Creative Writing - The Nurburgring - General Forum - Peugeot 306 GTi-6 & Rallye Owners Club

Post #1

One or two of you know that I enjoy writing, and a few more probably suspect as much after reading my wordy project thread.
Some people seem to have enjoyed it, so to that end I thought I'd share a little piece I wrote about visits to the Nurburgring.

If an article with hundreds of words and no pictures is your idea of misery, then this will certainly bore you to tears. For anyone else, I hope you enjoy...

Few things occupy my thoughts with more frequency than the Nurburgring. And to that end I now find myself idly tapping away at the keyboard, with no clear objective or purpose, other than perhaps the mild catharsis that I may enjoy in allowing my thoughts to take on a more tangible form. Put simply, I bloody love it.

I�ve paid four visits to the much celebrated stretch of straße, and each time it has delivered an exhilarating, humbling and visceral experience.

All of my trips out there have taken a very similar shape, with the exception of one failed attempt where I only got as far as the remote French town of Milly-la-Forêt, pitched the tent, and awoke some hours later to snow sagging canvas, no sensation in my fingers or toes and only bad news from Nordschliefe.
But the four more successful trips have started in much the same fashion. Awake early on a Friday morning, bleary eyed after a spasmodic sleep, punctuated with excitement, anxiety and a chemical imbalance caused by an adrenal gland getting mixed signals about what is expected of it.
Once up and out the door, I settle in to the familiar support of the �Sparco Rev� at the helm of my stripped out Peugeot 306 Rallye, and begin the 90minute drive to Dover. Beside me, in the slightly lower confines of the second bucket is my wingman, navigator and girlfriend. A rare breed; with petrol in her veins, an understanding of lift-off oversteer and someone who takes great delight in seeing the rev needle heading towards the business end of its arc.
Behind me is all I should need for the trip. A set of magnesium-alloy wheels wrapped in Toyo R888�s, a trolley jack, air pressure gauge, 5 litres of oil (which I hope not to need�), a tent and sufficient paraphernalia to satisfy the various traffic enforcement agencies of mainland Europe

Arriving at Dover, we typically meet up with my brother in his DC2 type-R (sadly now sold in favour of the more family friendly 330D wagon) and a friend with his 111s/350Z/R26.R (delete as appropriate depending on year) and await passage onto the ferry. I�m smiling now, in fact grinning like a madman as I drink in the purposeful line up and muse over the days ahead. There�s something quietly enjoyable about being part of a convoy of focused machines. Granted, it doesn�t draw the crowds like three supercars at rest, but occasional glances from those familiar with the more attainable end of the �drivers car� spectrum continually appeals to ones ego.

We roll in to the under belly of a Norfolkline ferry, alongside HGVs, Megane Scenics with pillows, suitcases and small bicycles forced in to all available nooks and crannies, and the occasional car that I fancy we will see again in the Nurburgring carpark over the coming days. Time to get to the mess deck and put away something greasy before the long haul ahead.

Coming off the ferry, we�re just a few roundabouts away from the AutoRoute that will be our course for the next 6 hours or so. Setting a steady pace, we press on across the top of northern France, into Belgium. Skirting around the fringes of Brussels and Liege, before finally crossing the western border of Germany for the last drag into Mullenbach, and our temporary home for the weekend, Camping-am-Nurburgring.

It�s a long drive, and for the most part, an uninteresting one. Tedious in fact, and made worse by the constant drone of the full stainless steel exhaust resonating just below the un-insulated bare metal that was once the rear quarters of the Rallye. Slightly irritable, but pleased to have the journey behind us, we thread our way around the vast campsite in search of decent spot, preferably well away from any Germans. Forgive me for that dose of xenophobia; I have nothing against the German people. But those who have camped at Camping-am-Nurburgring, particularly around the time of the DTM, will know the delights it brings. These boys come tooled up and ready to party. Wall-to-wall disco Germans compete to see who can pollute the air the most with their Euro pop-infused rock. Speaker towers that dwarf a ladrerhosen clad man, smoke machines and makeshift dance floors all come together to guarantee misery deep, deep into the small hours. After the shortest period of silence, (and sleep) the first of them is back on it with a �Guten Morgan� song hailing the campsite, ushering in a brand new day of misery. In fairness, outside the DTM weekend, its better, but misfortune would have it that two of my three camping based trips have coincided with this event, and lead me eventually to the obviously conclusion, than I shall not be staying there again.

The Nurburgring is set in a spectacular region of hills and forests. This makes it as beautiful as it is unpredictable. So, unzipping the tent door on day one is done so with breath held and a pensive expression as you take your first glance out at the morning sky. If it�s bright, blue and clear, the breath leaves you quickly, triumphantly, to make way for that moronic grin again. If grey/misty/p**sing down, the air is generally directed out through the nose, leaving the mouth closed and free to form the kind of shape associated with getting that first suspicious waft of a dog turd.

With agreeable weather, it�s time to check over the car. I�m by no means a mechanic, so it�s a rudimentary check at best, focusing largely on fluid levels, tyre pressures and making doubly sure I have tightened all 16 wheel bolts to the prescribed torque.

With little more time wasted, we make our way to the track, park up, and hand over an ever-growing wad of Euros in exchange for a card of much promise. This is when, surrounded by cars far more expensive and exotic than my own and with 15laps burning a hole in my pocket, that it sinks in. I�m here�

It�s a curious time, with a rich and potent cocktail of emotions that no single word could begin to describe. Right at the top there is obviously excitement. This trip is the product of a few months of anticipation and planning, so the thrill that it has finally come together is intoxicating. But there�s so much more going on.
It�s been at least a year since I last pushed through the exit of Galgenkopf, passed under the gantry and eased over to bring my last lap to an end. I know the track well, but I�d be naive to think that time hasn�t taken the sharpness off. So I�m anxious, nervous even. There is a lot that could, and does go wrong, and I would foolish not to recognise this, and indeed be respectful of it.

It�s busy, and the full spectrum of driving talent is represented here, each having their own pros and cons.

I�ve grown to love my car, I don�t want it to be broken, either by my own hand or someone else�s, and I�m feeling acutely aware I have very little control over the latter. And besides, I really need it to be in full working order for my commute to work on Tuesday! Suddenly the thought of pushing a 13 year old Peugeot to the far reaches of its, or indeed my own ability (whichever happens to come first) is an alarming one.

All these thoughts and feelings are jostling to have their voices heard as I get in to the car and pull the harness straps down tight. I�m itching to get out on the track and into my first lap, I can�t wait, but at the same time I�m desperate for it to be over, incident free.

My heart rate is up, as I shuffle towards the barrier to take my turn onto the track. My girlfriend leans out the window to strike the first lap off the card. The barrier goes up. A few excited words are exchanged as I weave through the cones guiding me to the point at which we merge with the track, and force the throttle wide open.

Now there is calm. The track is wide (here) and familiar. Exploitable. The anxiety dissipates and is replaced with focus. �Yes� I think to myself.

The first lap is cautious. Cautious that is, relative to hard, ten-tenths track driving. This wouldn�t be considered cautious on the public road. Feeling my way back into the groove, getting some heat into the tyres and threading the turns together, I know why I�m continually drawn to this place.
We�re going quickly, but not aggressively, so inevitably I�m on and off the racing line slightly more frequently than I would like, to let the likes of GT3 RS�s, who are already deep into their own groove, thunder past.

Two laps, 25.8miles and a little under twenty minutes later, I bring the car in to cool off. 16 rows of Mocals finest aluminium, and 100 years of Mintex� experience with friction have done well to keep things in a safe operating window, but the clutch is getting hot and I could do with a break.

A few more laps in and confidence is up. The car is moving well, the track is familiar and I feel at ease taking my place alongside my fellow wheel man. There is still a lot of traffic, but I�m not being overtaken too much, so the line of least resistance is generally mine to enjoy.
There will inevitably always be the situation when a driver is reluctant to surrender the line and move aside. This will almost certainly be the driver of a car with more power than the modest 184bhp the Rallye now produces, so all you can do is make your presence felt in the corners, and then watch in frustration as the back end of the pursued car hunkers down under load and makes a convincing bid for the horizon on the straights. Mercifully the �Ring is more corners than straights so you will eventually get passed under braking or taking advantage of a clumsy line into a bend, at which point the frustration melts away and is replaced by what can only be described as smugness.
There are times however, when you�ll find yourself behind someone, apply a modicum of pressure to hopefully then be granted safe passage past, but instead witness the driver ahead start to push beyond his or her limits. It�s a nasty business seeing a car, scrappy and unsettled and carrying too much speed into a corner. It�s a sad thing, but in these situations I choose to back off the give the driver some space, at the cost of the lap.

Many laps stay fresh in my mind. I remember during my first visit in my Williams Clio some five years ago, indicating I would take the high line through Karussel to allow a bike past that had been reeling me in up the climb out of Bergwerk. The rider waved a �no� in my mirrors so I slipped back down onto the violent bank of original track, and then enjoyed a perfect chase, surrendering and gaining the lead position several times, all the way to the home straight. I slowed and he drew alongside, gestures of appreciation were exchanged, and the memory was cemented in my mind.

Inevitably the more alarming moments stay with you also. I recall setting off on a dry, if overcast track. So changeable are the conditions there that within a few minutes, cats and dogs were falling from the sky and the track surface changed quickly, and dramatically. Like no piece of wet road or track I�ve driven on before, even at low speeds grip was woeful and unpredictable. Known to regulars as �summer ice�, it is not to be underestimated.
Turning in to the right hand bend shortly before Karussel, the now cold R888�s found almost no grip, settling the car into catastrophic understeer. Mercifully, I did find some grip moments before heading over the kerb and into the barrier, and made my way tentatively around the rest of the lap. It was a valuable and thankfully inexpensive lesson learnt in wet nurburgring conditions. Anyone who has done their research prior to visiting the Ring will have read it can be slippery like no other in the wet, but there is the tendency to think �I�ve driven in the wet before thanks, I�ve got this�. It really is unlike a normal piece of wet tarmac though, due in part to all the oils and rubber drawn to the surface when it rains, it feels more like a well-buttered ice rink than a piece of wet tarmac. A stark reminder of the many perils you potentially face when going at it on the �Ring.

I feel I am still very much at the beginning of what I hope to be a long and exciting relationship with the Nurburging (current financial gloom pending). We�re through the honeymoon period now, we�ve ironed out a few differences and I think we both know where we stand. Inevitably, I fear she is far wiser than I, and if push comes to shove I think she will have the last word in any altercation. But with that said, I�m quietly happy to be at the mercy of her will, and I eagerly await our next weekend together.

Chris Bray 2012 ©

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