15 Sep 05
And I was properly frightened. All the things you might think would bother an enthusiastic - but distinctly amateur - club racer like me strangely didn't concern me too much. The weather was foul, the light was fading fast and there were 54 other lunatics out there for me to fall over, but what really ate at my guts was none of these - just the prospect of failing to bring it back in the right number of pieces for the next driver. Each car had four drivers, and Mazda had made it very clear that anyone driving in a manner it thought prejudicial to their car finishing the race would be off the team, and on the way home, before you could say 'fired'. But the even greater imperative to me was to hand it safely over to my team-mates.
Ah yes, the team-mates. Well, one of the other three with whom I shared the car was another journalist with over 200 races to his name; the other two were professional racing drivers. One, Ian Flux, is a legend in sports car and touring car circles the world over, the second, Mike Wilds, is a former Formula One driver who also has eight Le Mans to his credit. And there was l'il ole me - with my rather more modest record of 20 races to my name, mainly in old crocks. As I taped up my radio ear-pieces and pulled on my balaclava, I predicted it would be about five laps before my crew chief came on the line and said: 'Frankel, you are the weakest link. Goodbye.' I hoped he wouldn't add a good riddance for good measure.
Racing is a fairly strange business, even in normal circumstances, and about as far from normal fast road driving or even track-day driving as jumping out of an aircraft compared to jumping off the middle diving board at your local pool. If you are not accelerating as fast as you can, to the maximum speed the engine can survive, or braking as hard as your racing tyres will allow, or cornering right on the limit of those tyres' adhesion, you have no business being on the track.
