Month: May 2016

The Writing

There’s an old saying that says you should always look at the writing on the wall, because that’s where you’ll find what you truly need to know. During my most recent Nordschleife visit, to attend the third VLN-race of 2016, I learned that the wall isn’t the only place where you should look for interesting writing. The race track is another one.

Anyone who has ever visited the Nordschleife knows that it’s a bit different from other race tracks. Where modern circuits boast about how smooth and clean their asphalt is, the asphalt at the Nordschleife is covered in, well… basically anything and everything, really. The complete length of the track is covered in graffiti, mostly done in white spray-paint, but black, yellow, and red are popular colours too. I think I once read somewhere that initially the Nordschleife owners had the asphalt cleaned every time a new message appeared, but when the graffiti just kept coming and coming they eventually gave up and let the writings be.

Over the past few decades, anonymous people have covered the Nordschleife in a diverse array of messages. Some stick to egocentric phrases (“X was here”), while others praise their home town (“city Y is the best”) or showcase their business data (“Check Youtube @ZZZZZZ”); while again others use the opportunity to put their artistic talents for drawing boobs and genitals on display. Most messengers will leave their words on the track itself, but over the years catch fences and curbstones have also become popular writing surfaces.

When I’m trackside, I rarely pay attention to the writings. I quickly got used to them and came to accept them as part of the scenery; the background. I think it works that way for most people. It gives you a better chance to focus on the cars and the ongoing races. However, during VLN3 I suddenly found myself distracted by three words, written on the asphalt at the entrance of the Galgenkopf: “Estamos en Nurb”.

The words are Spanish for “We’re at the Nurb”. They’re painted in bright white paint with the exception of the final letter B, which is white-greyish in colour and half faded away. The message caught my eye, because it seemed so unfinished. Surely the messenger had been aiming for “We’re at the Nurburgring”. But if so, why didn’t he finish? Did something happen to distract him? For the first time ever I found myself wondering where the Nordschleife messages come from exactly. Do the messengers climb onto the track at night? Or do they do their work during the day, when they think the Ring is (temporarily) closed to car rides? Is it possible then that this particular author was surprised by the sound of an oncoming car and had to make a dash for safety? Or was he chased away by an official? Or was he perhaps so intoxicated at the time of writing that he forgot how to spell ‘Nurburgring’ and simply figured ‘oh sod all this, I’m going home’?

As with many other things related to the Nordschleife, the message will forever hold an element of mystery. It’s a shame really, because it seems like an interesting tale that I would love to know; but at the same time it’s also okay. The Ring is such a special place, it can handle a little bit of mystique here and there. In fact, it’s probably the better for it. But still, the mind can always wonder.

Sorry, Max. I Was Wrong!

Written in honour of Max Verstappen’s first F1 victory.

I’ve known of the existence of Max Verstappen for a very long time. When I first started watching formula 1, internet was only available via dial-up modem and very expensive. So instead of allowing me access to our costly home connection, every two weeks my father would use his office network to print out the latest articles of the only formula 1-website he knew of. The first batch of papers he ever handed me was topped by a piece titled “Verstappen becomes father for the first time”. It was illustrated with a photo of Jos, his then-wife, and baby Max Emilian, born only a few hours earlier.

As the years passed, toddler Max once made the news for breaking his wrist while playing. A few years later, word started coming out of the go-kart world that a now teenaged Max was getting good results and was building a fierce rivalry with fellow Dutchman Nyck de Vries. At the time there were many questions being asked about which of the two had the most talent. For a long time the debate went in favour of De Vries, especially when he was the first to make the switch to cars. Many at the time wondered if Max, when he too switched to cars, would still be able to catch up with the by then much more experienced De Vries.

Verstappen made his move from go-karts to cars a year later, in the winter of 2013-2014. He competed in the Florida Winter Series and then tested some Formula Renault 2.0 cars. Like most, I expected Max to sign up for one of the 2.0 series – it’s a good starting point for rookies – but instead he was announced as a Formula 3-racer for Van Amersfoort Racing. When I heard, I was certain Frits van Amersfoort had lost his mind. Who puts a practically inexperienced boy in heavy machinery like that?!

My opinion about VAR’s Verstappen project didn’t improve much upon seeing it live for the first time. When I stumbled into the Formula 3-paddock at the Hockenheimring in May 2014, it didn’t prove difficult to spot the VAR tent. In fact, it was almost impossible to miss it. It was the only tent with fifteen spectators in front of it, all dressed in orange, with Jos Verstappen-caps and Dutch flags. Grumbling I walked past the canopy. I refused to be in awe of a driver simply because of his last name. As far as I was concerned, Max would have to prove himself first.

During the first free practice, he failed to do that. I was watching from the inside of the Motodrome, from where I had a good view of how strangely Max was handling the Sachskurve. He literally took a new line every lap. So, I quickly pegged him down as a nutter. This was an opinion I stuck with even after Max had finally found his preferred line and, over the course of the weekend, began bringing his lap times down drastically. The races on Saturday and Sunday only made things worse. In the first race Max retired, in the second he broke down on his way to the grid and very clumsily parked his car at the Spitskehre, and in the third one… okay, fine, he won that one. But hey, that was probably just dumb luck. After that first weekend in Hockenheim, I saw absolutely no reason to hype up ‘this Verstappen boy’. On the way home, I even remember stating: “The kid still has an awful lot to learn and I doubt he’ll ever be as good as his father was. If he wants to prove me wrong, he’s going to have to step up his game BIG TIME.”

Well, he did.

Opel – Wir Leben Langsam

My parents taught me it’s rude to be late. It’s simply bad manners to leave someone waiting for you. As a consequence I always try to arrive on time, not just when I know that a friend is waiting for me, but also when I have to attend an event, such as a motor race. I’m proud to say that most of the time I do arrive on schedule. Unfortunately, however, I can’t always get to the designated place at the designated time.

Sometimes this is my own fault. For one thing, I tend to get lost. I once spectacularly drove past the main entrance to the Zolder Circuit without seeing it, only to realise that something was off after I’d already steered onto the freeway leading to Antwerp. I’m also guilty of not always getting up on time. I’m well aware that, if I want to be at the Nürburgring when the VLN qualifying start at 8.30h, I must get up at 4.30h and be in the car by 5.30h at the latest. And yet, and yet… doesn’t that snooze button seem appealing, even more so at 4.30h? Aaargh.

But sometimes I’m late through no fault of my own. Sometimes I’m simply late because the universe is playing a game and odd things just seem to mysteriously happen en route. For example, I once missed a part of the GT Masters practice because Circuitpark Zandvoort had forgotten to open the ticket booths. I also once arrived late to the start of an event in Assen because there was a cow standing in the middle of the road, causing a considerable traffic jam. And just last year my arrival to the Nordschleife was delayed because in a tiny Eifel village we caught the tail end of a crocodile. Not a real one, luckily. That would’ve been too much, after the whole cow-thing. No, this was a crocodile of cars. Promotion cars. Opel promotion cars, to be exact.

We didn’t notice anything odd was going on at first. We just turned a corner and found ourselves stuck behind a white Opel Astra. No big deal. It happens. Only then we turned another corner and we saw there was a red Opel Astra in front of the white Opel Astra. Okay. That’s odd, but coincidences happen! But then we turned a somewhat wider corner and caught sight of a blue Opel Astra in front of the red Opel Astra. Eh… huh?!

It wasn’t until we left the village that we got a proper view of the full crocodile. It was twenty Opel Astras long. It was also going very slowly so as not to lose anyone on the narrow Eifel roads and, whenever a gap inevitably fell in the line, the entire front part of the crocodile would halt, wait until the backmarkers had caught up, and then sloooooowly crawl back to its steady pace of 60km/h – on an 80km/h road, thank you very much. We had no choice but to follow the crocodile as patiently as we could, with as little swearing at the existence of Opels as we could possible manage.

By the time we finally made it to the track – a whopping twenty minutes later than planned – myself and everybody else in the car had seen more than enough of Opel Astra for the rest of our hopefully very long lives. So even though it was probably not Opel’s intention when it decided on its promotion campaign; I now know exactly which car I’m NOT going to buy in the future.