17
As promised in my ‘manifesto’ to Alistair, I make an effort to throw myself headlong into French life. I start a weekly stint of volunteering, make moves to join a tennis club, and investigate local horse treks rather than longing for the tea tree trail back home. With little money, I don’t actually do any of the paid activities, but at least I am laying down the foundations for when I can. Calling in randomly on the neighbours still feels too uncomfortable, but I do try to say ‘Yes!’ to all the adventures Alistair throws my way.
The first one is a trip to the motorsport event 24 Hours of Le Mans. Alistair is extremely excited about this. Unlike the prelude to the Spain roadie, he doesn’t need my enthusiasm to match his. His million-megawatt zeal carries us both. And while cars aren’t really my thing, I am intrigued by the prospect of attending this world-famous event. Even I recognise that this is an exceptional opportunity. It is not just the annual classic car race; the 2023 extravaganza will mark 100 years since the very first one was held, with some of the original Bentleys even competing, and more than 800 cars will take part over four days. Arriving in Le Mans after an almost three-hour drive, we join thousands of others camping at the public campsite next to the circuit. In this field crammed with motorhomes, caravans and pop-up tents is the most divine array of cars. Classic Porsches are parked beside modest nylon shelters. Sleek Jaguar D-Types crouch low next to plastic picnic tables. AC Cobras bristle with unleashed energy next to barbecues and chilly bins.
When we first arrive at the ground, a man on a bicycle tells us to follow him, so he can show us to our camping spot. He stops next to a corner site, says something, indicates, then pedals off again up the muddy path. After a good 40 minutes putting up our tent in increasingly persistent rain, a second man on a pushbike brakes to a halt next to us. ‘Can’t camp there!’ he says brightly. ‘That’s for the first aid station!’ Alistair and I look at each other, but by now we are so tired, so wet, and so uncomfortable that the situation has morphed into comedy. I wipe the rain out of my eyes, remind Alistair of the cold beer that comes at the end of this, and start to pull up pegs.
—————
Le Mans is memorable, for many reasons. The races themselves are of little interest because I have no emotional connection to any of it; I’m not rooting for any driver in particular, I’m not aware of who the underdogs, the courageous veterans, nor who the surprise comebacks are. All of those elements that add spice to watching a sport are missing for me. My fault entirely, of course, but I merely mention it.
However, I do love to learn about the characters who have taken part over the decades. Running along one long fence by the track is a display of photographs, accompanied by narrative, of Le Mans over the past 100 years. The one which charms me most is a fuzzy 1969 colour image of drivers running across the track at the start of the race. That was the tradition; the moment the starting flag came down, competitors sprinted to their cars and often didn’t take the time to belt up, so eager were they to get ahead of the field. Every driver in that photo is running, but one. Racing icon Jacky Ickx is pictured strolling to his car, staging a one-man protest at the dangerous sprinting tradition. When he got to the car, the story goes, he made a show of slowly and carefully doing up his belts in order to press home his point. Ickx was proved right, in the most tragic of ways. A fellow competitor that day, John Woolfe, sped off unbuckled, lost control of his car, crashed into the barriers and died after being flung from the cockpit. Ickx, meanwhile, won the race.
There’s a lot to love about Le Mans, even for the non-petrolheads among us. It looks, feels, sounds and smells like one long celebration. Delicious aromas waft from the many food trucks, the al fresco bars and restaurants are packed with clientele of all kinds sipping cold beers and champagne in the sunshine; music blares from speakers and as you walk, the warbling of Édith Piaf gives way to a burst of samba, which further along gives way to the thudding of a rock ballad. There is entertainment for kids, while stalls — some tiny, some lavish — sell everything from posters and branded baseball caps to leather racing suits and, yes, actual cars. Once I have stopped bristling at the very idea of it all, i.e. the decidedly pungent whiff of privilege in the air, I begin to focus on other things. Like the genius and passion that goes into creating these glorious machines, the bravery and sheer determination of the drivers, the heart-warming dedication of the fans. I see an elderly man collecting autographs from the drivers, his face shining like the boy he once was as he approaches, pen in hand.
We’re inside a non-stop theme park, reality on pause for four days. Apart from one afternoon, when the outside world comes to us loud and clear over an intercom: a reminder to anyone who needs to take public transport that trains will not be running after 8.15 p.m. Because beyond these gates, France is burning. Two days ago, after the shooting at point-blank range of a teenager of Moroccan–Algerian descent in Nanterre, the streets began to pour with justifiable rage at the killing. The flames of fury show no sign of dying down. In multiple cities from north to south, cars and public buildings are set ablaze. There is rioting and looting. Many are expressing shock and outrage at this behaviour. But others, like French journalist Rokhaya Diallo writing in The Washington Post, beautifully lay out why it should shock no one.
If the world seems to be astonished by the level of anger expressed, I am not. France has been facing police brutality against minorities for decades, a problem that lingers and worsens with time. If the status quo is left unchecked, if this systemic racist violence continues apace, a proudly ‘universalist’ republic — and especially one that purports not to recognize racial, religious, or ethnic difference at all — will have abandoned its own social contract.
On the last night, when Le Mans is winding down, we return to the campsite. It is empty. The sleek beasts have evacuated the savannah, the makeshift homes have been pulled up, rolled up and ferried out. There remain one or two dotted here and there. And amusingly, the tent right next to ours is one of them. A whole vacant field and two little tents pressed up close to each other, as if scared to be alone. Our neighbours are a father and son who come to Le Mans together every year. They offer us sangria and we chat to them for a good hour before saying goodnight, climbing into the tent, and zipping another day closed.
The next morning, we wake early, around 6.30, and dismantle the tent — again in the pouring rain. My shorts are drenched, but I tell myself, ‘No matter, we will soon be sitting in a cosy café drinking coffee and eating pain au chocolat’. We set off and, heading out of Le Mans, Alistair remarks that the Range Rover is low on petrol. He’s not too worried about it; there is still enough fuel to get us to a service station he sees marked on the map. But the fuel gauge is giving us fake news. ‘Oh shit,’ says Alistair, with the gravitas that tells you this is not an overreaction to something minor, like he’s just remembered he left the milk out of the fridge back home. The car starts to slow. With some bizarre but clever steering-wheel handling, Alistair manages to coax it onto a grass verge, right before a set of traffic lights and in the middle of two dual carriageways. We are just coming into a small town, but it’s 8 a.m. and nothing is open. The fuel station we were destined for is a good three kilometres away. We sit, not talking, just waiting — as if the car is simply having a bad episode and will get up and start moving again when it has taken a few deep breaths. In this pause of uncertainty, I take time to savour the irony that we’ve run out of fuel mere minutes from one of the world’s most famous racetracks. Finally, I say ‘Look, why don’t I walk to the petrol station, and bring back fuel in a thingy.’ ‘A canister,’ says Alistair. ‘And thank you. You are amazing.’ He has had a bad back for days now, so I am not amazing. I am in fact the only shortlisted candidate.
What follows is a French farce of Feydeau-esque proportions. Alistair hands me a bunch of cash so I can buy the petrol. It has to be E95, he reminds me. I set off and walk. And walk. And walk some more. Low on fuel myself, I am highly tempted to go off-piste in search of a bakery, but I have a mission to complete and I can’t leave Alistair on his grass atoll in the midst of a sea of traffic. Finally, after a good 25 minutes or more, I spy the gas station. I am drenched and starving and cold, and I must be a pitiful sight. Which is probably why, when I explain my dilemma, the attendant nips out the back and returns with an empty plastic canister — see-through like a milk bottle — which she doesn’t charge me for. I head out to the forecourt, happy to spot an E95 sign. Then another attendant, just arriving, yells out, ‘You can’t take away fuel in that! It’s illegal!’ I protest that her co-worker only just gave me the thing. She shrugs. ‘Up to you,’ she says, in a ‘I wash my hands of you’ tone. ‘But if you get stopped …’
The automatic-pay machine at the pump doesn’t take cash. It’s the only E95 pump here. I have Alistair’s card, but no pin number. I try to call him, but remember his phone is flat and, with the car not working, he can’t recharge it. I try unsuccessfully to persuade the attendant to take my cash for the E95, but no. Eventually, she offers up the fact: ‘That pump over there takes cash.’ It does, but it doesn’t dispense E95. Unable to get hold of Alistair, I figure that any fuel is better than no fuel. And even if this does give the Rangie indigestion, it’s going to get us far enough to fill up on the good stuff. I pay up and trudge the three kilometres back in the pouring rain, my several litres of illegality sloshing around in its plastic container. Quite honestly, if I were a flic (cop), I’d arrest me right now. In the midst of nationwide riots where arson is a go-to expression of discontent and loathing, a small damp person in a hoodie who looks like she slept the night in an aquarium is moving darkly along the streets, carrying several litres of incriminating liquid. So, in a very un-Le Mans racetrack kind of way, this petrol is facilitating a burst of speed, leading me to walk faster and faster, finding a gear I didn’t even know I had.
I make it back to the car, tired, hungry but with my liberty intact — having passed no cops along the way. Alistair can’t believe it. He assumed I would get lost, give up, and come back angry and frustrated. But no, here I am, dripping with rain and satisfaction. He gives me the biggest hug. ‘You are amazing,’ he says. And this time, yes I am.