The first lap of Le Mans last weekend passed in a daze. The thought of performing on that hallowed 14km (8–9 mile) circuit in front of thousands was bad enough, even for one who would have been content with the record for the slowest lap, but the thought was as nothing compared with the fact.
I’ve no idea what people imagined as they watched the only tweeded figure on the circuit pressed into the cockpit. But no time to worry because without a by-your-leave we found ourselves out of the paddock and on to the track in unfamiliar left-hand-drive cars, there to be enveloped in a fog of noise, heat, speed, corners, brakes, throttle, change up, up, up on the Mulsanne Straight, then — oh, Jesus — down, down, down for the chicanes, now hammer it towards Indianapolis corner with the sun in your eyes, what the hell’s the car in front doing, daren’t brake with someone up my exhaust pipe, what speed are we, no time to look, gun it past the stands and scores of flashing cameras (gratifying, that), then — Jesus — yellow flag at the Dunlop Curve, three cars off, just miss the recovery truck, under the bridge without touching the sides, and round again.
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