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 2nd 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 11th 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 1st 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…
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