laps in all; is it enough? Will it come back to haunt me in the early laps, or in the small hours when I'm running on caffeine and adrenalin? And I worry, a little, about the danger. About the thought of encountering a crashed kart on the racing line in the dead of night. At seventy miles an hour.
But in amongst the fretting, the vain attempt to ignore the elements out of my control, lurks a growing tingle of excitement. The chance to use my years of experience, my modicum of driving talent. The thrill of the race.
A 24 hour motor race is a supreme test of skill and stamina. But more than that, it's a million tiny details. It's making our five-man team gel so that we operate as a unit, making sure that everyone is happy, fed and rested. It's making the right strategy calls, being prepared for any eventuality and reacting decisively when the unexpected happens. It's accepting that, whatever we do, Fate is fickle.
To finish is an achievement; to win is a dream come true. For amateur racers like us, Daytona is the glittering prize. Come what may, it's going to be memorable.
Watch this space.
I worry that my training - delayed by a minor operation last month - is too little, too late. I worry about my teammates, two of whom are unknown to me. Will they be up to the task? Do they want to stand on the podium, to recapture past glories, as much as I do? Conversely, will I live up to their standards? Am I fit enough, quick enough, consistent enough, committed enough?
I worry about my shortage of track time in the 2-stroke DMax karts. Perhaps 80 laps in all; is it enough? Will it come back to haunt me in the early laps, or in the small hours when I'm running on caffeine and adrenalin? And I worry, a little, about the danger. About the thought of encountering a crashed kart on the racing line in the dead of night. At seventy miles an hour.
But in amongst the fretting, the vain attempt to ignore the elements out of my control, lurks a growing tingle of excitement. The chance to use my years of experience, my modicum of driving talent. The thrill of the race.
A 24 hour motor race is a supreme test of skill and stamina. But more than that, it's a million tiny details. It's making our five-man team gel so that we operate as a unit, making sure that everyone is happy, fed and rested. It's making the right strategy calls, being prepared for any eventuality and reacting decisively when the unexpected happens. It's accepting that, whatever we do, Fate is fickle.
To finish is an achievement; to win is a dream come true. For amateur racers like us, Daytona is the glittering prize. Come what may, it's going to be memorable.
Watch this space.
Friday 7 October 2011
BRKC 0-plate. Sutton Circuit, 2 October 2011
"This," someone observes, "is going to be carnage."
It's a freakishly hot October Sunday in the sleepy depths of Leicestershire, and the gang's (nearly) all here. BRKC 2011 is revived for one last hurrah before we look to 2012, and as usual, the regulars will go head-to-head with super-competitive circuit locals.
But there are differences today: BRKC champion Chris Hackworth is a notable absentee, and our exalted leader Bradley Philpot will be mediating, rather than racing. There are a couple of welcome additions, too: Jack Stanley returns to the BRKC having missed most of the season due to other commitments, and Ben Greene, who joined our team for the British 24 Hours, has come fully into the BRKC fold. And he's brought the family along: it's great to catch up with Jo and two-year-old Eva, who sports a miniature BRKC-branded hoodie and definitely qualifies as our youngest member.
At 9.30am, it's already been a long day for me, but the rigours of a 6am start and 140 mile drive are held at bay by a hefty breakfast and 'wake-the-dead' coffee. As I sign in and join Ben for a track walk, the last wisps of tiredness are washed away by an insistent, addictive trickle of adrenalin.
For the BRKC crowd, a steep learning curve lies ahead. None of us has driven the circuit before, and the race format is new to most of us. An eight minute practice/qualifying session will be followed by two back-to-back 15 minute races. The grid for the second race will be the finishing order of the first, in reverse. The top ten points scorers from the two heats will progress to a one-lap qualifying shootout and a 15 minute final. And one last detail could change everything: we'll all be weight-equalised at 85kg. It could be my imagination, but some of the lightweights look a little hunted, and there's a new glint in the eyes of the heavies. Today, there will be no excuses.
On foot, the circuit looks a mite tricky: a six-corner, 700m tour with a mix of medium speed long radius corners and a couple of big stops. It's tight and technical, and I can see ample potential for the aforementioned carnage. The single engine Sodikarts aren't going to break any speed records but they and the circuit will reward patience and a light touch.
It's an historic day for me. When my trusty old Sparco karting suit finally let me down at Teesside after a decade of service, I decided to splash out on a replacement. My old boots are of similar vintage and have always been slightly too big, so I retired them, too. After much browsing and online deliberation I settled on a Sparco Profi - a mid-range suit similar to my old one - and a top-of-the-range pair of Sparco Formula K boots. And since I was on a roll, I called time on years of discomfort and injuries caused by ill-fitting seat inserts, and bought a customised insert from Tillett Racing Seats. This event is a perfect opportunity to test the new gear before serious demands are placed on it at Daytona, in two weeks' time.
First impressions of Sutton Circuit have been good: it looks a slickly-run, no-nonsense outfit. After a short briefing, we're underway on time. I'm carrying 7.5kg of lead weight in specially designed slots in the kart's left sidepod, to bring me up to the 85kg minimum. My new suit and boots fit snugly, and the insert slots neatly into the kart's seat; I'm instantly comfortable.
The pitlane has an unusual hairpin exit onto the start-finish straight, and the race starts are unique here: we're to be sent out of the pitlane line astern, with no overtaking before the first corner. As soon as we pass the apex, the race is on. This has been the source of much discussion - and some vitriol - on Facebook, but as soon as I get down to Turn 1 it starts to make sense. Both entry and exit are very, very tight and it's ludicrously easy to lock the brakes.
The rest of the lap is a balancing act: keeping the tyres nibbling the edge of adhesion through the long corners, staying neat and tidy into the hairpin and taking a late apex. It could be a touch of Placebo effect, but my new boots seem to give me better feel and precision on the pedals. And although this kart is a world away from the DMax two-stroke machine I tested a week ago, they share a tendency to lock up at the slightest provocation: the practice is standing me in good stead.
After twelve laps I set a best of 40.453, good enough for third in my group. Once all 45 drivers have qualified, we're split into mixed-pace groups for the two heats: I will start third on the grid in group 2. It's a solid start. The other names on the list are unfamiliar except two: Daniel Truman and James Auld, my nemesis from the Brentwood round. I blanch inwardly at the prospect of keeping James at bay for twenty laps.
The viewing terrace outside the paddock building is slightly raised, and affords an excellent view of the circuit; we crowd the railings as Group 1 streams out of the pits. Everybody behaves themselves in Turn 1 but from then on there's no quarter given; we're wincing as the field barrels three-abreast into the narrow braking zone for the hairpin. Incredibly, they're through with minimal contact; after that they begin to spread out and a trend for the day is set: the first heat is fairly processional while the second, with the slowest drivers at the front and the fastest at the back, is highly entertaining.
By midway through the second heat I'm away from the action, adjusting my kit and putting my brain in gear - when I hear my name called in reception. The race director tells me that kart 3 - my kart for the race - has been replaced after a couple of complaints. I'll now be driving kart 10. It's a stroke of luck - though as Sean Brierley points out, I'll be going out on cold tyres.
Showtime. As we wait for the off I hear a shout from behind. James gives me the thumbs up. As I reciprocate, my resolve hardens. James is a nice chap and an excellent driver. And I'm damned if I'm going to give him an inch. I focus on the two in front - a Sutton regular and BRKC debutante Scott Winter - and picture myself sweeping past them.
The marshal waves, and we're off, sweeping around the hairpin and accelerating down to turn 1. The rubber is indeed a touch cool; I slide a little wide on the exit and feel James nudge me. The rest of the lap is neat and tidy though, and the hot weather warms the tyres quickly. I focus on reeling in the second placed driver. But the circuit is devilishly difficult to pass on, and I can't find a way by. All the while I'm aware of James, close behind, ready to jump on the slightest mistake. It's a processional race, but a stern challenge: grip and momentum are at a premium and it's vital not to slide the kart at all.
I take the flag a satisfied third; back in the pits there's no time for rest. We stay in our karts as the marshals rearrange us into reverse finishing order for the second race. In moments we're off again, the field bunching into the first corner as nervy drivers jump too hard on the brakes. Now I'm chasing James, who puts a neat move on the fifth-placed driver, forcing him wide into the turn 3 sweep. Right on James' tail, I follow him through. It's going well, and I'm enjoying myself.
But a lap later, disaster strikes. I'm looking for a way past James, who defends the inside line into the hairpin. I take the normal line, hoping to get a better exit - when the kart behind me locks up and cannons straight into James' rear bumper. He's spun right around, into my path, and I'm forced onto the grass beyond the hairpin. The field streams by as I clatter back onto the track, and all the good work of the early laps is undone. I'm last but one, half a lap ahead of poor James.
Focus. It would be so easy to overcompensate now; I force myself to keep doing what I've been doing: push as hard as I dare, keep the rear of the kart in check, and concentrate on picking off the drivers in front. The laps fly by, but it's working: I'm up to third, hassling the driver in second as we flash through the double-apex final corner for the last time. Fifty metres ahead, the chequered flag is waving; my exit is better and I'm alongside as we cross the line - but it's not enough. I'm third, by half a kart-length.
Back in the pits I glug a litre of water and cool myself under the air conditioner in the changing area. The races are short but intense, and the weather is ridiculous: it's the hottest day ever recorded in the UK in October. I'm not knocking it though. As I commiserate with James and swap experiences with the others, a warm sense of satisfaction descends. I've done well - it's easily my best showing in a BRKC race - and have a chance of making the final. It's going to be tight - only the top ten of 45 go through - and will depend on the results of upcoming races.
I join Brad, Becca, Jo, little Eva and the others on the pitwall to watch the next race. We're looking forward to it, as five BRKC drivers - Anwar, Sean, Alex, Lee and Jack - will go head to head. At the front, the first race is processional as we've come to expect - a blue-suited Sutton local leads Anwar and Sean, who hold station throughout. Behind them, Alex, Lee and Jack duke it out for best of the rest. There's nothing between them, and they cross the line millimetres apart - with Lee in front.
In minutes they're underway again, in reverse order, and the three-way battle is resumed. We're alternately cheering and wincing as they attack and parry on the tight circuit; they're all driving superbly and nobody can gain an advantage. We're all so focused on the entertainment provided by my three former teammates that we nearly miss the trouble brewing behind. Anwar and the blue-suited local have clashed a couple of times as they struggle through from the back; fists are being shaken.
Alex wins by the skin of his teeth; Lee is second after pulling a stunning move on Jack in the last corner. I'm turning away, talking to one of the others, when I hear shouts from further down the pitwall. People are pointing, wide-eyed: out on the circuit, Blue-Suit has shunted Anwar onto the grass - after the chequered flag.
Back in the pitlane, Blue-Suit is raging at the marshals, the drivers, the spectators... several others get involved and the marshals narrowly avert a full-on fistfight. Anwar, to his credit, refuses to be drawn in. It blows over quickly but leaves a bad taste - the behaviour on and off track was unsporting, dangerous and utterly contrary to the spirit of the BRKC. I'm disappointed not to see the driver in question escorted off the premises.
We regroup and watch the final race, in which Ben Greene acquits himself well at his first BRKC meeting with a second and a fourth place. He's borrowed my seat insert to test, pronounces it excellent, and is considering a purchase of his own. I expect to be on Tillet's Christmas card list.
Back in reception they're tallying the scores... and I've narrowly missed the final. By my calculation I had done enough, but it turns out that instead of the top ten overall making the cut, as I had thought, it's the top two from each group. The top scoring BRKC regulars - Alex, Lee, Ben, Harry Wicks and myself - have all scored 16 points. They're using fastest laptimes to classify drivers that have tied, and mine is good enough for ninth or tenth overall.
But only Alex, Lee and Ben go through, because Harry and I finished third in our groups. It's a flawed system in my opinion, as it could promote lower scoring drivers in a weak group over high-scoring drivers in a strong group. But that's the way it is. I get changed and watch the final, and try to shake off the disappointment.
By recent standards it's a calm race; after a 1 lap qualy shootout, Alex drives brilliantly to third place, behind a pair of locals. We cheer the podium, dash out of the way to avoid the champagne waterfall, and say our farewells. The BRKC will reunite in just 14 weeks time at Daytona Manchester, for Round 1 of the 2012 championship. Sadly I can't be there, as I'll be sunning myself on a beach in South Africa - but I'll be present and correct for Round 2.
For today, for me, there's much to celebrate. Despite missing the final I've been at the top of my game and the weight equalisation has definitely favoured me. At 77kg I'm not excessively heavy, but the discrepancy to the lightweights makes for a bigger laptime penalty than I realised. For the first time in a BRKC race I've shown what I can do. In 2012 the 70kg minimum will even up the field, and I look forward to that.
It's a long slog back down to Southampton, into the setting sun, and I've plenty of time to turn my thoughts to the next challenge. Two years on from our 2009 win in the 24 Hours, here's hoping for a triumphant return to Daytona...
It's a freakishly hot October Sunday in the sleepy depths of Leicestershire, and the gang's (nearly) all here. BRKC 2011 is revived for one last hurrah before we look to 2012, and as usual, the regulars will go head-to-head with super-competitive circuit locals.
But there are differences today: BRKC champion Chris Hackworth is a notable absentee, and our exalted leader Bradley Philpot will be mediating, rather than racing. There are a couple of welcome additions, too: Jack Stanley returns to the BRKC having missed most of the season due to other commitments, and Ben Greene, who joined our team for the British 24 Hours, has come fully into the BRKC fold. And he's brought the family along: it's great to catch up with Jo and two-year-old Eva, who sports a miniature BRKC-branded hoodie and definitely qualifies as our youngest member.
At 9.30am, it's already been a long day for me, but the rigours of a 6am start and 140 mile drive are held at bay by a hefty breakfast and 'wake-the-dead' coffee. As I sign in and join Ben for a track walk, the last wisps of tiredness are washed away by an insistent, addictive trickle of adrenalin.
For the BRKC crowd, a steep learning curve lies ahead. None of us has driven the circuit before, and the race format is new to most of us. An eight minute practice/qualifying session will be followed by two back-to-back 15 minute races. The grid for the second race will be the finishing order of the first, in reverse. The top ten points scorers from the two heats will progress to a one-lap qualifying shootout and a 15 minute final. And one last detail could change everything: we'll all be weight-equalised at 85kg. It could be my imagination, but some of the lightweights look a little hunted, and there's a new glint in the eyes of the heavies. Today, there will be no excuses.
On foot, the circuit looks a mite tricky: a six-corner, 700m tour with a mix of medium speed long radius corners and a couple of big stops. It's tight and technical, and I can see ample potential for the aforementioned carnage. The single engine Sodikarts aren't going to break any speed records but they and the circuit will reward patience and a light touch.
It's an historic day for me. When my trusty old Sparco karting suit finally let me down at Teesside after a decade of service, I decided to splash out on a replacement. My old boots are of similar vintage and have always been slightly too big, so I retired them, too. After much browsing and online deliberation I settled on a Sparco Profi - a mid-range suit similar to my old one - and a top-of-the-range pair of Sparco Formula K boots. And since I was on a roll, I called time on years of discomfort and injuries caused by ill-fitting seat inserts, and bought a customised insert from Tillett Racing Seats. This event is a perfect opportunity to test the new gear before serious demands are placed on it at Daytona, in two weeks' time.
First impressions of Sutton Circuit have been good: it looks a slickly-run, no-nonsense outfit. After a short briefing, we're underway on time. I'm carrying 7.5kg of lead weight in specially designed slots in the kart's left sidepod, to bring me up to the 85kg minimum. My new suit and boots fit snugly, and the insert slots neatly into the kart's seat; I'm instantly comfortable.
The pitlane has an unusual hairpin exit onto the start-finish straight, and the race starts are unique here: we're to be sent out of the pitlane line astern, with no overtaking before the first corner. As soon as we pass the apex, the race is on. This has been the source of much discussion - and some vitriol - on Facebook, but as soon as I get down to Turn 1 it starts to make sense. Both entry and exit are very, very tight and it's ludicrously easy to lock the brakes.
The rest of the lap is a balancing act: keeping the tyres nibbling the edge of adhesion through the long corners, staying neat and tidy into the hairpin and taking a late apex. It could be a touch of Placebo effect, but my new boots seem to give me better feel and precision on the pedals. And although this kart is a world away from the DMax two-stroke machine I tested a week ago, they share a tendency to lock up at the slightest provocation: the practice is standing me in good stead.
After twelve laps I set a best of 40.453, good enough for third in my group. Once all 45 drivers have qualified, we're split into mixed-pace groups for the two heats: I will start third on the grid in group 2. It's a solid start. The other names on the list are unfamiliar except two: Daniel Truman and James Auld, my nemesis from the Brentwood round. I blanch inwardly at the prospect of keeping James at bay for twenty laps.
The viewing terrace outside the paddock building is slightly raised, and affords an excellent view of the circuit; we crowd the railings as Group 1 streams out of the pits. Everybody behaves themselves in Turn 1 but from then on there's no quarter given; we're wincing as the field barrels three-abreast into the narrow braking zone for the hairpin. Incredibly, they're through with minimal contact; after that they begin to spread out and a trend for the day is set: the first heat is fairly processional while the second, with the slowest drivers at the front and the fastest at the back, is highly entertaining.
By midway through the second heat I'm away from the action, adjusting my kit and putting my brain in gear - when I hear my name called in reception. The race director tells me that kart 3 - my kart for the race - has been replaced after a couple of complaints. I'll now be driving kart 10. It's a stroke of luck - though as Sean Brierley points out, I'll be going out on cold tyres.
Showtime. As we wait for the off I hear a shout from behind. James gives me the thumbs up. As I reciprocate, my resolve hardens. James is a nice chap and an excellent driver. And I'm damned if I'm going to give him an inch. I focus on the two in front - a Sutton regular and BRKC debutante Scott Winter - and picture myself sweeping past them.
The marshal waves, and we're off, sweeping around the hairpin and accelerating down to turn 1. The rubber is indeed a touch cool; I slide a little wide on the exit and feel James nudge me. The rest of the lap is neat and tidy though, and the hot weather warms the tyres quickly. I focus on reeling in the second placed driver. But the circuit is devilishly difficult to pass on, and I can't find a way by. All the while I'm aware of James, close behind, ready to jump on the slightest mistake. It's a processional race, but a stern challenge: grip and momentum are at a premium and it's vital not to slide the kart at all.
I take the flag a satisfied third; back in the pits there's no time for rest. We stay in our karts as the marshals rearrange us into reverse finishing order for the second race. In moments we're off again, the field bunching into the first corner as nervy drivers jump too hard on the brakes. Now I'm chasing James, who puts a neat move on the fifth-placed driver, forcing him wide into the turn 3 sweep. Right on James' tail, I follow him through. It's going well, and I'm enjoying myself.
But a lap later, disaster strikes. I'm looking for a way past James, who defends the inside line into the hairpin. I take the normal line, hoping to get a better exit - when the kart behind me locks up and cannons straight into James' rear bumper. He's spun right around, into my path, and I'm forced onto the grass beyond the hairpin. The field streams by as I clatter back onto the track, and all the good work of the early laps is undone. I'm last but one, half a lap ahead of poor James.
Focus. It would be so easy to overcompensate now; I force myself to keep doing what I've been doing: push as hard as I dare, keep the rear of the kart in check, and concentrate on picking off the drivers in front. The laps fly by, but it's working: I'm up to third, hassling the driver in second as we flash through the double-apex final corner for the last time. Fifty metres ahead, the chequered flag is waving; my exit is better and I'm alongside as we cross the line - but it's not enough. I'm third, by half a kart-length.
Back in the pits I glug a litre of water and cool myself under the air conditioner in the changing area. The races are short but intense, and the weather is ridiculous: it's the hottest day ever recorded in the UK in October. I'm not knocking it though. As I commiserate with James and swap experiences with the others, a warm sense of satisfaction descends. I've done well - it's easily my best showing in a BRKC race - and have a chance of making the final. It's going to be tight - only the top ten of 45 go through - and will depend on the results of upcoming races.
I join Brad, Becca, Jo, little Eva and the others on the pitwall to watch the next race. We're looking forward to it, as five BRKC drivers - Anwar, Sean, Alex, Lee and Jack - will go head to head. At the front, the first race is processional as we've come to expect - a blue-suited Sutton local leads Anwar and Sean, who hold station throughout. Behind them, Alex, Lee and Jack duke it out for best of the rest. There's nothing between them, and they cross the line millimetres apart - with Lee in front.
In minutes they're underway again, in reverse order, and the three-way battle is resumed. We're alternately cheering and wincing as they attack and parry on the tight circuit; they're all driving superbly and nobody can gain an advantage. We're all so focused on the entertainment provided by my three former teammates that we nearly miss the trouble brewing behind. Anwar and the blue-suited local have clashed a couple of times as they struggle through from the back; fists are being shaken.
Alex wins by the skin of his teeth; Lee is second after pulling a stunning move on Jack in the last corner. I'm turning away, talking to one of the others, when I hear shouts from further down the pitwall. People are pointing, wide-eyed: out on the circuit, Blue-Suit has shunted Anwar onto the grass - after the chequered flag.
Back in the pitlane, Blue-Suit is raging at the marshals, the drivers, the spectators... several others get involved and the marshals narrowly avert a full-on fistfight. Anwar, to his credit, refuses to be drawn in. It blows over quickly but leaves a bad taste - the behaviour on and off track was unsporting, dangerous and utterly contrary to the spirit of the BRKC. I'm disappointed not to see the driver in question escorted off the premises.
We regroup and watch the final race, in which Ben Greene acquits himself well at his first BRKC meeting with a second and a fourth place. He's borrowed my seat insert to test, pronounces it excellent, and is considering a purchase of his own. I expect to be on Tillet's Christmas card list.
Back in reception they're tallying the scores... and I've narrowly missed the final. By my calculation I had done enough, but it turns out that instead of the top ten overall making the cut, as I had thought, it's the top two from each group. The top scoring BRKC regulars - Alex, Lee, Ben, Harry Wicks and myself - have all scored 16 points. They're using fastest laptimes to classify drivers that have tied, and mine is good enough for ninth or tenth overall.
But only Alex, Lee and Ben go through, because Harry and I finished third in our groups. It's a flawed system in my opinion, as it could promote lower scoring drivers in a weak group over high-scoring drivers in a strong group. But that's the way it is. I get changed and watch the final, and try to shake off the disappointment.
By recent standards it's a calm race; after a 1 lap qualy shootout, Alex drives brilliantly to third place, behind a pair of locals. We cheer the podium, dash out of the way to avoid the champagne waterfall, and say our farewells. The BRKC will reunite in just 14 weeks time at Daytona Manchester, for Round 1 of the 2012 championship. Sadly I can't be there, as I'll be sunning myself on a beach in South Africa - but I'll be present and correct for Round 2.
For today, for me, there's much to celebrate. Despite missing the final I've been at the top of my game and the weight equalisation has definitely favoured me. At 77kg I'm not excessively heavy, but the discrepancy to the lightweights makes for a bigger laptime penalty than I realised. For the first time in a BRKC race I've shown what I can do. In 2012 the 70kg minimum will even up the field, and I look forward to that.
It's a long slog back down to Southampton, into the setting sun, and I've plenty of time to turn my thoughts to the next challenge. Two years on from our 2009 win in the 24 Hours, here's hoping for a triumphant return to Daytona...
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