Who’s Le Mans!?

Somebody, somewhere thought it would be a good idea to start my familiarisation press trip to Le Mans at Möet Chandon’s cellars in Epernay, France. Downstairs, in shivery temperatures strictly controlled between 10 and 12 degrees, I wandered round the millions of bottles preparing for their own cork-popping party, followed by a multi course dinner featuring seven different vintages of fizz. If this sounds like some kind of Qatari-level bribe for motoring journalists, think again. In a small, exclusive Europarty of six disparate individuals, the UK was represented by me – about as far removed from petrolheadedness as you can get – and the Tech Editor of an online thing, who doesn’t even drink.

The night raised a question or two. Notably: why? The closest I can get to an answer is brand synergy. As I was to discover some time later, the Le Mans 24 Hours Race is a Big Deal for a small clutch of motoring brands, and Audi dominate. They’re a luxury brand, Möet’s a luxury brand. Bingo.

It is ear-bleedingly noisy, driven by insanely wealthy stars I am unfamiliar with

The following morning, as I drove across the French countryside – sans hangover (that’s what drinking nothing but fizz does for you) – I mused on Formula One Grand Prix, which roars across our TV screens with deafening frequency. It is ear-bleedingly noisy, driven by insanely wealthy stars I am unfamiliar with, advertises questionable products, and seems to be permanently mired in accusatory headlines of bribery and corruption. I’m not a fan, so I was hoping Le Mans had more to offer than F1’s never ending Ministry of Noise.

Despite the satnav sending me via the totally unknown village of Colombe de la Foo Foo instead of straight along the A10 (NOT. MY. FAULT), I eventually arrived at Le Mans and discovered, to my surprise, that I’d been in the area before, at the Vallée du loir, a tributary of the mighty Loire, where suitably small and enticing chateaux aren’t yet choked to death by the tourist hordes. However at Le Mans I was in the company of a quarter of a million petro-pilgrims. No matter; I was about to enter a bubble for the weekend, and would remain ignorant of everything local, except in the event of nuclear war. Possibly.

Steve McQueen in Le Mans

The cultural road is more intriguing. Start by watching the epic 1971 movie Le Mans, a primitive, raw, vehicle for Steve McQueen. He turns in an electrifying performance that doesn’t really look like acting, driving and crashing Porsches around the track for twenty four hours (practice laps for Bullitt), challenging other drivers and silently flirting with a widow, before a suitably anti-climactic climax. It flopped at the US box office but remains a classic to this day. The modern F1 equivalents — Rush et al — fizz onto our screens con gas, rather than exuding that elusive, seminal core of cool, au naturelle.

That cultural signposting remains accurate. Le Mans, unlike the Formula One behemoth, is the draw once a year for the true believer, who can’t be doing with all that marketing mumbo-jumbo. It’s the engineering, the tuning of car engines they can identify at 500 metres (seriously, they can tell the difference between a Corvette and a Porsche on the track by noise alone), and to meet the drivers, who wander around the pits and backstage areas chatting amiably about torque and turbocharging, while down at the Grand Prix Monsieur Sniffy hasn’t yet boarded his helicopter from Switzerland. The vast majority of fans stay in tents – gazillions of them – and although hundreds of flags indicate national rivalries, the dominant feature is the sight of Porsches, Aston Martins, Morgans and generally kewl cars parked between the canvas awnings. These national armies have more in common than that which divides them.

Inside the bubble there’s an intensity of discussion about drivetrains and tyres, electric hybrids and speed

It’s a bizarre weekend for the uninitiated. France, in the middle of a train strike and on the edge of its first World Cup game, has this 24 hour race out ouest somewhere, of mildly passing interest to the nation, whereas inside the bubble there’s an intensity of discussion about drivetrains and tyres, electric hybrids and speed. Information flows freely these days, on phones and iPad displays, in conversation and “Le Mans Radio!” 24 hours a day, so everybody knows everything simultaneously.

My arrival coincided with the trials, some practice rounds where one of Audi’s three cars crashed, smashed to smithereens. The driver was okay, but since this was their Number One car, I thought that was that. By the following morning, they had it replaced, rebuilding, through the night, an exact replica. The rules forbid new cars but this was force majeur and was allowed. Next time you go for a service and they say “next Friday”, tell them about Audi building a whole car in less than a day. For a race.

The turning point for me came when I met Allan McNish, an electrifying Scot who has trophies lining his mantelpiece but is now Audi racing’s big cheese. You can sum up 20 minutes of conversation by imagining a steely gaze as he utters the words. “We win. We don’t do second.” In fact that’s not strictly true, because this year Audi did come second. Although they came first as well.

The race itself, despite the midnight intervention of England’s opening game against Italy in some football contest, was exciting. It’s principally about stamina. The drivers swap around (three per car, grabbing sleep when they’re not behind the wheel), but the cars are being driven relentlessly at speeds in excess of 250 kph, which is where the engineering X Factor comes in.

It’s all very well being the fastest on the straight, or being the most fuel-efficient, but unless you can keep going for 24 hours, you may as well not bother. In fact Audi had major problems with their turbo chargers but the pit crew were so fast, both cars were back out winning in no time.

And the noise? Well I’m glad to say that Audi’s new hybrid racers are quiet, but for the rest of them, especially the Corvettes, earplugs are helpfully provided. C