Valencia 2012

           In late 2012, after a summer shamefully devoid of motorsport – my Outlook calendar constantly reminding me of races I had planned to attend being missed for some reason or other – I decided that redemption could only be found by loading up the Audi S4 and heading from Stuttgart (currently home) to Valencia to farewell Casey Stoner, due to retire at the final round of the MotoGP season.

Heading off before dawn, the first leg was on the famous German Autobahn.  Internationally the Autobahn commands a certain mystique due to its famed de-restricted sections, discussed by petrol heads the world over in hushed tones, like breathless schoolboys who caught a glimpse of Miss Cooper’s bra strap during a biology class.

As much as I hate to say it though, the truth is that driving on the Autobahn can be one of the most frustrating experiences known to mankind.  Just like seeing Miss Cooper being pleasantly surprised at the school gates by her built-like-a-brick-shithouse-rugby-playing-boyfriend who’s armed with a dozen roses, road works, heavy traffic and late-80’s Skodas with Slovenian number plates billowing black smoke in the left lane often conspire to temper the ostensible thrills on offer.  Unfortunately, this particular day was no different: sit in a traffic jam, wind it up to 130 mph as said traffic jam clears, before dropping the anchors and praying you don’t plow into the traffic jam rapidly accumulating up ahead. 

After crossing the border into France mid-morning it was a different story.  It soon became apparent that the billiard table-esque Autoroutes were clearly designed for 100 mph cruises with a soothing 4000 rpm hum in the background, regardless of what the speed limit signs suggested (the well signposted speed cameras only support this opinion).  Trucks and slower traffic were easily dispatched, Jerry Reed’s ‘East Bound & Down’ twanged through the Bose sound system, and life was good.  Approaching Lyon it dawned on me that, while I did have a long way to go, unlike The Bandit and Snowman I had more than a short time to get there, so it only made sense to hang a left and cross over the Alps – I mean, since the good Lord had decided to put them there anyway it would be rude not to…

Being early November, the mountain passes were in autumnal transition, with many of the trees beginning to lose their foliage while overnight dustings of snow were yet to last past lunchtime.  On 2^nd gear corner exits as the Torsen all wheel drive system directed the rear wheels to dig in I quickly gained an appreciation for the finer art of ballast placement, the Audi’s handling clearly affected by a boot full of camping equipment and beer.  Still, the turn-in offered predictable, manageable understeer while I barely heard a peep out of the Hankook Ventus V12’s despite my best efforts.

Continuing south, and long after darkness fell I stopped for fuel (not for the first time, mind!) only to be shocked by just how cold it was.  I’d been enjoying the long sweeping corners so much I’d failed to realize that I was now high up in the Pyrenees.  I continued down the other side and, shortly after hitting the Mediterranean, found somewhere in Barcelona to pass what little remained of the evening, tired, drained, and happy.

The next morning consisted of an enthusiastic, sun drenched coastal dash towards La Costa Blanca, most of which was spent chasing a Porsche Panamera who’s driver was clearly late for a very important meeting.  Pulling into the campsite at Circuit Ricardo Tormo and setting up camp, I introduced myself to my neighbours, and prepared for a weekend filled with bikes bouncing off rev limiters, the occasional burnout, and ragging on the Yellow Pants Brigade (aka Valentino Rossi fans) with the familiar hiss of an Amstel being opened.

The weather over the weekend was unpredictable at best, and made practice and qualifying especially difficult for the riders.  Usually if the weather is wet, one can make adjustments for wet weather tyres, and conversely make adjustments using slicks if the weather permits.  However in this case there was significant rain each morning, followed by humid and cool weather in the late morning, resulting in a racing line that dried progressively throughout each session.  This poses riders with an extremely difficult question – do they opt for wet weather tyres and likely post slower lap times, or do they opt for slicks with the knowledge that if they stray from the racing line their session may be ended prematurely with a loss of grip?  The fact that the conditions varied within each session only made the decision even more crucial.

While not ideal for the riders themselves, the weather did lead to incredible races on the Sunday.  Marc Marquez was penalized for an incident during practice earlier in the weekend, and as he was already on probation (a side effect of his confrontational riding style), was ordered to start his final Moto2 race from the back of the grid.  That however wouldn’t stop him from storming up to 11^th place by the end of the first lap, eventually hunting down his main rival Julian Simon in the dying stages of the race to take the win.

Similarly, in between the warm up lap and the start of the MotoGP race, Repsol Honda stalwart Dani Pedrosa changed his mind regarding tyre selection, instead opting to start the race from pit lane on his No. 2 bike on wets.  The decision proved fortuitous, Pedrosa winning an utterly bizarre race including a Jorge Lorenzo high side under braking, Japanese Yamaha test rider and wildcard entry Katsuyuki Nakasuga taking second place in only his third MotoGP appearance, and Stoner pipping Alvaro Bautista at the post for third.

After the race and once back over the Pyrenees I decided it was too soon to head home, so I hung a right through Provence towards the French and Italian Rivieras.  A quick pit stop in Monaco to check out the yachts also allowed me make several runs through ‘that’ tunnel (flat out in 1^st gear, windows down, natch), at least until the door man at the casino threatened to call the police...  Rising back up through the switchbacks as darkness began to fall, the V8’s warble echoed out over the principality like Barry White serenading Sophia Loren.

Although heavily trafficked, the A8/A10 between France and Italy is a truly spectacular road.  Due to the varying altitude of the landscape, it consists of a series of tunnels connected by bridges, not unlike the final scenes of Indiana Jones and the Holy Grail.  Pulling a ton while squeezing past a petrol tanker through a blind corner in a tunnel, before launching out onto a bridge 250 m above the valley floor is a truly life affirming experience! (or, ahem, so I’m told…)

Past Genoa and after an espresso at one of the ubiquitous Autogrills, a late night dash down the arrow-straight A1 towards Bologna allowed me to find out if whether or not, as the signs suggested, the Polizia Stradale do in fact ‘controllo elettronico della velocità’.  (They don’t.)

That Bologna was the next destination was no accident – I was now on a pilgrimage to the Holy Two- and Four Wheeled Trinity: Lamborghini, Ducati and Ferrari.  My faith suitably bolstered, domestic duties began to beckon.  I set course for home, which just so happened to pass through the Dolomites and the Tyrolean alps…

It Begins

My parents have never liked motorcycles.  Which is a shame really, because I’ve always loved them.  Cars too.  Anything with an engine, really.  What’s that?  You just got a new ride on lawn mower?  Sweet.  Can I have a go?

As a kid, I was constantly begging my father to buy me a mini-bike.  He always gave the same response: ‘when we buy a farm’.  He was a country boy who had ‘done good in the big smoke’, and family holidays were often spent visiting relatives in regional Victoria and New South Wales, so the idea that we would one day move to a farm didn’t seem so far-fetched.  As far as I was concerned it was clearly just a matter of time.

Then one fateful evening my father came home and made an announcement that would haunt him for years to come: ‘Guess what guys, I bought a farm!’  In my excitement I completely ignored the horrified look on my mother’s face, immediately jumping instead to the only conclusion that mattered: I WAS GETTING A MINI-BIKE.

Over the years, I’ve often wondered if my father has ever looked back on his actions that day with at least a slight sense of sheepishness.  Clearly, here was a man who had never heard the phrase ‘a happy wife makes a happy life’.  Because this news did not make his wife happy.  From that day on, every marital argument went along the lines of:

Him:                       ‘How on Earth could you have spent $500 on a bloody couch cover!?’

Her, coolly:         ‘You bought a farm.’

Despite my ever persistent enquiries as to when it would arrive, the mini-bike never materialized.  ‘When am I getting my mini-bike?’ I’d now ask.

‘When we move to the farm’ was now the answer.

I couldn’t work out what the hold-up was.  We bought the farm, now we buy the mini-bike.  Simple.  Certainly the regular visits to Ararat Honda to sit on the various Pee Wee 50’s and 80’s didn’t help.  Perhaps he thought that I would eventually grow out of ‘it’.  He was wrong.

                In those pre-Internet, pre-Digital TV days, and without the luxury of a VCR, the only way to watch Formula 1 or the 500cc Motorcycle World Championship on the east coast of Australia was to stay up and wait for the delayed telecast on Channel 9 on Sunday nights.  Usually the races were scheduled for broadcast after the Sunday evening movie, meaning a start time around 11 pm.  Too late for a kid.  Especially on a school night.  But after checking the weekly television guide on Sunday afternoons, I would set the alarm on the old clock radio I found one afternoon in the garage, go to bed when told, only to wake as the glowing digital numbers struck 22:55, with no one the wiser.

                For these special occasions I’d keep hidden high up on the top shelf of my closet a sugary treasure trove of Strawberries and Creams, Redskins, Mates, Freckles and Raspberries.  The Raspberries were my favourite.  There could never be too many Raspberries in a bag of mixed lollies.  After reclaiming my booty and climbing down the rickety scaffolding made up of open drawers, chairs and the occasional He-Man action figure (used as a chock for stability), I’d skulk into the living room, and slowly, gingerly twist the volume knob on the television down to mute before switching it on (this step was imperative as failure to do so could result in parents being woken in the next room, resulting in disaster).  Once on, I’d carefully increase the TV’s volume just enough so I could hear the howling 500cc two strokes being wrung out half a world away.  ‘Not too much now’ I’d think, quietly.  ‘ Just enough.’  As the cathode ray tubes warmed, the dark room would soon be filled with a flickering blue hue, and in the middle would be me, sitting cross-legged on the floor, rotting my teeth, enthralled.

Sometimes though, things didn’t exactly go to plan.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

Bugger!  It was Dad, on his way to the bathroom.  Or the kitchen.  Possibly both.

                ‘Watching the 500’s.’  I’d say, eyes firmly fixed on the carpet.

                ‘No you’re not.  Get back to bed.  At.  Once.’

‘But!’ I pleaded, tears welling in my eyes, ‘if Wayne Gardner finishes 4^th and beats Randy Mamola he’ll be the first Aussie to win the world championship!’  I didn’t actually understand what any of this meant at the time, but Barry Sheene had said so in his inimitable, breezy way during his pre-race expert analysis, so it must have been true.

                Strangely, uncharacteristically, he began to soften.

                ‘Where did you get those lollies?’

                ‘Milk bar.’

                ‘Where did you get the money?’

                ‘Mum.’

                ‘Sounds like she and I will have to have a chat about that.’

Sounds like someone forgot he bought a farm.

Curiously, no one else in my family shares my obsession.  It wasn’t inherited from a father who found comfort tinkering in the garage.  Nor was my older brother ever particularly fussed about compression ratios or tyre compounds.  Over the years though they have come to accept it, if not necessarily understand.  I now have a nephew who looks to be cast from the same die as me, but he’s still too young to fully appreciate a Marc Marquez two wheel drift, and he thinks it’s hilarious to steal my spot on the couch when I get up to grab a beer in the middle of a race.  Still, even though it goes against my rule of not trusting anyone who routinely eschews trousers, for the time being I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt…

                With the exception of Max Biaggi, not many people who start motor racing in their late teens or early twenties become world champions.  I can speculate on what might have been if my parents had come through on the mini-bike, but as it stands I can only look on from behind the barriers and wonder what might have been.  As I said before, I love anything with an engine.  And while F1 might be the pinnacle, I’m just as interested in the weekend warrior who drives 6 or 8 hours week after week just to lay down some hot laps.  So that’s what this is about.  The full gamut of motor racing.  One week might be a round of the World Endurance Championship, the next might be a local motocross meet.  If someone’s there to hold it wide open, I’ll be there to watch (and in turn write about it).