[oldfogey]

I went off for my annual jaunt to Le Mans for the 24-hr car race mid-June. A group of us have been going for several years, varying composition each year depending on personal commitments, but usually two to four of us on bikes and four to six of us in cars, two per car. The latter are usually something interesting, a Cobra or GT40 Replica, a Caterham, Lotus Elise. Bikes usually my VFR, friend Guy on my old 916 and Allan on a blue Blackbird.

We stay about 25 miles away from the track in a small market town in a typical, family-run modest hotel. The kind you have to climb narrow stairs and think thin as you squeeze into the shower and still don’t get very wet. Great welcome, good food, good car park and they leave us to our own devices on Sunday night when they’re officially closed.

We set off early on Friday morning, about 5:45 in my case, to gather at 8am for a Channel Tunnel shuttle. With the hour time difference, that’s 9:30 in Calais and straight onto the Autoroute towards Rouen. Official speed limit 130km/h but the police are ok with 150km/h.

One of the delights of this trip is the variety of vehicles the spectators take. We parked next to a brand new Aston Martin DB9 before the shuttle. Every kind of modern Ferrari, Porsche, Maserati, Aston, TVR, Lotus etc you can think of. Each sports car club organises a trip to Le Mans with their own camping place at the circuit.

So, with the British drivers taking the French police seriously, we all cruise with the Citroen and Peugeot diesels, an occasional faster vehicle for a short blast then slowing to rejoin the procession.

We meet at a service station with a friend in an MGA, pristine 1957 in red. He’s running in a newly rebuilt 1500 engine, so maximum speed for the moment the French legal Autoroute limit. He started earlier and is about to leave after breakfast, while we fill up with coffee and croissant and then fuel. We’ll catch him up at the last service station before Rouen and escort him through the centre on our “quick route”.

We duly meet up and then trundle through Rouen. Traffic is directed round the city, but it’s much quicker to go through the middle if you know the way. It’s over three bridges, each one-way, but we manage not to lose Harvey in the MGA and are soon clear so we can head for a village restaurant for our first decent French meal. It’s usually a good idea to head off the main roads to a small town for the busiest local restaurant. Just remember that in France lunch starts at 12:30 and arriving after 1:30 will pose real problems. Suitably refreshed, we head for the main Rouen / Le Mans road, a single carriageway, 90 km/h road with long straights, many solid white lines and a heavily trafficked road. Plus, on this Friday with a long line of fast British vehicles, a smattering of French police radar traps keeping things sensible and raising some much needed taxation. If you get caught more than 50km/h over the limit, it’s 750 Euros fine and your license confiscated. Oh, and they don’t take plastic. Keeping with the Harvey in the MGA, who doesn’t know the way, is a bit frustrating when the queues build up around traffic lights or town centres, but makes for a gentle tour down.

The weather is comfortable, low 20’c centigrade and overcast. We’re wearing backpacks to begin with but dump them in the car’s footwell once we start travelling together.

We arrive in Mamers where we stay for the weekend, around 5:30 local time: park up, say hello to Madame, shower and change. Then a visit to the delightful town square which includes a medieval market hall and church with fortified tower for a beer or two before dinner at the hotel. This year there’s only the three of us: Guy, who bought my 916 from me, new boy Harvey and me. Too many children doing exams this time of year for dads of a certain age. Mine are past that and the other two, twelve years younger than me, not yet of that age. Allan, the Blackbird-owning-friend who usually comes, is racing this weekend in a Lola-Ford classic sportscar series. Another couple of guys who stay at the same hotel have arrived in a Rover V8 estate, an interesting choice, which has been recently purchased in the bankruptcy sale. This is the Mustang-engined version of the originally BMW-designed family car. Sounds good and goes quite quickly! We dine well, Monsieur (who drives in a cheap saloon racing series) performing his chef duties admirably.

Up early on Saturday so we can buy fruit and water at the local supermarket and get to the circuit to buy our race tickets, get the MGA parked and then bike to Arnage to see the supporting classics race which starts at 10:15. The traffic is as bad as ever: clearly more people are attending the classic race this year. The roads from Mamers to the circuit are great: typically French country roads, decently surfaced. winding but open, and we enjoy a brisk (still in company with the MG) journey until we hit the circuit traffic.

The race is on public roads which are closed for the weekend and prior to that for practice. This means that round the circuit you are forced onto a very few official routes. The gendarmes are being very strict by their usual standards as to where you can park, so I dash off on the bike to the main entrance, buy our three tickets (60 Euros each for the weekend) and meet the other two at a pre-arranged point. The MGA has been officially parked for the day, Harvey is on the back of the Ducati, and we squeeze past the traffic to park at Arnage corner where we arrive just in time to watch the classic race. 1930’s Bentleys and Delages, together with post war Jaguar C- and D-types, MGA’s (it’s the 50th anniversary of the first MGA racing here, hence Harvey’s pilgrimage), an Allard and various others. Fabulous sounds. Some are really racing, some just enjoying a fast drive round the classic circuit. It finishes at 11:15am and the main race doesn’t start till 4pm, so unlike the car drivers and campers who are stuck at the circuit, we get back on the bikes with Harvey on the back of the VFR this time and head south on the main road which is a continuation of the Mulsanne straight to another market town on the road towards Tours, Chateau du Loir. There’s a Saturday market going on in the square where we leave the bikes, so we wonder in admiration at the variety of local food on sale before heading over to one of the square’s restaurants for lunch. The temperature is now up to around 32-33C in the shade, so biking clothing is getting a little warm, particularly the boots.

We send Harvey out riding the 916 while Guy rides pillion on the VFR until we get to within 5 miles of Mulsanne when Guy takes back the Duke and we park up near the main entrance. Harvey rings his mate who was racing the MGA in the classic race and he blags our way into the paddock. I spend a delirious half an hour looking at and photographing the machinery and talking to the MG crowd. One of the grey hairs there is looking over the twin-cam MGA coupe, and it turns out he was the mechanic who prepared the engine for that car when it raced originally at Le Mans.

The open racing MGA which is the 1955 car is having its tyres changed so it can be driven back to England, shepherded by a Range Rover. We say our goodbyes, wander back to the bike and ride round the circuit again to find a good shady spot along from Eau Rouge to watch the first couple of hours of the race.

It’s 4pm, we’re stood with earplugs in listening to the English language Radio Le Mans and they’re off! The French Pescarolo leading the works Audis and the Astons leading the Corvettes. The noise is always spectacular, standing perhaps 15 feet away from side by side cars accelerating up the long straight. The Corvettes and Panoz sound marvellous, their deep bass rumble seeming like gentle giants compared to the high revving sports prototypes. The earth shakes every few seconds as the cars circulate in a by now continuous stream, the refuelling stops having broken up the pattern. From now on, to know who’s winning a class, you either have to keep a lap chart or listen to the commentary.

We watch until around 6pm, get back on the bikes and take Harvey back to where the MGA is parked so we can drive & ride back to the hotel in Mamers. Following a shower and change, we head for the square for a quick pastis before sampling the menu at the better of the town’s restaurants. We’ve been eating here on the Saturday evening of Le Mans for six or seven years and the menu has never changed. France as she used to be, but sadly now rarer every year. We eat well, foie gras, steak au poivre or marmite sarthoise and flambéed apple pancakes accompanied by a bottle of sweet Vouvray and one of red Chinon. A wander round the town to settle the meal, followed by a good sleep until 3am.

Up and out on the bikes, just Guy and I, a fast ride to the circuit to watch the last half hour of racing at night by the Porsche Curves and to see dawn break. I love watching the cars spear through the dark, brake discs glowing as they slow briefly before accelerating away to the next bend. The air, still warm from the previous hot day, cools as dawn breaks and the dew forms. At six we ride through the glorious early morning, hardly any traffic and no lingering police but watchful of sleepy locals at junctions. We fall back into bed and set alarms for 9am to meet Harvey for breakfast. He’s not staying for Sunday’s racing, he wants to wander back through Normandy’s country roads and catch a late Sunday ferry without getting caught up in the race traffic. We go heavy on the coffee, bread and butter and wave him off.

Replenishing our stocks of water (it’s forecast hotter today and we got through 8 litres yesterday) we set off back to the circuit. Another great ride through the countryside, but the insects are out and near one particular field we get almost blinded by green bugs crashing on our visors. We head back to the Porsche Curves and stand in the shade of an awning kindly erected by a camping group from Essex who allow us a bit of their shade. Temperatures around 38C in the shade, probably 45C in the sun for much of the day. The prototype race between virtually privateer Pescarolos and works Audis remains evenly balanced. One of each has had serious problems but they’re still fighting with five hours to go. The Astons are leading the Corvettes, but not by much and the Corvettes are running like clockwork. We’ve heard the organisers in their typical fashion were annoyed the Astons were so quick, too close to the prototypes. The Corvettes, last year’s class winners, were handicapped to produce lap times of around 3m55s but the Astons can lap at 3m51.5s having not run here before. A couple of 10 second drive-through penalties are given to the Astons to even things out, helped by their greater thirst for fuel and thus more frequent stops.

We wander through the camping at Maison Blanc, the core British supporters’ area to enjoy an amazing variety of vehicles. A Bristol 405 saloon and an Ogle Mini Cooper take our eye as rarities and we chat to their owners. We admire a new TVR Sagitta (?), new to us, and drool over various old and new Ferraris and Astons.

Lunchtime, so we ride off to a favourite café in Arnage village. A basic, omelette or steak and chips kind of place with awnings set outside to protect the visiting influx from the weather. This year it’s from the unrelenting sun, but last year it was from torrential rain. In the car park is a badly parked Ferrari F40. We look around to see who might be the rich owner, but it’s not obvious. A ZX9R-engined Westfield comes in to balance out the interest. Half way through lunch a Jeep and a low-loader arrive. The F40 has problems, it would appear. Gleaming toolsets are produced from the back of the Jeep, the bodywork of the F40 goes up and everyone watches to see if they can get the car started. After ten minutes or so and with a spare battery pack, the F40 chugs and then whizzes into life accompanied by much blue smoke. All depart, the distinct remark “So you’ll be back tomorrow to get me started at the track” being heard. Immediately after the F40 goes, a bright yellow Hummer takes its place. We decide this must be the most attention-seeking vehicle in Le Mans.

Back to Indianapolis corner for the final two hours of racing. It doesn’t look like the Pescarolo can get back into the lead, but its circulating signficantly faster than the leading Audi and it’s mathematically possible it could overtake it by 4pm. The Astons are still leading the Corvettes, but it’s close. Indianapolis turns out to be an interesting place for the next couple of hours. The unusual heat is causing the surface to break up, and this is an S curve after a long, fast straight. At least eight cars end up in the gravel trap, one by one, though they all are rescued or manage to drive their way out. One is the sole TVR, still running. TVR managed to finish last year too, so the TVR clubs cheer to see it back on its way. But wait, the radio tells us the leading Aston is in the pits with serious cooling problems. They’re using ice, and it doesn’t look like the car can continue. The same lap, the other Aston comes to a halt out on the circuit with probably electrical problems. The corvettes, now first and second in their class, continue to circulate like clockwork.

Just before the end of the race, the team gets the Aston out of the pits so it can finish third in class and be classified. The Pescarolo settles for second with Audi filling the other top places and they go for a formation finish, great for the publicity shots. The big crowd (always many Brits, Germans and Dutch) with a strong French contingent given the opportunity for success with the Pescarolo is 30% bigger than last year and loudly applauds each finisher in sporting style.

That’s the race over for another year, and we join the heavy traffic out of the circuit, glad not to have to worry about the MG as we slot through the traffic, then clear of Le Mans we enjoy those country roads back to Mamers. There are lots of people out on the side of the road waving to the foreign cars and bikes, incredibly welcoming. In England if you ride a bike you’re an outcast, suspect of the worst vices. In France you’re an honoured guest, your vehicle choice admired.

This is also true on the way back on Monday. We hit heavy traffic several times, often with solid white line markings. The French drivers generally pull to the side to let you overtake them within the markings, all fully legal. The few drivers who sit in the middle, refusing to let you past inevitably have British numberplates.

But back to Sunday night. Normally we retire to the bar in the square, followed by a couple of hours in a creperie. There’s usually an F1 race on in the evening, so the sports bar is perfect. It’s usually Montreal, but this year’s Le Mans is a week later, so it’s Indianapolis. We chat about the cars we’ve seen, the Le Mans race and the prospects for the F1 race. Then we find that everything is shut! Sunday night is often a problem in French towns. Our hotel is officially closed, but normally there are couple of places open. But today, not a single bar! We walk around and eventually find a pizzeria with a tv, perfect we think and very welcoming. We’re early for eating, ‘cos we thought we were going for a couple of drinks first, but that’s ok. We still manage a couple of beers and the pizza arrives just as the coverage of the race starts. We relax, and then…..What a debacle! The Michelin runners pull off after the parade lap and the grid forms up with two Ferraris, two Jordans and two Minardis. We turn off the tv and eat our pizza in peace. Since there’s nothing else open, we go for a long walk round the town and come back for another beer before heading back for a decent night’s sleep.

The temperature on Monday is a much more pleasant mid twenties and we enjoy the roads back to Calais via Rouen and Boulogne, where we have lunch in the old walled town before a quick sprint to the tunnel for our scheduled 3:30 shuttle. Long queues, and plenty of policemen. We worry briefly whether there were some images on radar of our bikes somewhere before being ticked off on a list without a ticking off for anything else.

Back to Blighty and the crowded, M25 in late afternoon. Three lanes driving at 65mph when you’re lucky. What a contrast! A couple of hours later I’m back home. Give the VFR a quick wash to get rid of the flies and road grime, a quick trip to the supermarket for essentials and then unpack and clothes in the wash.

Except… I notice footmarks on the car’s bonnet and dents on the roof, and scratches on the boot. Some idiot has run up the bonnet, over the roof and slid down the boot. I check with the neighbours. It happened around half past midnight on Friday night, youths worse the wear for drink, the alarm went off but by the time the neighbours looked out of their windows the lads were running full pelt down the road. That’ll teach me to leave the car on the road. I’m a bit shocked by this, as well as fairly tired, and proceed to drop the bike while putting it into the garage, thinking the side stand was down when it wasn’t. No damage except to my ego, though it didn’t do the back any good picking the bike up from horizontal.

Hey Ho!

I had Ohlins suspension put on the back and the fork spring replaced last winter. Just before the trip I treated the VFR to new Pirelli Corsas. I reckoned I’d probably be the slowest rider on the road in the UK with these tyres, but I like to have the bike more capable than its rider. The comfort on a long trip was excellent, and the period riding with pillion eye-opening. I probably hadn’t ridden seriously with a pillion, other than round the block, for at least seven years. The bike was set up for me, not for two my weight, but it handled fine two-up. Ground clearance was restricted, pegs decking in corners, but the ride soft as a pillow. Between the 916 and the VFR, the pillion only tried the 916 once.

Guy and I always swap bikes on these trips. I love riding my old 916 again, it’s so solid and confidence inspiring with a natural, speedy gait and great torque: power whenever you want it. But boy did if feel slow and heavy to steer after the VFR. Reluctant, even, in comparison. I’ve still got plenty of sticky-out bits of rubber on the sides of the rear tyre of the VFR, indicating how little I lean the bike. I kept trying to persuade myself to lean the bike further going into bends, but couldn’t reprogramme the brain. I can accelerate out and lean over happily through the bend, but tipping in is something I still find difficult. I knew the bike would cope, but I look forward to enjoying a bit more of its new capabilities.

[phobiaphobe]

Sounds like a good run.

[Pete]

Thanks, 'fogey, I really enjoyed the read!

[oldfogey]

Sorry it's so long and no pictures. I have finally purchased a digital camera, but am now strugggling to work out how to download and host. It's taken me, what, seven years to get this far, so I suppose you can expect pictures from me in another five!

Edit: Managed (much to my surprise) to download photos to my gallery, so anyone who wants to look at some bad digital photos (first ever, and don't know how to edit yet!) of old cars in paddock plus some racers at a distance, see if you can get into my gallery