June 23rd 2013. 1am. I am sitting on the pit straight at the Circuit de la Sarthe. Lights are darting past me as they emerge out of the darkness of the Ford Chicane to complete each lap. The ferris wheel is pootling on, and the smell of bacon fills the air. One of my comrades has dropped off to sleep, whilst another is playing photographer. The garages are illuminated as the mechanics wrangle with tiredness and plug away at getting their cars back out on track as quickly as possible.
And that’s when it hits me: endurance racing is amazing.
Despite my genetic love of motorsport, it was never something that I had really given time of day to. Indeed, I had followed Formula One since the age of ten and, in the February, finally began to make headway in terms of a career in it. Nevertheless, Le Mans remained something of an enigma to me. A family friend and Le Mans veteran offered me a seat in his car down to the race for 2013, which I gratefully accepted. To me though, it was a step into the unknown. I’ve worked races that last for two hours max – but twenty-four hours!? How the hell can I keep concentrating for that long?
It was a start to a big summer for me. Having finished my A Levels and left school for good that morning, we travelled down on Thursday night and arrived as dawn broke on Friday. I immediately tried to get my head down and sleep in the tent, only for blaring music from the Danish campers next door to wake me up. I tweeted my frustration, only for a few people to say “you’re new at Le Mans, right?” That was so true. Come the second night, I found myself singing along to what they were playing.
Even when the race started at 3pm on
Saturday, I was still thinking: “am I really going to enjoy this?” We stood up at the
Dunlop Bridge to begin with. Five hours later, we were still there. It was incredible seeing and hearing the cars; they produce a sound that you just don’t get in F1. The rain came and went intermittently, cars were running wide and spinning, and the French kept tutting as they put on their macs only to take them off when the sun came out. Even at this point, I was loving it.
Then came the tragic news of Allan Simonsen’s death. At the time, I was with Frank, our family friend, who works as a doctor at Brands Hatch. We were both listening to Radio Le Mans; John Hindhaugh’s words will remain with me for years: “I’m going to read this exactly as it reads from the statement…” And so he muddled through to explain what had happened. Wide eyed, Frank and I shared a look. We’d spent many a lunch talking about death and safety in motorsport (given he’s a doctor at Brands Hatch), but one had actually occurred here. It completely changed the tone of the weekend.
As night began to fall though, we made our way back to the car to have a barbecue and a few beers. Given that, at this point, the #1 Audi had forged into a lead, I naively thought “so that’s race over then?” As I tucked into a burger, it came over the radio that it had hit engine problems, handing the lead to #2 as Kristensen and McNish went in hunt of numbers nine and three respectively. Many beers later, we trotted back to the circuit as darkness descended and found a spot on the grandstand along the main straight where this article began.
And that’s when it hits me: endurance racing is amazing.
The word “fever” is over-used in motorsport circles. I’ve attended some great race meets over the years, from my first at a wet Brands Hatch in 2006, many a club race at Lydden Hill, BTCC and BSB events, and five Formula One grands prix in 2013 (including Abu Dhabi and Singapore) – but nothing so far has compared to what I felt sitting on the main straight at Le Mans.
Come 3am, we bailed and got some sleep. The Danes behind us had dropped their flags to half-mast, and the music had stopped.