Endurance spectating at Le Mans 2009 - part 2

On the Thursday, Al and I had a run out in the Morgan to Blois. Al always reckons that you have to pace yourself when spectating the Le Mans 24 Hours. You can get over excited and then race will eat you up. Many people never leave the campsite, sleeping off hangovers by day and raising hell all night. Some are wired into the excellent Le Man FM radio station and wander around in a world of their own with combination radio hats and enormous ear phones/ear defenders that blot out all other noise around them.

Blois is about an hour and a half away, to the south east on the River Loire – Blois on the Loire via Amboise, where they eat framboise (raspberries to me and you). King Stephen of England (famous for fighting Queen Matilda) was born here around 1097 but the town’s other notable feature is a magic museum – La Maison de la Magie - dedicated to Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin. I’d never heard of him but he’s the guy Harry Houdini named himself after (although he made a mistake and actually named himself after Jean Eugène’s wife – to find out how he screwed up so badly you’ll have to visit the house of magic in Blois).

Robert-Houdin was an illusionist, clockmaker and inventor. Alan is in the Magic Circle so knew all about him. Robert-Houdin used electricity in his illusions and is hailed by many as the father of modern conjuring. You can buy magic tricks and see a magic show. Some of the tricks with mirrors are brilliant and I particularly liked the mirror goggle walk in the attic – it’s best to try this with a large number of giggling friends.

Best of all, though, is an animatronic display of dragons that come out of the windows at regular intervals. I always thought there was something sinister about French houses when they have their shutters up and now I know what lurks behind them.

On the way back we bought supplies at the local supermarche, which was full of British blokes away from home trying unsuccessfully to come to terms with the French solution to landfill problems and carrier bags. They just don't give out carrier bags anymore. So, no carrier bags and no problems about landfill, either, which must be a very elegant solution but bloody annoying if you're from Blighty and weren't expecting this. Al had come prepared, though.

Back at the race track, Alan broke out his wok and we had another superb bit of trough. He's a brilliant cook but you wouldn't want to poison a pig with what I produce. I can wash up though.

As darkness fell, we made our way to the Ford curves just before the finishing straight where we joined a hard core of determined late night spectators. This was the last night of practice and the point where the starting order would be determined. The crowds were out in force and all the popular vantage points were heaving.

Even the less popular ones had become a bit, er, popular. (Photo by Alan Mansell)

The fair does a roaring trade night on night and in what is known as the village are many shops selling fast food for fast car nuts, those hat radios with ear defenders that you hardly ever see anywhere else and all manner of merchandise relating to the manufacturers, sponsors or drivers. Steve McQueen had a high profile this year - "Racing is everything. Anything before or after is just waiting."

Nuff said.

We were down by Porsche curves when the French guy on the tannoy began to go mental. The buzz went through the crowd that Stephane Sarrazin had just done an eleventh hour flying lap to put the Number 8 Peugeot 908 HDi on pole in front of the Number 1 Audi of Alan McNish. The Peugeots had come close to winning the year before and with Audi fielding new V10 cars as well as a pair of last year's race winning V12s, it was going to be very interesting race. A guy next to me was beside himself and me with the prospect - "I thought last year was good, man! But this year could be better!

The next morning I awoke feeling completely refreshed. This was where we wanted to be. A Dodge Ram truck with slicks on its rear tyres had been circulating round Houx camping doing rolling burn outs until the small hours and there was always music somewhere.

But I was in race mode. It seemed disquietingly peaceful to me without the roar of engines and some noise was necessary to really relax. This was Friday. We could either go to the pits, which were open or to the St Saturnin Classic British Welcome. Later, everyone would be in the centre of Le Mans for the driver's parade.

The St Saturnin Classic British Welcome was a new one on me. Alan had heard a rumour that there was to be a big Morgan presence but it wasn't very well publicised and details about timings were scarce. I've found this in France before and don't think it's anything to do with the language difference. I think in France they believe you already know about things that interest you. If you want to go badly enough you'll find out so there's no point in telling you if you might like to go. Fortunately, although my little gang seem to always plan on being spontaneous, Al knew where this was held.

St Saturnin lies to the north of Le Mans and Alan told me that in days gone by the French would welcome the British Le Mans enthusiasts just before they entered Le Mans. This simple gesture has now grown into an outstanding car show, where all sorts of rolling sculpture turns up and you get to meet the locals.

On the way, we pulled up at some traffic lights next to a Citroen C6 - the 1930s rear wheel drive sort - and exchanged mutually appreciative comments with the driver about our cars. This guy was chauffering some of the drivers in the Driver's Parade that evening and all driver's taxis were present at the Classic British Welcome, parked right next to the Morgans, which were guests of honour.

The welcome was more Classic French than Classic British. I really can't see this sort of thing happening in the UK. Imagine the outcry in The Sun if a load of French people suddenly "invaded" a town in Britain? Even if they were better behaved and didn't walk around with inflatable dolls under their arms, as one drunken Hooray Henry was conspicuously doing at the Welcome, there'd be xenophobic uproar.

Our French hosts are bigger than that. They knew we loved their city and the special racing that goes on there and wanted to celebrate that shared love - so we graciously accepted their welcome.

Alan's Morgan blended in beautifully. There over a hundred of them with even one built in France, built under license and called a Darmot. As Alan is a Morgan Owner's club member, he knew practically half the crowd. And what a crowd. There were artists sketching scenes for annual Le Mans sketch book compendiums (make that compendia), some very pretty girls, some spectacularly chinless toffs from Blighty and a surprising number of ordinary petrolheads that we knew. There was music, there could have been dancing at any moment, and there was food - no fish and chips but lovely French stuff. (Photo by Alan Mansell)

Some English people still view French food with suspicion and if they can't say it or recognise it they begin to suspect it might be horse meat or poison.

Not at the Welcome, though. The scram was first class and I haven't a clue what it was.

With so many Morgans taking centre stage, the sports pitches took the overflow but the cars kept coming.(Photo by Alan Mansell)

I didn't know where to look next and if ever I go to Le Mans under my own steam again I'll go in something worthy of the St Saturnin Classic British Welcome (and not a little Citroen van like last time).

I liked the specials best of all but there were so many it was too difficult to find the owner of the Cosworth powered Anglia or the Vitesse with a Stag V8. So many Vintage Things and so many unanswered questions.

And then over the sounds of engines, I heard this bunch threading their way through the cars.(Photo by Alan Mansell)

Then somebody looked at their watch and noticed we were nearly late for the Driver's Parade. A quick dash back to the camp site to rendezvous with our friends from Mevagissey and we headed into town.

Since my last visit, street trams had been introduced to Le Mans. Mush of the area to the west and north of the Houx campsite was a big building site where a brand new football stadium and other facilities will cater for non-motorsport events.

Apparently people get quite worked up about these. Amazing.

Anyway, the tram system reaches out to these and there is a splendid new tram stop just outside the campsite called Houx Annexe (not quite as nice as Houx). To avoid parking problems in the city centre this seemed the obvious way into town.

Unfortunately, it was also obvious to everyone around the circuit. There was a good natured scrum to get tickets (the ticket selling girls were so patient with us!) and as soon as the tram arrived it was standing room only. As we travelled through the suburbs of Le mans, we pulled into various tram stops but nobody else could get on.

The centre of Le Mans was equally packed. By then, most of the roads had been closed and I don't know how we would have got there otherwise.

wFancy dress was optional. Many people had made the effort and there was obviously safety in numbers. I don't think the French bothered. Some Danes wore Viking helmets but the British could turn in anything. I explained what it was like to a German friend and she said "It sounds very British." As if that was not quite a good thing. Ah but you had to be there! It was a carnival and if the Brazilian dancers can get away with wearing nothing but a strategically embroidered body stocking then anything goes.

Finding a good place to watch was a problem. We eventually manouevred ourselves under a bus stop that, by some oversight on the part of the usually farsighted city fathers, had obviously not been intended as a viewing platform for twenty people.

Various officials came by and ordered everyone off the bus shelter only for them to climb on again when the went off on their mopeds. gradually, as the bus top began to buckle, they got the message and gave it up as a bad job.

Then one of the moped riders stopped on the other side of the street and made a big fuss about people standing on the wall to a big house's garden. Everybody would have to get down off that as well, he said. They must have had a good view and some argued in favour of staying but I gather that if they didn't get down this chap was prepared to stop the show.

When a little girl burst into tears as she was lifted down, the crowd started booing because nobody could understand what the fuss was all about. But he insisted and at last the wall was cleared and he rode off.

John from Mevagissey fell into conversation with a local French couple and they said how much they looked forward to the annual pilgrimage to Le Mans.

"In Le Mans we say, 'When the British arrive, at last it is spring!'"

The next thing we knew, the officious bloke with the moustache and the moped was back again. Sure enough, the same people standing on the wall again. There was more arm waving and shouting and then Mr Moped man had a brilliant idea - compromise!

Everyone could stay on the wall but they would have to kneel. This would allow the people in the house to see what was going on. The little girl, however, could stand because her height was no problem!

Brilliant! Everybody cheered! It was so well done I wondered if it was stage managed. The guy on the moped acknowledged our cheers with a wave and his dour face broke into a huge grin. French honour had been satisfied. The parade could begin.

He rode off to applause and once he was round the corner, everyone on the wall stood up again.

In the driver's parade, each team rides in an open top car. There are also representatives of past winners, classic cars and marching bands but - incredibly - no Brazilian dancers this year.

I was intrigued to see a number of Pembertons and Lomaxes in the parade. As far as I know, these have never raced at Le Mans not even in the old Index of Performance events. I can only assume that this was a means of getting 2CVs in the parade - they are a French institution and from the experiences of Lomax and Blackjack owning friends when touring France, the French are fascinated with what the British do to 2CVs.

As the drivers go by they throw goodies into the crowd and they can be persuaded to get out of the cars and give autographs. One girl opposite us shouted herself hoarse attracting their attention and word seemed to spread back upstream for it seemed every driver stopped and obliged her.

Last year, however, one young woman hit on a sure fire way to get autographs. She wore a very eye catching silver dress and invited the drivers to sign that. It might have been an item of underwear actually and she was a very pretty girl and quite shapely. She had no trouble getting written all over and she appeared in every brochure about the driver's parade this year...