with neat green fields surrounding the tarmac landing strips. I couldn’t make out any kind of circuit in the sea of grey mist. A tired silver tree-line separated the earth from the clear blue sky.
The place must have had a real buzz in its glory days, first during the Second World War and then as a Harrier proving ground. On this still morning I could almost hear the banter of aircrew scrambling to their aircraft.
Now it felt like the Land that Time Forgot. Rusted control panels littered the area. Cracked concrete billets jostled with disused hangars and pebble-dashed Seventies monstrosities.
I paid an obligatory pre-match visit to the nearby loos. Two fresh pieces of graffiti read: ‘Fuck Jeremy Clarkson’ and ‘Richard Hammond is a’. Sadly, Hammond’s eulogy had never been completed. My laughter echoed down the deserted corridor. I felt like a madman.
I returned to the production hut and gave it the once over. A cardboard cut-out of a policeman stood guard at the window beside a larger cut-out still of John Prescott, an ironing board, a moth-eaten mini-sofa and a cluster of toxic coffee cups and Bic biros.
What the hell did they do here?
A worn chair overlooked a grubby telephone which sat, inert, on a filthy wood veneer table. A printed list of ‘key contacts’ was pinned to the wall, belying the cabin’s absence of discernible function.
Room 2 was marginally better appointed, with a small TV set surrounded by VHS tapes but no player. A few photos of random celebrities decorated the flimsy, cobwebbed walls.
Room 3 contained a large hanging rail from which hung a gold sequin jacket, a flower power shirt and an enormous pair of jeans. A crate of Red Bull lurked in the corner. The place stank of fags, mildew and Eau de Man.
With an uncertain recollection of my last tetanus jab, I opted to wait inside my car and nod off to some filthy hard house tunes.
I woke to the sound of rushing gravel as a small hatchback pulled up in front of me. I guessed this was my man by his silver hair and media issue denim jacket. I climbed out to greet him.
He hitched up his trousers and shuffled towards me like a glum but familiar uncle on a rare visit home. It was only 9.30, but his five o’clock shadow suggested he had already had a long day. He clasped a bursting folder of papers under one arm.
He looked in every direction but mine. I moved to shake his hand. With some reluctance he eventually reciprocated.
‘Right …’
‘Great to meet you, Andy.’
‘Did you tell anyone you were coming?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said.
‘OK, good.’
Andy explained that the track would open up for some fast laps at ten. I had no idea of what the track even looked like, what car I would be driving or what test lay ahead, so it wasn’t easy to prepare for what came next.
Andy unlocked a blue Ford Focus in the car park and it dawned on me that this underpowered front-wheel-drive affair would be his measuring stick of my performance. Years of racing experience in Formula 1 style machines went out the window; it was time to rely on a few bad habits.
Andy hunched over the wheel and drove us serenely around the track. But for the occasional steely-eyed glare at a corner, his eyes sparkled as if he was enjoying some private joke.
The silver fox indicated the areas I was ‘not allowed to drive across’, such as the white lines on the exit of the first corner, coming out of the second corner, and especially those marking the ‘Hammerhead’ chicane. I nodded respectfully, as you do on the headmaster’s tour of the school grounds.
The track looked straightforward enough, and there were some ballsy fast corners in the middle that could be hairy in a proper car.
‘This one sorts the men out from the boys,’ Andy said with something approaching relish.
A riot of skid marks and freshly carved-up grass around the final corners did indeed suggest that the last two turns might be treacherous.
Andy’s expression darkened again as he parked on the start line and he compressed his lips. ‘You start each lap here, yeah, and I’ll be timing you. Go across the line and then I’ll reset so you can go again.’
‘So it’s not flying laps then?’
‘No. Standing start every time.’
‘How many do I get?’ I asked.
‘Um … we’ll do a few. OK.’
Andy disembarked. I jumped into the driver’s seat and clunk-clicked. The foam seat didn’t give much, it felt upright and too close to the wheel. I shuffled it back for some leg-room, adjusted the steering higher and removed the valet paper from the foot-well. I gave the controls a quick once-over. A five-speed manual box and a fairly solid brake pedal.
I searched the dashboard for the traction control button and turned it off for the closest its 1.6 litres could get to maximum, unbridled acceleration. I envisaged making a few reconnaissance laps to learn the track, then posting a ballistic time.
As I looked up Andy was gesticulating with his right hand and brandishing a stopwatch with his left.
‘Shit, hang on …’
I grabbed the gear-stick and jammed it into first gear, simultaneously gunning the engine to a respectable 4,000rpm. Andy’s arm dropped and I didn’t stick around to ask questions. Dumping the clutch, I lurched off the line, wheels spinning and clawing at the track.
Less revs next time …
The car felt tiny on the broad expanse of runway. I approached the first corner by positioning myself to the far right, then swung across to the left, leaving my braking till the last possible moment.
I heaved on the middle pedal and the ABS cut in immediately, reducing it to a vibrating waffle. The front tyres of the Focus were in protest all the way. I missed the middle point of the corner by a country mile, which cost me speed on to the short straight that followed. I planted the accelerator anyway.
The tyres howled with discomfort and wafts of burning rubber filled the cabin, replacing the sweet silicone smell of the new fabrics.
I pulled out of the gutter and lined up for a simple left-hand kink marked only by a white line as the surge of torque ran through the Ford’s engine. There was no need to release the throttle as we sped towards the next corner, marked by a wall of tyres, that Andy had called ‘Chicago’.
I hit the brakes with a little more sensitivity and the front tyres responded by turning more gracefully in the right direction. I slapped the stick across to second and gradually soaked up the biting point of the clutch to let the torque of the engine-braking do its job. I snatched a tiny bit of the throttle mid-corner to keep up the speed before burying it again.
I proceeded down the middle of a gigantic runway and realised I had no idea where to go next. After a while, the straight began to run out. I noticed some unfriendly looking fencing in the scrub beyond for netting runaway aircraft. I didn’t fancy tangling with it, but I didn’t want to lose time being cautious either.
To my right was a braking marker, with some squiggly white lines adjacent. The notorious Hammerhead chicane.
I whipped across to the right-hand side and dived on the brakes. The ABS thought it was having an accident, then so did I as the rear end lost grip.
I flicked the steering left and right as the back swung around like a Beyoncé bootie shake. I accelerated to regain control and the powering front wheels dragged the squirming chassis into line, a trait unique to front-wheel-drive cars.
Messy, I’ll get it right next time …
I sped down the straight towards the fast ‘Follow Through’ section. Without knowing how many laps I had to prove myself, I opted to try the corner flat out and see what gave.