Boogity, boogity, boogity...

The previous evening we had been kept entertained by a group of Germans who had arrived on site somewhat more prepared than us. They’d bought with them several huge motorhomes and a 40′ truck loaded with beer, fireworks and a serious sound system. This morning we were not amused when they decided 7am was a good time to get the show up and running once more and proceeded to play some dreadful oom-pah music (okay, fair point, it’s all dreadful) at a volume that would have drowned out the race cars. Fantastic.

I wandered back towards the village to find that someone had turned over the second portaloo and there was now sewage rolling from its door and into the gutter. I was pointed in the direction of the Germans. I was unamused but, as I made my way towards them to tell them how I felt, my friends informed me of the news that Colin McRae had tragically been killed in helicopter crash the previous evening. Frustration turned to sadness and despair. People who had seen Colin drive might have accepted that he was never going to grow old gracefully - indeed he had walked away from numerous car wrecks that he probably had no right to walk away from - but to die in a helicopter crash just seemed so wrong. It would later emerge that he was taking his son and his young friend for a quick pleasure trip which will have made far more sense to anyone that ever knew Colin. RIP fella.

The race itself proved to be uneventful but it was a great feeling to be there at such an amazing venue. We had only been able to afford Bronze tickets (the cheap ones!) so we weren’t able to get to the best viewing spots such as Eau Rouge (we could partly see it over a fence and it looked abslutely insane) and La Source but we found ourselves a reasonable spot on the final corner. The race was still a number of hours away so we went off to get some food and have a quick look around. We returned 45 minutes later to find the area rammed. People were everywhere and we were reduced to elbowing our way as far forward as we could get - which was three or four rows back from the front - damn. Never mind, by now word was spreading about Colins death, an it seemed completely wrong to be concerned by not having a perfect view of a motor race.

The mood was lightened as the drivers were introduced. When Alonso was introduced the whole place erupted. As the driver who was finally able to take the fight to Schumacher (to such an extent that he gave up and retired) he had become really popular. But that had changed over the past days due to his part in the ‘Spygate’ affair. He looked utterly stunned when almost the whole crowd started booing him and shouting insults at him. As it said on the side of out car, get bent Alonso!

It wasn’t to be McLaren’s day, running across the line in third and fourth places, but we left happy. We also left in the wrong direction (don’t ask) and it was 7pm before we finally got back to the car and made a dash for the port. It was 250 miles away and we had 3 hours to get there. Never gonna happen.

We rolled into town at 1130pm and, to our relief, they were happy to stick us on the 1215am crossing. I finally made it to bed at 330am which was bad enough, but I was off to Dublin for work the next morning and had to be at work at 430am! I’ve never been one for sleeping on planes but I didn’t even realise that we’d taken off until we bounced and skidded our way down the runway in Dublin…

I’m still totally shattered - ten hours sleep in three days isn’t the best idea if it’s something you were considering - and gutted about Colin but, despite it all, it was an exceptional weekend. Next time we’re planning on driving down to Monza…

I was woken at 5am by my alarm clock and a commotion outside in the street. I blearily stumbled from my bed, quickly got dressed and made my way outside to see what the hell could be happening at that time of the day. I was greeted by the sight of Simon, presumably annoyed at having to get up so early on a weekend, taking out his frustration on his car. When we’d calmed him down and loaded our kit on board we were off.

First stop was on the other side of town to show our support to the McLaren boys. Then it was pedal to the metal all the way to the ferry. The drive down is always tedious but it was especially tedious this morning as it was pitch black and there was hardly anyone on the road. I hate it when there’s nothing to see. We passed the time by sending text messages to the guy on the radio - apparently the only other person who was awake - but he never did give in and mention our protest a mention on air. Tosser!

Eventually we neared Dover and, as we crested the final hill and descended to the docks, the sun finally appeared on the horizon. I don’t know what it is with me and watching the sun rise but I do love it. For some reason I found watching it rise over the English Channel particularly inspiring and I found myself watching in wonder. I was bought back to reality when a madman in a minibus roared past with one hand on his horn and the other waving madly out of the window. It took me a moment to spot it, perhaps due to his passengers waving their arms around and giving us the thumbs up, but there was a small logo on the back door. McLaren. I think they rather liked our ‘We still love you Ron!’ sticker!

The crossing was uneventful - unless you count a slight, and apparently quite entertaining, disagreement between a rather stroppy barman and I - and we were soon rolling down the ramp onto French soil. One thing that anyone who has visited the UK will be able to tell you is that it is a damn expensive place to live which is generally due to the British goverments belief that it’s a good idea to tax the hell out of anything that moves. And double tax anything that doesn’t. Alcohol and fuel are two prime examples and the French have long known that there’s a buck to be made and have built dozens and dozens of huge wine and beer warehouses in Calais to attract the Brits. With this in mind you’ll probably be able to guess our first port of call.

After a couple of hours wandering round Auchan in Coquelles we were off towards Belgium. It wasn’t a short drive and we were soon heading off across the country towards Holland. We had no reason to be heading towards Holland except for the fact that it was only 20 miles off our route and Tabby had never been there. It was Tabby’s birthday, after all, so it would have been rude not to go. I had noted the proximity of Germany and Luxembourg as we neared our destination but the journey took longer than planned so we never quite made it. We’d have to save that for another time.

I mentioned previously that we didn’t know where we were going when we neared the circuit but we felt safe in the knowledge that it was a big event and there would be signs. Wrong. We headed into Spa and were surprised to find little sign that such a big event was occuring so close. It was totally dead. I guess Belgium gets a little less excited about these things than the US.

Eventually we rolled into the village of Francorchamps where we stumbled over the collection point for our race tickets. We pulled over to the side of the road to see if it was open - it wasn’t - and were approached by a, let’s be polite and describe him as ‘merry’, Canadian who had flown over for the race. He was fascinated by the Dale Jr sticker in the back window of the car and when we explained that we’re fans of his and always cheer for him when we’re at the races, he expressed amazement that we’d travel so far to see a race. Erm, hello Mr Merry… you’re not exactly a local to Belgium, are you? We gave him another beer and he waddled off in the direction of a bar.

As the collection point was closed for the evening we would have to return in the morning and the decision was made for us. There was no way we were driving on raceday so we would be staying in Francorchamps by hook or by crook. We’d passed numerous campgrounds but they all looked rammed and we decided the only option was to visit each one in turn and ask if they had any space left. Seriously unlikely. We turned onto the first one but there was no-one manning the gate so we drove into the site to see for ourself. Not only was there masses of space but there was a real party going on around us. It was less than 0.5km go the ticket collection point and another 2km to the circuit. This was perfect. We pitched our tents and agreed that we would find someone to pay later.

We never did find anyone to pay which was a) a bonus and b) very lucky as we blew all our hard-earned Euros (I still dont know why we persevere with Stirling in the UK, but that’s not a discussion for this site) after wandering into the village. I am delighted to report that Francorchamps was just completely different to Spa: it was buzzing. As we made our way out of the village we found that we weren’t the only people who had developed a dislike for Fernando Alonso who, it transpired, was responsible for dropping his team in it.

People really were out to have a laugh and we even found a tree that someone had felled. We decided it would look great next to our tent and headed back with it. We built a camp fire and cracked open a bottle a JD. Our Dutch neighbours would soon return and we ended up having a great evening drinking and eating. I think I put on half a stone but it was seriously good fun and, after semi losing touch with Simon and Tabby it was fantastic to finally spend some - as the saying goes - ‘quality time’ with them. It certainly was quality and we finally got off to bed around 2am. It was another long day!

Normally it takes weeks - no, months - to plan one of my infamous roadtrips. This one didn’t take months, it took about five minutes. And it was one of the best yet.

It all stated last weekend when a couple of friends came up to stop at my place en route to Donington where we all had tickets for the World Series by Renault raceday. I’d not seen either of them for months and had been looking forward to catching up when they arrived. Unfortunately they were delayed arriving and didn’t make it here until 11pm so, by the time we’d done catching up, it was getting light and we’d done a case of beer and a bottle of JD.

Needless to say we never made it to Donington the next morning. Instead we settled for a lie-in followed by a stroll around the lake and a roast dinner back at my house whilst we watched the Grand Prix from Monza on TV. No alcohol for us today - we’re getting old and were still suffering a little from the night before - but the meal was somehow good without it. Which is surprising for something that I cooked.

If there had have been a supply of alcohol then maybe the random suggestion that “hey, we should go to the Grand Prix at Spa next weekend” would have received the usual smile and nod of the head. And then been politely laughed off but the idea somehow stuck. Twenty minutes later we had booked three race tickets and a ferry crossing. Then we got the map out to see where Spa actually was. It all seemed rather odd to be heading off to watch a series that we didn’t have any massive interest in. My usual destination would be Nascar and I can’t wait to get to the race. As soon as I’ve booked my tickers the excitement builds. This time something seemed to be missing somehow.

Fast forward a few days and (my local F1 team) McLaren are fined $100m for being naughty boys. No-one disagrees that they shouldn’t have received the infamous dossier but, hell, this is F1 and this sort of thing is the norm. Even for F1 that level of fine is most certainly NOT the norm. It wasn’t about about what they had done at all. It was politics. And people don’t like politics in sport.

Feelings were running high amongst fans of both Ferrari and McLaren and suddenly that interest level started picking up. Controvesy sells. I called Simon later that evening and plans were forged for for a protest against the whole thing. Suddenly I was feeling that excitement!

Friday came and again I was waiting up for Simon and Tabby to arrive. No JD this time - we had a horribly early start the next morning - but we did manage to stay up til 130am chatting and realising just ho unprepared for the trip we actually were. We had no idea where we were set to collect our tickets from, no real idea where the circuit actually was (we typed Spa into the satnav and went for it!) and had no campground booked. The last one was really worrying me but, hell, no point worrying now. There may be 100,000 people trying to find accomodation in a small town in a small European country but there’d be room for us, right?

Usually I have terrible trouble sleeping on planes but I was surprised to have to be woken as we started our descent into Manchester. I had slept - on and off - for most of the night. For me this was a major achievement and I felt wide awake as I stepped off the plane. I’ve never felt that good before and I hurried Andy along, one final time, as we headed through the terminal building towards the delights of the English summer and the worst that the M6 could throw at us.

Our plans for a speedy getaway were well and truly thwarted as we approached a huge queue at passport control. Now, I’ve seen some queues in my time, mostly on arrival in the US, but this was like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It was long enough to suck the life right out of you. Thankfully the process of waving your passport at a thoroughly disinterested agent of the British government is infinitely quicker than the grilling you receive from their counterparts in the US who positively revel in watching you squirm and, after a 45 minute delay we were finally free to make our way through the airport to the bus stands where we would catch a ride to where I had parked my car.

After almost stepping onto the wrong bus, and a further wait for ours to arrive, we were returned to the parking lot near the airport. It’s bad enough to get back to the UK after a holiday, worse still to find the weather was still cold and wet but the worst thing was surely to find they’d parked my car under a tree and let the birds do their - not inconsiderable - worst all over it! Still there was nothing that could be achieved by whinging about it so we hit the road one final time. Next stop: Andy’s apartment in Silverstone.

The final day. Bugger. Having been slave to the alarm clock for the past couple of weeks we decided to wake up in our own time today as there were just two places that we had to visit today - Atlanta Motor Speedway to pick up last years Nascar review DVD and the Martin Luther King Jr National Historic Site. I was taken to the latter by a friend last year, not expecting to find it interesting, but came away with a real interest in the subject. This led me to visit a number of related sites earlier this year and, having now visited Birmingham, Montgomery, Little Rock and Memphis, where MLK was shot, I felt a desire to return to the place he was born once more.

Before I returned though, we would head south to Atlanta Motor Speedway. I didn’t really know what to expect but I had read that you could take track tours for around five bucks. That sounded like a bargain to me and I felt sure that Andy would approve.

When I was finally allowed to leave the motel I was ordered to stop at the nearby gas station so that sir could buy milk. I’m still not entirely sure why he couldn’t get milk when he had his breakfast but life is full of mysteries. Another mystery is why I agreed - but then you’d not expect it to take a full twenty minutes to navigate your way to the opposite side of the road and back again. To say I was un-amused was possibly an understatement but hell; at least he got his milk! The drive south was, thankfully, rather less eventful and we soon found ourselves turning into the parking lot and making our way to the gift shop where the tours run from.

We were greeted by a friendly guy who invited us to have a look around his store and explained, when we asked about the tours, that we’d just missed the last one. I looked at Andy and gave him a one of those stares of which any woman would have been proud then looked back to the bemused shop assistant and said, “well, at least he got his bloody milk.” The poor guy didn’t have any idea what my problem was but he sure knew there was a problem and offered to take us round himself if we were able to return after dinner. I could have kissed him but resisted the temptation and limited my gratitude to a big smile and a sincere thank-you.

As they had sold out of the precious Nascar DVD we decided that perhaps we should head back along the road to the Walmart that we had seen on our way in and have a look there. By this stage Andy was getting brave - or scared, I’m not sure which - and was able to stray more than a yard from me without hyperventilating. We agreed to meet back at the car in an hour which would have left us 20 minutes to drive back to the speedway in time to meet the guy who was going to take us for our tour.

Almost two hours later, me sat in the car banging my head on the steering wheel, Andy returns. He doesn’t even have time to close his door before we are off in the direction of the exit. We made very good time back to the speedway and arrive around half an hour late. Thankfully the guy was still happy to take us out on our tour and he even managed to collar another three passengers who happened to be visiting the gift shop at the time. We all climbed onboard the van and sped off for our tour around the speedway property.

After showing us a number of interesting features around the outside perimeter of the track - how many people realise that the property features a small family cemetery, for example - we headed through the infield tunnel into the paddock and into pitlane. Our driver stopped the van, invited us to buckle up, then span the wheels and roared down pitlane doing a fine impression of Juan Pablo Montoya as we raced onto the track. We did three or four hot laps, running right up on the high line as our speed picked up, before returning to pitlane. He locked up the brakes as we stormed into a pitbox leaving us passengers looking for our pitcrew to leap over the wall to change our wheels and top up the gas. Sadly that was the end of the fun and we were driven slowly back to the gift shop before being turfed out and sent on our way. I hadn’t realised it at the time but Andy assures me that the speedo in the van was reading over 100mph for most of that time. Money well spent and I’d recommend it to anyone - even if you’re not a petrol head.

Finally, last stop before the airport: Martin Luther King Jr National Historic Site. Last time I had visited we had got terribly lost and ended up in a pretty scary area. This time, thanks to the satnav, we found our way straight to the door. In the end it was a bit of a disappointment; not a patch on the museum at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis. But it was interesting to see Andy’s attitude change from one of disinterest to one of disbelief as we made our way around the museum. I suspect that I was being similarly observed last time around.

 
A quick drive through downtown Atlanta - again interesting to watch Andy’s reaction! - and back to the airport. It was a sad moment to have to hand back the keys to the car and get onto the bus back to the terminal. I had enjoyed the trip enormously but was looking forward to getting home and having my own space again. To celebrate I joined Andy in a massive feast as we waited for our delayed flight. This time it was him observing me; after ten days of me bugging him for constantly eating he was confused!