The Sound of a Three-Pot

Just before I moved to Europe some friends gave me one of the best presents I’ve ever received.  Right up there with the cheeseburger flip-flops my sister gave me for my birthday, the book entitled ‘Motorcycle Journeys Through the Alps and Beyond’ was exactly what a good present should be: something I would want, something I would use, but something that if I came across myself I would probably think ‘eh, it can wait.’

Since I moved into my flat in Stuttgart, that book has lived on my coffee table.  It’s 416 pages of pure antagonism.  ‘Why are you sitting on a couch flicking through these pages,’ it asks, ‘when you could be on these roads right now????’

Are you going to let him talk to you like that?

I’ll be the first to admit that when it comes to access to twisty roads I’m better off than most.  A little less than 100 km away is Freudenstadt in the north east corner of the Black Forest – and most of that 100 km is twisty roads.  From Freudenstadt roads peel off in all directions over ridges, down into valleys, under forest canopies and along creeks which turn into rivers.  I often take my Husqvarna supermoto up there, shaming superbikes with close to four times the power through the hairpins (and then shaking my head as they disappear off in the distance on the straights).

Boo hoo.

But like methadone to a junkie, while it scratches the itch you can’t shake the feeling that there’s a wilder dragon out there that needs some chasing.

The main reason I’ve failed to widen the Husky’s horizons though is that it’s no good at long distances.  It’s a dirt bike with a vibe-y single cylinder engine with a piston head the size of a coffee mug.  It’s designed for low-end torque, all the better to jump over logs with, and sitting at a steady 6,500 rpm on the highway it doesn’t take long for it to start making its disapproval known.

Pretty sure Hansel and Gretel would have had an easier time in
the forest if they'd had dirt bikes instead of bread crumbs.

So it was somewhat fortuitous that a Triumph Daytona 675 should find its way into my garage a few months ago.  Generally speaking it also isn’t built for long distance riding, but it does highway speeds a lot more comfortably, and unlike the Husky its exhaust won’t melt through saddle bags in a matter of minutes.  Finally, it was all coming together.

Anyone that knows me knows that I’m pretty much obsessed with motorcycle racing, in particular MotoGP, and this year I managed to get to rounds at both the Sachsenring in Germany and Brno in the Czech Republic, bringing the total number of countries I’d seen MotoGP in to 7.  But there was still a glaring hole on the list – Italy.  With the racing calendar progressively, er, progressing, I realized there was only one more chance to realistically make another race before the end of the year, at Misano World Circuit about halfway down the Adriatic coast.  Conveniently, what stood between Stuttgart and Misano also just happened to be the Alps.

I booked a couple of hotels, turned on my Out of Office reply and told work that if they were expecting any emails from me in the next week they would be sorely disappointed.

Setting off in the pissing rain, my first stop was Schaffhausen, just a couple of hundred kilometers away across the Swiss border.  This first run proved to be a good shake-down test for my recently purchased Oxford saddle bags, on top of which was strapped my trusty bright yellow North Face duffle bag.  This bag’s been with me practically everywhere, and quite apart from sentimentality, if some moron rear-ended me there’s no way he could use the usual ‘sorry mate, I didn’t see you’.  Although a good opportunity to make sure everything was secure, Schaffhausen was primarily the first stop because one of my favourite bands, Bad Cop/Bad Cop were playing there that night.

Bad Cop/Bad Cop are an all lady punk rock band from San Pedro, California, with sweet three way vocal harmonies layered over intersecting distorted guitars, rolling bass lines and wrecking ball drumming, all punctuated with the judicious use of pick slides.  In the parlance of Wayne Campbell, they wail.

It’s been a long time since I’ve paid $10 – or in this case CHF 10 – to see a band in someone’s basement.  But there we were, and they had an open bar to boot (although by ‘open bar’ I mean ‘fridge in the corner with as much cheap beer as you can stomach’).  BC/BC kicked off with ‘Cucumber’ off their Boss Lady EP, followed by a string of crowd pleasers, none pleasing the punters more than ‘Asshole’.  Seriously.  Even after they’d played it twice, people kept requesting it.  In the end BC/BC placated the crowd by singing an impromptu a cappella version, which, if anyone at Universal Studios has any brains, will be on the soundtrack for Pitch Perfect 2.

Up early the next morning and with a fuzzy head, I set course through the drizzle for Misano.  I had 700 km’s of Swiss and Italian highway to cover, but Switzerland didn’t make it easy – not only are the mountains not conducive to straight highways that allow one to cover ground quickly, but they force you to constantly stop for photos.

Like this one.

When the time came to decide to ride over the St. Gotthard Pass or through it I was already behind schedule so I opted for the tunnel, reasoning that I would be back soon enough to take in the famous view.  But just like entering the International Air Guitar Championship, it was a decision I soon regretted.  Riding through the Gotthard tunnel has to be one of the most miserable experiences on two wheels; 17 km of dark, hot, polluted, humid air that’s hard to breathe and makes your eyes sting.  It’s like hotboxing with a Mack truck.

If every dark, diesel stained cloud has a silver lining, it was this: emerging out the other side to a perfectly warm, sunny Ticino day was as if the tunnel were a wormhole, transporting me from a chilly Teutonic autumn to warmer Roman climes.  I stopped to refuel, changed my clear visor to its tinted counterpart, removed the inner lining from my jacket, and swapped my water proof Joe Rocket winter gloves for my all leather, carbon fibre knuckled Alpinestars GP-Ones.  Summer was back baby! 

Crossing into Italy I pressed on, rounding Lake Como in the direction of Milan.  Continuing south – first Milan, then Parma, Modena, Bologna – I found on the highway I could cover a little over 200 km’s before the fuel light would come on, at which point I estimated I’d have roughly another 50 km’s before being empty.  Cruising between 140 and 160 km/h, this meant fuel stops every 1-and-a-bit hours which also allowed for timely stretches of legs.

Rolling into Riccione in the late afternoon I was now tasked with finding somewhere to pitch my tent.  I had Googled ‘Misano camping’ several times prior to leaving but it led to nothing.  ‘Not to worry,’ I thought at the time, ‘racetracks always have camping somewhere nearby.’  Or at least in my experience they did.  Arriving at Misano World Circuit I found out that it was situated in what could only be described as a semi-industrial estate.  I spotted a ticket booth that was still open and approached the people inside: ‘Buongiorno… er… camping?’ my question only eliciting shrugged shoulders.  ‘Better keep looking then,’ I said to myself.

Dusk was approaching and it was starting to rain as I rode around Riccione aimlessly.  Then, just as I was considering looking for a hotel – despite the fact I hadn’t budgeted for one, especially during a GP week – I saw a small handmade sign with a badly drawn tent and that magical word: ‘camping’.

I pulled into the driveway to find an empty block where several camper vans were parked.  A man who looked to be in his 80’s appeared and motioned for me to follow him, leading me to the back of the block and around a corner, the whole time me just doing my best to not drop my bike on the wet grass (it was now raining steadily and the luggage on the back clearly wasn’t on my team).  He then led me to a gate, through which on the other side was an apple orchard and a house that was actually really quite nice.

He started speaking, at which point I raised my hands and said in my best Italian: ‘Scuzi!  Er… no Italiano!’.  He smiled and continued, only slower and with more obvious hand gestures, as if on holiday abroad.

‘Moto, qui,’ he said, pointing to a paved area next to the house.  He then pointed to his eye and said something along the lines of ‘guarda la moto’.  I then realized that he was telling me to park my bike next to the house so he and his family could keep an eye on it.  How nice of them.

‘Tenda,’ he continued, pointing to the orchard, ‘qui’.  I took that to mean ‘put your tent up over there.’

‘Grazie mille!’ I said.

He then pulled his bum-bag around his waist and put on a serious face.  It was time to talk business.  ‘OK.  You sleep how long?’

‘Two nights.  Until Sunday.  Domingo?’  I have no idea why but I thought saying ‘Sunday’ in Spanish might make it easier to understand – because of course it would.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘one-a notte, ten-a oyro.  So due notti, twenty oyro.  And no touch-a da fruit!’

As I’ve said before, I’ve been lucky enough to see MotoGP at a number of tracks around the world, and if there’s one thing more constant than burst eardrums, it’s Valentino Rossi fans.  From Phillip Island to Assen you’re sure to find a sizeable portion of the crowd adorned with fluro-yellow 46’s. 

During his pre-Ducati dominance the sheer number of Rossi fans used to irk me.  Yes he’s always been a great rider with charisma to burn, but I couldn’t help but feel that it was all too easy to jump on the bandwagon, safe in the knowledge that, whether it was at Silverstone or Indianapolis, he’d more than likely to be at the pointy end at the end of the race.  Kind of in the same way that if you know absolutely nothing about baseball, a New York Yankees baseball cap will keep the sun out of your eyes while avoiding the risk of supporting a cellar dweller.

But Misano is Rossi’s home race, just a few minutes from his home town of Tavullia.  This was on a different level, and for once everyone seemed genuine in their fandom – here was the hometown boy done good, coming home to show everyone what it was he travelled the world doing every other week.  This was Game 7 of the World Series at Yankee Stadium.  Only the coldest hearted curmudgeon would refuse to get caught up in the atmosphere.

Jorge Lorenzo took out pole on the Saturday, with Andrea Iannone second and Rossi rounding out the first row, while Marquez was hot on their heels in fourth.

On the Saturday night given the proximity I decided to take a quick ride up to Tavullia.  It seems that over Rossi’s 18 year career this little Italian town, nestled amongst hills close enough to the Adriatic Sea that you can smell the salt in the air, has been turned in to some kind of motorcycling Graceland.  A giant poster commemorating his 100^th GP win hangs over the town square, fans who have travelled from all over the world take photos with the ‘Benvenuti a Tavullia’ sign on the way into town, and every business has some kind of tribute to number 46.  After a quick look around town I settled in for a pizza at Paride’s, made famous in the MotoGP documentary ‘Fastest’.

Up early on Sunday morning to get a good spot trackside, Moto3 and Moto2 offered up their usual thrills, Alex Rins and Tito Rabat taking out the wins respectively.  But while they appreciated the efforts out on track, the vast majority of people were there to see one man.

Starting on the front row, Jorge Lorenzo built an early lead, with Rossi in second and Marc Marquez stalking them both in third.  But as had been the case several times earlier in the year, Lorenzo wasn’t able to maintain the lead longer than the first several laps, succumbing to Rossi’s attack on lap 4 at Quercia, the crowd exploding.

Marquez followed Rossi through past Lorenzo and it quickly looked as though Marquez would spoil the party.  Then on lap 9 he did the unthinkable.  Trying to keep up with his childhood hero, Marquez went in to Turn 4 too hot and lost the front.  It took four unenthusiastic marshals to help get his bike running again, by which time he’d lost over a minute and was in last place.

As Marquez clawed back up through the rankings, Rossi took the opportunity and laid down several hot laps, building the lead over Lorenzo that would find him on the top step of the podium.  Marquez ended up 15^th, scoring a solitary point.  Surrounded by 90,000 Italians, I’ve never heard ‘Fratelli d’Italia’ sung with as much gusto as that day.

As nice as it would have been to head on up to Tavullia and celebrate with the locals that night, I had places to be – primarily, the Dolomites.  Back in the orchard I packed up my camping gear, donned my leathers and said farewell to my hosts.  ‘Grazie e arrivederci!’ I said to warm smiles and waves.

I was booked into a hotel in the small village of Arabba, which Google Maps said was about 4 ½ hours away.  But Google Maps hadn’t calculated those 4 ½ hours after a race where the hometown hero had won, and where the roads were subsequently blocked with jubilant traffic.  I took a cue from the other two wheeled motorists and started weaving my bike – complete with saddle bags and big yellow duffle on the back – in and out of ambitious gaps.

Lane splitting is very illegal in my home state of Victoria.  So when coming up on a roundabout and squeezing past a bus only to find a policeman directing traffic all I could think was ‘Bugger!’  I was frozen, conditioned by years of hard line highway code enforcement where 3% over the speed limit results in a $175 ticket.  Imagine my surprise then when he looked at me, stopped the oncoming traffic, looked back at me and shouted ‘Vai!  Vai!’ (Go! Go!)  With the implicit permission of the fuzz, what followed was a couple of hours of hilariously high speed lane splitting that would get me arrested back home.

Despite my high speed hijinks, the sun was beginning to set as I approached Bologna.  I hung a right onto the A13 towards Padua and tried to cover as much ground as possible.  The plan was to get to Venice, hang a left onto the A27 towards Belluno, then climb up into the Dolomites where a warm bed awaited me.  But as temperature dropped in concert with the darkness it soon became apparent that the prudent thing to do would be to cash in my chips and find somewhere to spend the night, even if it meant sacrificing a day of riding in the mountains.  I found a hotel just short of Venice and checked in.  The room had everything I needed – a warm shower, a couple of beers in the mini-bar (which were quickly dispatched) and a bed.  I was out like a light.

Seeing the Dolomites for the first time has been described as a religious experience, and I won’t argue.  The sheer grey cliffs are just astounding.  So the next day as I continued on I was glad of my decision the previous evening, as it would have been a shame for my alpine initiation to have been in the dark.

Crossing the Duran and Focella Staulanza passes on the way up proved a teaser for what was to come: countless tight switchbacks interrupted by flowing ribbons of black bitumen.  

It seems that Google Maps was somewhat ambitious when it calculated the travelling times, as even leaving from just outside Venice I didn’t reach my hotel in Arabba until mid-afternoon.

Given the area’s economy is driven mainly by skiing, the town was empty except for the local residents, a half a dozen Lotus Elises with German plates, and me.  As the next day was the only full one I would have in the Dolomites, I set off early the next morning so as to cover as much ground as possible.  First up was the Campolongo Pass over to Corvara to refuel before heading to the epicenter of alpine glamour, Cortina d’Ampezzo.

After notching up the Valparola, Falzarego and Giau passes, the rest of the day was spent exploring Alto Adige (formerly Südtirol), and seeing how many more passes I could bag before the sun went down.  Conveniently, the decent from the Pordoi Pass lands one directly in Arabba, and was a fitting end to the day.  The Dolomites had proven themselves to be a petrol head’s paradise, and I rued the fact that I couldn’t stay longer.

The Pordoi Pass winds down to Arabba.

The next morning I set off for the next stop on my itinerary: Andermatt in Switzerland.  I thanked my hosts, loaded up my bike and headed back up the Pordoi Pass before following the twisting SS242 north towards the famous Brenner Pass into Austria.  At Innsbruck I headed west along E60, then a quick run through Lichtenstein brought me into Switzerland.  One last check of the map showed Andermatt at the end of highway 19, just on the other side of the Oberalp Pass.

The next two days were spent exploring the Swiss Alps, going out of my way to bag alpine passes wherever possible.  The first day was mostly spent in the canton of Uri, which offered too many options to count. 

On the second day, back over the Oberalp Pass I headed south towards the Lukmanier Pass, surprising myself by riding into the Romansh canton of Grisons (I only realized this when I had even less of a clue as to what the local signage said than usual), before looping around into Ticino and back up to the top of the St. Gotthard Pass for that famous view I’d forgone a week earlier.

Sweet.

Alas my time in the mountains had to come to an end, and at the end of the week I set course for home.

Four hours later as I approached Stuttgart in the mid afternoon, it started pissing down with rain again.  At least it was a fitting way to bookend the trip.

He did not die in vain.

In the end it came to 3000 km’s, 18 alpine passes, 5 countries, 2 buggered wrists, a knackered rear tyre and a shitload of pizza.  ‘Motorcycling Adventures Through the Alps and Beyond’ still sits on my coffee table, but the question it asks now is ‘so…. When are you coming back?’

The Big Year (so far): Spa 24 Hours

I used to hate Belgium.  Several years ago I was driving from Bordeaux to Assen for the Dutch TT when, while stuck in a traffic jam around Antwerp, I was the victim of a hit and run.  A scooter rider apparently late for FP1 was weaving through traffic and somehow failed to see my stationary Chevy Aveo rental, plowing into the back and causing a surprising amount of damage.  I guess unlike the rest of us he actually had somewhere to be since he didn’t hang around to exchange information, and I was left with a hefty repair bill.  ‘Horrible little place,’ I’d tell anyone who’d care to listen, ‘half of them speak French, and the other half let them.’

So it’s a good thing I’ll try anything twice, because now I love the place.  It’s got waffles, and I like waffles.  It’s got pommes frites too, and I like them as well.  They even do moules et frites, for those who think that regular pommes frites could be improved with un petit quelque chose de la poissonnerie (like me).  It’s also home to the legendary Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps.

Known colloquially as simply ‘Spa’, Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps is a beautiful, flowing track carved into hillsides in the Wallonian forest.  Huge elevation changes accompany long sweeping curves that test the limits of adhesion, and with them the fortitude of cars and drivers alike.  Along with one of the most anticipated rounds on the F1 calendar, it’s home to the Spa 24 Hours, being run for the 66th time.

This year’s edition included entries running the latest GT3 customer weaponry from Audi, BMW, Porsche, Aston Martin, Ferrari, Bentley and McLaren, as well as a lone Lamborghini, while many factory race programs made drivers available.  As is often the case in endurance racing there were multiple classes running concurrently, with the titles of Pro Cup (three professional drivers), Pro-Am Cup (four drivers with a mix of professionals and amateurs) and Gentleman’s Trophy (four amateur drivers) all up for grabs.

The start of the race consisted of the usual jostling for position, particularly between the faster Pro-Am cars and the slower Pro cars, and it wasn’t long before the safety car was deployed.  What followed could kindly be described as a farce.

After the safety car was brought back into the pits and the green flag waved another major accident less than a full lap later caused it to be sent out again.  Then again.  And again.  Over the 90 minutes leading up to the 4 hour mark, not a single lap was actually completed under green flag conditions.  In an interview with Radio Le Mans the following morning, Briton Matt Griffin, driving the #54 Ferrari 458 Italia for AF Corse, suggested that the sidewall construction of the Pirelli control tyre was to blame.  Under safety car conditions, he reasoned, the tyres would cool down and hence lose pressure.  This would allow for more tyre deformation once the race was restarted, meaning they would lose grip more suddenly than they would at a higher pressure, when they would start to slip progressively before crossing the limit of adhesion.  He was also not the only one to suggest that the driving standard of several of the amateur drivers was less than ideal: ‘it’s like they weren’t even treating it like a 24 hour race,’ he said.

                As dusk made way for darkness a sixth safety car was deployed, however this time the accident that caused it was worse than the others.  The race was ultimately red flagged around 9:30 pm and parc ferme conditions were imposed by race direction so as to allow an air ambulance to air lift Marcus Mahy of the #111 Kessel Racing Ferrari 458 Italia to hospital in Liege.  There he remained in a coma for a number of hours, however regained consciousness around 2pm on the Sunday, much to the relief of teams, drivers and fans alike.

                The race was restarted around 10:30 pm, and (relatively) regular programming resumed.

The #3 WRT Audi leads as the race is re-started

                Throughout the night the number #77 BMW Z4 of Marc VDS Racing traded the lead with the number #1 Audi R8 LMS of WRT Audi, however never on track; due to being out of sync on fuel, as each pitted the car behind would inevitably overtake.

                Each car had its troubles; due to an electronic problem, the BMW had no ABS, traction control and was down on power, increasing tyre wear while reducing lap times.  In the mean time the Audi developed a fuel pick-up problem, meaning it wasn’t able to use the last several liters of fuel in the tank, shortening the number of laps it could complete each stint – and hence more time spent in pit lane.

V8 Supercars champ Craig Lowndes pilots the #52 Ferrari 458 Italia of AF Corse around Bruxelles at night.

                

Forty minutes from the end German Rene Rast took the wheel of the number 1 car and drove like a man possessed, hunting the #77 car down and closing the 20 second differential over only 10 laps.  Finally the lead changed out on track.  Rast continued to build a lead, but after just a desperate stint of driving needed to add a splash of fuel to make it to the end.  Could all have been for naught?

                After 24 hours, the number #1 car won from the #77 car by just 7 seconds, with another WRT Audi rounding out the podium.  In the Pro-Am class AF Corse's #53 Ferrari 458 Italia took out the win, with their #52 Ferrari and V8 Supercars hero Craig Lowndes on the Pro-Am podium.

                I’ve been lucky enough to visit a number of iconic tracks, and I have to say that Spa is one of the most breathtaking.  Eau Rouge is a down-then-uphill left-right kink taken flat out, bottoming out suspension as it leads into the blind crest left hander known as Raidillon.  Four-wheel-drifts are the norm around the long, blind-entry Blanchimont.  One hundred and four meters in elevation above Eau Rouge at the track’s highest point, Rivage (also known as Bruxelles) consists of a downhill, off-camber, double-apex-180-degree right into another downhill, off-camber 90-degree left.  It’s relentless.  Just like endurance racing.

The Big Year (so far): 24 Heures du Mans

I don’t get to drive my S4 nearly as much as I’d like, and I’m constantly telling myself that I need to get rid of it.  These days it’s mostly used to run errands to the hardware store or to go grocery shopping, outside of which it usually just shamefully sits in the garage and steadily depreciates.  But every now and again an opportunity will present itself for which a continent crushing wagon is the only tool fit for the job.  As I slide into the drivers’ seat and twist the key the whole body shivers as the V8’s internal components fight against cold, viscous oil.  And I’m reminded as to why I love it so much.

Short of an Audi RS4, RS6 or AMG E-something, nothing will cover substantial distances with substantial amounts of beer and camping equipment on board quite as quickly.  Which is handy, because there are times when I have lots of beer and camping equipment to take a long way, and quickly.

Quad pipes ensure beer doesn't fall asleep.

Heading back to Circuit de la Sarthe for the 82^nd running of the 24 Heurs du Mans was one such occasion.  I’ve written before about the V8’s penchant for humming at 4,000 rpm, resulting in an Autoroute speed of 100 mph, and this time was no different.  However I’ve also written before about said V8’s thirst, and again, this time was no different.  But you’ve got to pay to play, and play I did.

After arriving at the Beausejour campsite just behind the famous Porsche Curves section of the track and meeting the neighbours, a dawn blast back to Paris the following morning to meet my mate Charlie dictated an early night.  Unfortunately as can often be the case in these situations, some of the more enthusiastic campsite guests had other ideas, the evening punctuated with various types of house music, fireworks and the occasional lawnmower engine being inexplicably bounced of its rev limiter (bikes at a bike race I get, but a lawnmower?).

Back up to Charles-de-Gaulle airport the next day to meet Charlie and then back to Le Mans, where he was introduced to the Circuit de la Sarthe.  After he got over the variety of automotive jewels in the campsite (loads of Astons, Lotuses, Porsches and the like,) we headed to the track, and settled in for night practice.

After practice and the usual festivities preceding the race, it finally all kicked off at 3pm on the Saturday.  As we settled in, I spotted the t-shirt of someone who had clearly been there before: ’24 Hours in the race, 24 beers in a case.  Coincidence?’  It looked like we had our work cut out for us.

We didn’t have to wait long for the action to start unfolding.  Nissan’s ZEOD (Zero Emissions On Demand) experimental entry lasted only 7 laps before gearbox problems forced its retirement.  Still, an all-electric top speed of 300 km/h down the Mulsanne straight wasn’t too shabby.  I did wonder however whether concerns in the Nissan camp over the ZEOD’s reliability prior to the race informed their decision to allocate 2011 GT Academy winner and rising star Jann Mardenbrough to the #35 G-Drive Oak Nissan LMP2 entry – Mardenbrough was heavily involved in the car’s testing, and was loudly touted earlier in the year as one of the ZEOD’s drivers at Le Mans.  Either way it proved fortuitous, as Mardenbrough impressed all and sundry with his solid driving though the night, the #35 eventually finishing 5^th in class.

Thirteen hours in and the 24 Heurs du Mans was proving yet again just why it’s the most famous motor race in the world.  Former F1 and 2012 GTE-Pro winner Giancarlo Fisichella was piloting the #51 Ferrari 458 Italia for AF Corse, locked in a dog fight for the lead with Aston Martin Racing’s #97 car.  For two hours the lead changed multiple times each lap, the pair dodging slower cars while taking care not to lose time making room for the faster LMP1 and LMP2 cars.  Eventually a driver change for the Aston meant the Ferrari was able to establish a solid lead that, while not uninterrupted, proved a solid set-up for its class win the following afternoon.

 While this battle raged, the #7 Toyota continued to build its overall lead lap after lap.  But around 5am, after almost 14 hours out in front, driver Kazuki Nakajima, along with teammates Alexander Wurz and Stéphane Sarrazin back in the pits, would learn the hard way just how cruel Le Mans could be.  An electrical fire forced Nakajima to park the car at Arnarge leading to bedlam in the Toyota box, the crew unable to communicate to their driver due to radio gremlins to ascertain what the problem was.  They even tried to call his mobile, such was the desperation.

Around the campfire prior to the race, when asked who I hoped to win I answered that I didn’t mind as long as it was close – two cars on the lead lap would be nice – an answer that led to a round of hearty guffaws.  And yet here we were, coming up on 22 hours in, with the #20 Porsche and the #2 Audi not only on the lead lap, but trading the lead due to mismatched refueling patterns.  The #1 Audi had been leading when a problem with its engine’s turbo forced it to be changed costing 15 minutes and subsequently several laps.

The #1 Audi rejoined the race and it was looking like Porsche may have been able to do the unthinkable and win their first time back.  Alas, it wasn’t to be, brake problems for the #20 car meaning it wouldn’t finish after all, while the #14’s pit lane speed limiter kept engaging mid-lap.  The #14 would eventually be released back out on track for the final lap if only for pride’s sake, both Porsches recording DNFs.

That meant the #2 took Audi’s 13^th Le Mans win, with the #1 car in second.  The #8 Toyota rounded out the LMP1 podium, which was no consolation for the team that until that point had dominated the championship.

After the race Charlie and I tried valiantly to finish all the beer we’d bought, enjoying the sunny afternoon in the campsite with our neighbours.  I’m glad to say that endurance racing had a new convert, a missionary to go back to the New World (Canada) to evangelize and encourage other non-believers to join us next year on our annual pilgrimage.  With Nissan’s declaration that they’ll win Le Mans upon their return in 2015, it’s going to be nothing less than a Crusade.