Category: VLN

ADDOD

I have a chronic problem. It’s called ADDOD. ADDOD is an abbreviation that stands for Attention Deficiency Dis… Ooooooooh Doggy! It effectively means that, at a race track, I’m perfectly capable of staying focused on the race cars and the track action, unless I catch sight of a dog, especially a tiny one. When I do, all my attention will irrevocably be drawn to the little furry friend with the cute tiny paws. It’s gotten so bad that in 2015 I almost missed a pass for the lead in an F3 race because somebody had sat down next to me with a Yorkie…

Unfortunately it seems that such moments of distraction will start happening more often in the future, as the number of (little) dogs present at race events is steadily rising. I’m not sure who started the trend or even when/where it began. I only know that until a few seasons ago it was only a handful of drivers, usually the ones that had a camper parked in the paddock, who had their dogs with them; but nowadays pretty much everyone is bringing pets. Particularly GT events tend to be overrun by Chihuahuas, Pomeranians, Bichons, Papillons, Pugs, Tibetans, and other kinds of arenttheycutes.

In the beginning I felt sorry for the little critters. Race-car engines are incredibly loud and I know from experience they can be damaging. Insufficient ear plug use at the start of my motorsport fan ‘career’ has left me with a damaged left ear and a slight case of noise deafness. So, logically, I figured that if I, as a human, could suffer such a serious decibel injury that easily, then the risk and potential physical hurt for dogs had to be ten times higher, given that their hearing is so much better than ours. The more you hear, the louder it sounds, the bigger the damage, right?

Apparently not. For reasons I’ll probably never understand, dogs never seem to be bothered by engine noise. I’ve never seen a single one looking scared during an active track session. Most of them simply tag after their owners through the paddock, wagging their tales and soaking up all the activity around them. On the grandstands they either lounge in the sun (provided there is any), sometimes looking up in annoyance when somebody stands in the way and casts a shadow, or they gaze in wonder at the wheeled things flying passed over the tarmac. I once saw an enthralled Pomeranian who was actually following the cars from left to right with its little head as they shot passed. I also once encountered a Pug with a dislike for HTP Mercedes. Every time an HTP-car passed by, it barked angrily.

I’ve actually only once seen a sad dog on a race track. It was a few weeks ago, at VLN1. Halfway through the race I noticed a tiny Terrier sitting on a plastic chair in the back of a team truck. It was crying, crying, CRYING. Immediately my old fear that it might be in pain returned. Nothing was further from the truth, however. The Terrier turned out to be hurting because of a human felony. Its owner had taken it off her lap, gotten up from the chair, climbed out of the truck, walked to the dustbin three meters away, dropped in a banana peel and had failed to do all that AND return to the chair within two nanoseconds. The Terrier was simply missing its cuddles. I guess I would’ve cried too if I’d been in its place. Wouldn’t you?

Never Count Your Chickens Too Soon

For years I’ve called the Nürburgring my second home, but I’ve never been so foolish as to consider her my friend. I’m not sure she has friends. I know she sometimes comes across people she likes and is willing to favour for a while. When in her good graces, these people are able to dodge tricky track situations or miss going off-track by millimetres. But the Ring takes at least as much as she gives. The very people she favours one second, may find themselves thrown against a barrier the next. This principle goes for competitors and fans alike. Maybe it even goes doubly so for fans, because they can’t run to the pit building for cover when the weather games come into play.

The first time I visited the Nürburgring was in the spring of 2005. I’d been told the weather would be ‘nice and sunny’, but I quickly realised ‘crisp and toasty’ was a more accurate description. My friends and I sat on a grandstand at the exit of the Dunlop Kehre, where there were no roof or shade in sight, just endless square meters of concrete that projected the sun’s heat right back at us. Sunscreen was no help against that kind of heat, so we were forced to keep ourselves wrapped in blankets all weekend long to avoid being burned alive.

When I returned in the summer for my second visit, the Ring had undergone a makeover. She’d turned grey, cold, foggy, and her rain fell uninterrupted so that within the hour I was chilled to the bone. I’d been smart enough this time to buy a ticket for a roofed grandstand, but the Ring didn’t permit me any solace. It turned out the grandstand roof had sprung a leak, naturally, directly above my head. The stream of rain drops that dripped down my head, shoulders and inevitably my neck seemed endless and I can still remember it well to this very day.

Over time I’ve learned the Nürburgring enjoys switching between hot and cold weather. Sometimes she even fancies having both in one weekend, like during the GT Masters weekend in 2014 when she dropped temperatures by 29 degrees overnight. But on the whole it seems she prefers cold weather. As a regular Ring visitor you learn to expect this and dress accordingly. Still, last October during the vln9 qualifying my six layers of clothes were useless against the frost. Not even the two scarves I’d wrapped around my head could stop the wind from biting my face. After 50 minutes my body had gone so numb I knew I couldn’t safely stay where I was. So I stumbled away from the track towards the nearest piece of shelter, my personal Walhalla, my own piece of heaven on earth: the loo cubicle.

I sat out the last half hour of qualifying there. Perhaps it’s a somewhat embarrassing place to be, but at the time I thought myself pretty smart. I’d outfoxed the Nürburgring! I was within earshot of the track speakers and could still follow the action, but was out of the icy wind’s reach! However, I’d counted my chickens too soon. Shortly after qualifying I learned my favourite driver’s car had been crashed beyond repair. And before the race had finished I was running a massive fever. It was obvious the Ring wasn’t amused with me. I’d ruined her little game and she was making me pay for it. Still, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Thirteen days until my next visit.