He leans against the tow truck. The legs of his orange jumpsuit and his shoes are caked in mud. His hands are covered in grime. Given that he’s had an incredibly long day, it’s not surprising he looks like he’s been through the weather. He had to report in to the circuit at the crack of dawn, mainly to be given the same set of safety instructions he’s already been given a hundred times before. Still, you can never be too careful with safety. So even though he knew he probably wouldn’t hear anything new, he crammed himself into the tiny conference room, along with all his colleagues, to attend the run-through of the emergency procedures.
He’s glad he hasn’t had any need to put those procedures into practice today. Despite the considerable length of this endurance race, it’s been a quiet day for post 29. (In as far as a day filled with roaring WEC engines can be called ‘quiet’, that is.) However, if anyone had gotten into trouble, he and his colleagues would’ve been ready to help. That’s what marshalls are for. Without people like him, motorsport wouldn’t even exist – and he knows it. A smile forms around his lips. The only thing better than doing something you like, is doing something that matters.
Suddenly his daydream’s interrupted by an LMP1 car approaching La Source. It’s the race-winning Audi 7 that’s just taken the chequered flag. The car confuses him. It has no visible damage, but even so his gut feeling tells him something’s wrong. Then it comes to him. The Audi’s going too fast. Victory laps are forbidden at Spa, so the LMP1 should’ve slowed down by now to prepare itself for making a sharp U-turn coming out of La Source to steer itself back into the paddock. But it hasn’t. Not even a little. It has just hit the apex and is now steering into the corner using the racing line. This is going wrong. The driver needs to be stopped.
It seems his fellow marshalls have come to the same conclusion. As one man, they start to move towards the track. Some rush through the small opening in the tyre wall. Others jump over the catch fence. As fast as their legs can carry them they run across the run-off tarmac, looking somewhat like a herd of overenthusiastic orange minions attempting to close the distance between them and a pile of moving bananas. Most of them are holding objects above their heads. He himself has gotten hold of a white flag and he waves it frantically through the air, hoping to catch the driver’s attention. By now the Audi has rounded the corner. If he runs fast enough, maybe he can block its path. He speeds up, but it’s not use. When he’s still some meters away from the track, the Audi shoots passed him.
When he realises he’s too late, he teeters to a stop. In disbelief he stares at the Audi as it’s gearing towards Eau Rouge. Helpless, he waves his flag above his head one last time. Behind him his colleagues are beginning to block the track to make sure that no other cars can slip through illegally, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the Audi yet. He watches as it shoots up the hill, shrinks into a tiny dot, and disappears behind the horizon. Sadly he lowers his flag. He can’t believe this just happened. The moment he comes home he’s going to write up a new emergency procedure, one designed especially to deal with naughty race-car drivers.