All Roads Lead to Rechberg
Discussion
Chaps,
I've started documenting a little drive my dad and I took to Austria last month. I'm sure you're all bored to death of these things from me but I'll persist. I thought I'd drop it into General Motorsport, as the trip was, generally, dedicated to motorsport.
Chev.
Part 1 - Holland and into Germany.
This wasn’t in the script. Less than 30 minutes into a 2,500 mile, six country road trip and we’ve been diverted into one of Hull’s less salubrious neighbourhoods. By supercar standards, a grey Aston Martin is relatively subtle but it’s hard not to feel a total berk under the circumstances. It’s a relief when P&O’s finest hoves into view ahead of us. It’s time to hit the high seas, bound as we are for mainland Europe and a second continental adventure aboard my father’s V8 Vantage.
Two and a half years ago we completed the special triumvirate of Belgian Grand Prix, Italian Grand Prix and Goodwood Revival on consecutive weekends. This time, the headline events are perhaps less well-known but the trip promises equal intrigue and adventure. Our ultimate destination is the Großer Bergpreis von Österreich – the 43rd running of Rechbergrennen, a crazy, closed-roads, five kilometre blast up an Austrian mountainside. We’ve arranged a couple of automotive-themed diversions along the way and reckon we shouldn’t struggle to find some great driving roads and wonderful vistas to accompany them. Game on!
The Hull – Rotterdam ferry is bereft of glamour in the truest sense, but so too is it bereft of pretension. The cabins are redolent of an Ibis hotel – all pre-formed fibreglass bathroom pods and minimal elbow space. Still, we have barely 12 hours on board before docking in Rotterdam. A couple of ample plate loads from the buffet, several strong lagers and a handful of hours’ interrupted sleep and we’re on the European mainland.
Watching the vast, heavy industrial sprawl of Rotterdam is enough to turn my co-pilot to hyperbole. Nothing (including his beloved Aston Martin) excites him quite like storage tanks, miles of pipework, furnaces and the ephemera of process engineering. In fact, I worry the rest of the trip will prove to be a bit of a let-down by comparison.
Returning to the car to disembark provides the trip’s second departure from its intended script. The car had received a little attention from an Aston main dealer just before our jaunt; one of the areas in question being the headlights, after a dipped beam bulb required changing. Unfortunately the dash has thrown up a fault with the same bulb and it appears to be out of operation. Bugger.
We elect to continue to our first destination while we devise a plan – it’s 9am so we have no concerns about having to use the headlights just yet anyway.
While our ultimate destination is Rechbergrennen, we’ve planned a series of diversions to keep ourselves interested – much as we had done during our 2012 trip. While most of these relate to the automobile in its various guises, we do wish to broaden our horizons slightly and indulge in a few of our other interests. Accordingly, the first stop is at the Airborne Museum, just outside Arnhem in Holland. Only about 90 minutes from Rotterdam, this museum records the history of Operation Market Garden, an Allied offensive during 1944.
The Airborne Museum sits on the outskirts of Oosterbeek and is set in an old mansion which served as a temporary base for the field commanders of Operation Market Garden. Our first action upon arrival is to admire a British-registered BMW E30 M3 in the car park. With due reverence paid, we move swiftly on with the task of attending to the Aston’s malaise. There’s a dealership with a service department in Eindhoven – this is on our intended route anyway and the team there can accommodate the car at our convenience.
Buoyed by the kind of nonchalant, confident certainty only the Dutch can offer, we are able to enjoy the Airborne Museum without undue concern for our vehicular good health.
The museum focuses on Operation Market Garden. This was an exceptionally bold and ambitious Allied plan to capture strategic Dutch bridges from the Germans in order to expedite the end of the Second World War. The mission took place during September 1944 and proved a tragic failure after a fundamental misunderstanding of German defences left Allied armed forces circled and trapped.
The facility is fascinating. Not only does it describe, in useful visual and audio formats, the nature of Operation Market Garden, it also depicts life in Holland during the occupation. It’s impossible to travel for any time in central Europe without being aware of the terrific and terrifying effects of the First and Second World Wars. The Benelux region was hit particularly hard and it’s extremely moving to learn more about the terror faced by the Dutch people during the occupation and associated fighting.
To our relief, it has also been largely successful in treading that fine line between the provision of useful learning for adults and engaging with school-age children. The overt tactility and zany graphic imagery which have come to typify so many museums in recent years are mercifully absent. Instead, narrated videos, paraphernalia of the time, haunting images, maps and prose tell the story in a digestible form.
Lightweight or easy-going it might not be, but the Airborne Museum is a thought-provoking record of a defining period in modern European history. It is an extremely humbling way to kick off a trip which, it must be said, rather majors on self-indulgence. We pause and linger in the gardens behind the mansion before we set off. Rolling parkland leads down to the river, deer graze and birds chirrup in the trees. It seems hard to believe this spot bore such savage fighting only 70 years earlier. The idea of Britons cruising peacefully through Holland, Germany, Austria, France and Belgium, unhindered by customs interrogations and wielding a single currency, would’ve been unimaginable back then. We’re tremendously fortunate.
Such thoughts do bring some perspective on a minor headlight issue. Eindhoven is barely an hour away so we nose out into the Dutch traffic, which is generally quite light, and settle into our surroundings: we’re going to be spending a lot of hours in this cabin.
Eindhoven is easy to reach and the Aston Martin dealership is out of town so we manage to totally avoid any city centre gridlock. We are greeted by an incredibly friendly gentleman who, of course, speaks perfect English. He’s expecting us so we grab a couple of reference documents from the car and hand over the key. We’re shown to an extremely smart waiting area and fixed with a top-notch coffee. Surrounded by Rolls Royces, Astons and other high-end motors (including a gorgeous Jaguar XJ220), this is actually quite a pleasant break to the journey.
We’ve prepared an extremely thorough road book, covering the whole trip, pre-loaded the sat nav with all our destinations and also have some large-scale European road atlases for guidance. This seems a pretty useful mix but sometimes a simple glance in the atlas can spot a fine road or interesting diversion. We pore over everything while the technicians tackle the Vantage’s troublesome illumination.
It’s at this point that a scan at our route reveals that we will be passing very close to the Nürburgring. We’d consciously decided to avoid any repetition from our previous jaunt, but as we’re passing mere moments from Europe’s greatest track, we elect to call in. This is due to be late afternoon so I suggest calling in at the Pistenklause; having not been before I’m anxious to sample the famous ‘steak on a stone’.
We while away 45 minutes with ease before the car is returned to us. A diagnostic check reveals an issue with the electrical system controlling the headlights. Its severity is unknown but the unit has been reset and the lamps are working. The helpful gentleman suggests a trip to a service centre in the UK but confirms that the bulbs are intact and illuminating their surroundings. Sounds like we’ll have to monitor it and use our discretion. Still, that brawny V8 is working perfectly and we’re about to cross into Germany and its tantalising network of derestricted autobahns.
The going is fairly easy and we manage a few lunges into three figure speeds, but equally diverting is the B257 which leads to Nürburg; an open, twisting road of the kind the Germans seem to specialise in. The countryside is bathed in luscious green pastures and woodland, with the road snaking gently through peaceful villages and open sections, with the odd hairpin thrown in for good measure. It’s not hard to see why this location was chosen for a race track, nor why the world’s manufacturers use the wider area for car development.
We arrive at the circuit from the north, passing through Adenau village before dropping under the lowest point of the Nordschleife at Breidscheid. This used to be the location for a touristenfahrten circuit entry point but not today. We park up and wander up to the spectator bank on the infield above Breidscheid. This isn’t a public event, and in fact it seems to be a manufacturer test day. A variety of prototypes from a number of major manufacturers are pounding around, tyres squealing – and in many case door handles scraping the kerbs.
The majority of protagonists are from the German marques, or their derivative companies: BMWs, Audis, Mercedes, Bentleys and Porsches are in action and travelling extremely briskly. Interlopers include Hyundai, Chevrolet, Jaguar and Aston Martin.
Many of the cars are wearing the semi-obligatory camouflage wrap, though not all. It’s not hard to pick out the shape of a BMW 7-series but it takes a little eye-rubbing to realise that Jaguar has three SUVs out there, all under disguise but each carrying a British registration and the signature Jaguar grille.
Porsche has examples of the Panamera and 911 out in force. The 911s are undisguised but display a number of different exhaust configurations – even among Carreras. It’s hard not to ponder whether there are new turbo engines lurking beneath those rising rear wings. In fact it’s tough not to speculate about virtually every car. Certainly BMW has a well-disguising M2 / 2M lapping very quickly. We see it only once but the quad rear exhaust tips and strident below as it blasts back up the hill away from us are a dead give-away.
Best noise of all was Aston Martin’s howling GT12. A road-going nod to the V12 Vantage GT3 weapons, the model is limited to 100 examples and hasn’t yet been released to the press so we feel rather honoured to be in its presence. It completes three laps during our half hour spectating and there’s a tingle of excitement every time in appears in the distance, anticipating its vocal departure.
Second-best noise of the day is awarded to Audi’s new R8 V10 Plus, in stealthy, dark livery and featuring a neat, fixed rear wing. Its trademark woofling V10 has gained a sharp, coarse edge and, while it doesn’t quite match the volume and drama of the GT12, it’s still utterly compelling – as well as fiendishly fast. 2015 promises to be a great year for the supercar.
The prospect of seeing something new and exciting keeps us nailed firmly to the trackside but eventually even the anguished cries of an X6’s tyres can’t sate our growing appetites and I need to get my co-driver’s head on to navigate us to the Pistenklause.
We amble through the Nordschleife’s vast infield and I turn to intuition for inspiration, selecting a turning almost at random for us to follow. It leads up a series of tight switchbacks before we chance up a red 911 moving fairly slowly ahead. At second glance it becomes apparent this is a new 991 GT3 RS and it’s tracking an estate car. The estate has its boot open and there’s a cameraman dangling precariously from its loading bay. We’ve stumbled upon a photo shoot for one of the most hotly-anticipated new cars for years; and what will doubtless become EVO magazine’s Car of the Year.
We follow at a discrete distance so as not to ruin the photos but the RS looks mega on the road. Those broad haunches and massive rear tyres bulge steroidally, as if unceremoniously crushed by the invisible force of the giant rear wing. And those front wing vents are as over-the-top, but brilliant, as you’d expect. I’m a sucker for anything race-derived and the RS appears ready to turn left onto the Dottingher Hohe and launch into a VLN race. It looks savagely potent.
Sadly we can’t prolong my love-in with the RS and we peel left towards Tiergarten where the combatants on the Nordschleife are pounding, right feet planted, towards the end of another testing lap. Not being a ‘Ring affectionado to the same extent as many, I feel rather ashamed that I’m yet to sample the famous Pistenklause. The restaurant attached to the Hotel Am Tiergarten, owned by Sabine Schmitz and her family, is legendary for its hospitality, decor and steak on a stone.
The hospitality is fine but the decor is compelling. Majoring on Nürburgring history, but with a nod towards every aspect of race history, it’s a fascinating wander through our sport’s past. Numerous legends of the sport have left their own mark but everything from VW Golfs to contemporary F1 is given wall space. It could take hours to explore the whole place, drinking in the detail.
Steak on a stone is as literal as it sounds. The surprise, though, is the heat of the stone and the rawness of the steak. We receive great slabs of raw fillet steak, but served on what looks like a concrete paving slab and which is burning away at a temperature which threatens to embarrass the sun. Quickly dicing the meat into manageable cubes seems to work and soon we’re gnawing at perfectly cooked little balls of fantastic steak. It’s awesome.
Sadly we can’t linger around the Nürburgring, which is something of a shame as the place just exudes motor racing. It’s lazy to call it a ‘petrolhead Mecca’ but it really is just that. The whole area is steeped in its love for the great circuit and the macadam snakes and sweeps its way through the landscape, offering tantalising views every so often. And because it’s so vast you could visit time and again and still explore something new every time. We vow to do just that.
I've started documenting a little drive my dad and I took to Austria last month. I'm sure you're all bored to death of these things from me but I'll persist. I thought I'd drop it into General Motorsport, as the trip was, generally, dedicated to motorsport.
Chev.
Part 1 - Holland and into Germany.
This wasn’t in the script. Less than 30 minutes into a 2,500 mile, six country road trip and we’ve been diverted into one of Hull’s less salubrious neighbourhoods. By supercar standards, a grey Aston Martin is relatively subtle but it’s hard not to feel a total berk under the circumstances. It’s a relief when P&O’s finest hoves into view ahead of us. It’s time to hit the high seas, bound as we are for mainland Europe and a second continental adventure aboard my father’s V8 Vantage.
Two and a half years ago we completed the special triumvirate of Belgian Grand Prix, Italian Grand Prix and Goodwood Revival on consecutive weekends. This time, the headline events are perhaps less well-known but the trip promises equal intrigue and adventure. Our ultimate destination is the Großer Bergpreis von Österreich – the 43rd running of Rechbergrennen, a crazy, closed-roads, five kilometre blast up an Austrian mountainside. We’ve arranged a couple of automotive-themed diversions along the way and reckon we shouldn’t struggle to find some great driving roads and wonderful vistas to accompany them. Game on!
The Hull – Rotterdam ferry is bereft of glamour in the truest sense, but so too is it bereft of pretension. The cabins are redolent of an Ibis hotel – all pre-formed fibreglass bathroom pods and minimal elbow space. Still, we have barely 12 hours on board before docking in Rotterdam. A couple of ample plate loads from the buffet, several strong lagers and a handful of hours’ interrupted sleep and we’re on the European mainland.
Watching the vast, heavy industrial sprawl of Rotterdam is enough to turn my co-pilot to hyperbole. Nothing (including his beloved Aston Martin) excites him quite like storage tanks, miles of pipework, furnaces and the ephemera of process engineering. In fact, I worry the rest of the trip will prove to be a bit of a let-down by comparison.
Returning to the car to disembark provides the trip’s second departure from its intended script. The car had received a little attention from an Aston main dealer just before our jaunt; one of the areas in question being the headlights, after a dipped beam bulb required changing. Unfortunately the dash has thrown up a fault with the same bulb and it appears to be out of operation. Bugger.
We elect to continue to our first destination while we devise a plan – it’s 9am so we have no concerns about having to use the headlights just yet anyway.
While our ultimate destination is Rechbergrennen, we’ve planned a series of diversions to keep ourselves interested – much as we had done during our 2012 trip. While most of these relate to the automobile in its various guises, we do wish to broaden our horizons slightly and indulge in a few of our other interests. Accordingly, the first stop is at the Airborne Museum, just outside Arnhem in Holland. Only about 90 minutes from Rotterdam, this museum records the history of Operation Market Garden, an Allied offensive during 1944.
The Airborne Museum sits on the outskirts of Oosterbeek and is set in an old mansion which served as a temporary base for the field commanders of Operation Market Garden. Our first action upon arrival is to admire a British-registered BMW E30 M3 in the car park. With due reverence paid, we move swiftly on with the task of attending to the Aston’s malaise. There’s a dealership with a service department in Eindhoven – this is on our intended route anyway and the team there can accommodate the car at our convenience.
Buoyed by the kind of nonchalant, confident certainty only the Dutch can offer, we are able to enjoy the Airborne Museum without undue concern for our vehicular good health.
The museum focuses on Operation Market Garden. This was an exceptionally bold and ambitious Allied plan to capture strategic Dutch bridges from the Germans in order to expedite the end of the Second World War. The mission took place during September 1944 and proved a tragic failure after a fundamental misunderstanding of German defences left Allied armed forces circled and trapped.
The facility is fascinating. Not only does it describe, in useful visual and audio formats, the nature of Operation Market Garden, it also depicts life in Holland during the occupation. It’s impossible to travel for any time in central Europe without being aware of the terrific and terrifying effects of the First and Second World Wars. The Benelux region was hit particularly hard and it’s extremely moving to learn more about the terror faced by the Dutch people during the occupation and associated fighting.
To our relief, it has also been largely successful in treading that fine line between the provision of useful learning for adults and engaging with school-age children. The overt tactility and zany graphic imagery which have come to typify so many museums in recent years are mercifully absent. Instead, narrated videos, paraphernalia of the time, haunting images, maps and prose tell the story in a digestible form.
Lightweight or easy-going it might not be, but the Airborne Museum is a thought-provoking record of a defining period in modern European history. It is an extremely humbling way to kick off a trip which, it must be said, rather majors on self-indulgence. We pause and linger in the gardens behind the mansion before we set off. Rolling parkland leads down to the river, deer graze and birds chirrup in the trees. It seems hard to believe this spot bore such savage fighting only 70 years earlier. The idea of Britons cruising peacefully through Holland, Germany, Austria, France and Belgium, unhindered by customs interrogations and wielding a single currency, would’ve been unimaginable back then. We’re tremendously fortunate.
Such thoughts do bring some perspective on a minor headlight issue. Eindhoven is barely an hour away so we nose out into the Dutch traffic, which is generally quite light, and settle into our surroundings: we’re going to be spending a lot of hours in this cabin.
Eindhoven is easy to reach and the Aston Martin dealership is out of town so we manage to totally avoid any city centre gridlock. We are greeted by an incredibly friendly gentleman who, of course, speaks perfect English. He’s expecting us so we grab a couple of reference documents from the car and hand over the key. We’re shown to an extremely smart waiting area and fixed with a top-notch coffee. Surrounded by Rolls Royces, Astons and other high-end motors (including a gorgeous Jaguar XJ220), this is actually quite a pleasant break to the journey.
We’ve prepared an extremely thorough road book, covering the whole trip, pre-loaded the sat nav with all our destinations and also have some large-scale European road atlases for guidance. This seems a pretty useful mix but sometimes a simple glance in the atlas can spot a fine road or interesting diversion. We pore over everything while the technicians tackle the Vantage’s troublesome illumination.
It’s at this point that a scan at our route reveals that we will be passing very close to the Nürburgring. We’d consciously decided to avoid any repetition from our previous jaunt, but as we’re passing mere moments from Europe’s greatest track, we elect to call in. This is due to be late afternoon so I suggest calling in at the Pistenklause; having not been before I’m anxious to sample the famous ‘steak on a stone’.
We while away 45 minutes with ease before the car is returned to us. A diagnostic check reveals an issue with the electrical system controlling the headlights. Its severity is unknown but the unit has been reset and the lamps are working. The helpful gentleman suggests a trip to a service centre in the UK but confirms that the bulbs are intact and illuminating their surroundings. Sounds like we’ll have to monitor it and use our discretion. Still, that brawny V8 is working perfectly and we’re about to cross into Germany and its tantalising network of derestricted autobahns.
The going is fairly easy and we manage a few lunges into three figure speeds, but equally diverting is the B257 which leads to Nürburg; an open, twisting road of the kind the Germans seem to specialise in. The countryside is bathed in luscious green pastures and woodland, with the road snaking gently through peaceful villages and open sections, with the odd hairpin thrown in for good measure. It’s not hard to see why this location was chosen for a race track, nor why the world’s manufacturers use the wider area for car development.
We arrive at the circuit from the north, passing through Adenau village before dropping under the lowest point of the Nordschleife at Breidscheid. This used to be the location for a touristenfahrten circuit entry point but not today. We park up and wander up to the spectator bank on the infield above Breidscheid. This isn’t a public event, and in fact it seems to be a manufacturer test day. A variety of prototypes from a number of major manufacturers are pounding around, tyres squealing – and in many case door handles scraping the kerbs.
The majority of protagonists are from the German marques, or their derivative companies: BMWs, Audis, Mercedes, Bentleys and Porsches are in action and travelling extremely briskly. Interlopers include Hyundai, Chevrolet, Jaguar and Aston Martin.
Many of the cars are wearing the semi-obligatory camouflage wrap, though not all. It’s not hard to pick out the shape of a BMW 7-series but it takes a little eye-rubbing to realise that Jaguar has three SUVs out there, all under disguise but each carrying a British registration and the signature Jaguar grille.
Porsche has examples of the Panamera and 911 out in force. The 911s are undisguised but display a number of different exhaust configurations – even among Carreras. It’s hard not to ponder whether there are new turbo engines lurking beneath those rising rear wings. In fact it’s tough not to speculate about virtually every car. Certainly BMW has a well-disguising M2 / 2M lapping very quickly. We see it only once but the quad rear exhaust tips and strident below as it blasts back up the hill away from us are a dead give-away.
Best noise of all was Aston Martin’s howling GT12. A road-going nod to the V12 Vantage GT3 weapons, the model is limited to 100 examples and hasn’t yet been released to the press so we feel rather honoured to be in its presence. It completes three laps during our half hour spectating and there’s a tingle of excitement every time in appears in the distance, anticipating its vocal departure.
Second-best noise of the day is awarded to Audi’s new R8 V10 Plus, in stealthy, dark livery and featuring a neat, fixed rear wing. Its trademark woofling V10 has gained a sharp, coarse edge and, while it doesn’t quite match the volume and drama of the GT12, it’s still utterly compelling – as well as fiendishly fast. 2015 promises to be a great year for the supercar.
The prospect of seeing something new and exciting keeps us nailed firmly to the trackside but eventually even the anguished cries of an X6’s tyres can’t sate our growing appetites and I need to get my co-driver’s head on to navigate us to the Pistenklause.
We amble through the Nordschleife’s vast infield and I turn to intuition for inspiration, selecting a turning almost at random for us to follow. It leads up a series of tight switchbacks before we chance up a red 911 moving fairly slowly ahead. At second glance it becomes apparent this is a new 991 GT3 RS and it’s tracking an estate car. The estate has its boot open and there’s a cameraman dangling precariously from its loading bay. We’ve stumbled upon a photo shoot for one of the most hotly-anticipated new cars for years; and what will doubtless become EVO magazine’s Car of the Year.
We follow at a discrete distance so as not to ruin the photos but the RS looks mega on the road. Those broad haunches and massive rear tyres bulge steroidally, as if unceremoniously crushed by the invisible force of the giant rear wing. And those front wing vents are as over-the-top, but brilliant, as you’d expect. I’m a sucker for anything race-derived and the RS appears ready to turn left onto the Dottingher Hohe and launch into a VLN race. It looks savagely potent.
Sadly we can’t prolong my love-in with the RS and we peel left towards Tiergarten where the combatants on the Nordschleife are pounding, right feet planted, towards the end of another testing lap. Not being a ‘Ring affectionado to the same extent as many, I feel rather ashamed that I’m yet to sample the famous Pistenklause. The restaurant attached to the Hotel Am Tiergarten, owned by Sabine Schmitz and her family, is legendary for its hospitality, decor and steak on a stone.
The hospitality is fine but the decor is compelling. Majoring on Nürburgring history, but with a nod towards every aspect of race history, it’s a fascinating wander through our sport’s past. Numerous legends of the sport have left their own mark but everything from VW Golfs to contemporary F1 is given wall space. It could take hours to explore the whole place, drinking in the detail.
Steak on a stone is as literal as it sounds. The surprise, though, is the heat of the stone and the rawness of the steak. We receive great slabs of raw fillet steak, but served on what looks like a concrete paving slab and which is burning away at a temperature which threatens to embarrass the sun. Quickly dicing the meat into manageable cubes seems to work and soon we’re gnawing at perfectly cooked little balls of fantastic steak. It’s awesome.
Sadly we can’t linger around the Nürburgring, which is something of a shame as the place just exudes motor racing. It’s lazy to call it a ‘petrolhead Mecca’ but it really is just that. The whole area is steeped in its love for the great circuit and the macadam snakes and sweeps its way through the landscape, offering tantalising views every so often. And because it’s so vast you could visit time and again and still explore something new every time. We vow to do just that.
Part 2 - Hockenheim and Speyer
The rest point for our first night is Speyer, a couple of hours south east from Nürburg. Away from the Eiffel region and the going is pleasant but pretty uninspiring on the autobahns. It’s my turn to take the wheel and I manage my trip-best of 139mph during a reasonable length without restriction. We find easy motoring and the drivers seem a little less likely to pull out without warning than I’d remembered. A 100-110mph cruise seems to strike a nice balance between covering ground and experiencing periodic moments of horror as slow-moving cars wander into the outside lane. The Vantage is right in its sweet spot here. The exhaust valves are just closed for quiet(ish) cruising but it’s right on cam and a gentle squeeze on the throttle pedal brings strong, building acceleration accompanied by the car’s trademark thunderous soundtrack.
Speyer is one of Germany’s most ancient cities, with a recorded history dating back two millennia to its days as a Roman camp. Situated on the banks of the mighty Rhine, the city’s name is the result of its striking skyline, punctuated by tall spires. Construction of the lofty cathedral, a stone’s throw from the river commenced in 1030, when the civilisation was already 1000 years old. Today’s it’s a distinctly German town. You can’t expect to find an English menu in a restaurant and there exists a gentle cafe culture-type vibe with locals enjoying the early evening sun with a beer or an ice cream. It’s a side of the country you wouldn’t expect without visiting and it’s rather charming. Naturally, the local pilsner is served in huge glasses with a generous head to tickle your moustache.
As if so much inspiring history and pleasant culture isn’t enough, Speyer is home to an enormous museum of special interest to nerds like us. Paired with a facility in the same vein less than half an hour away at Sinsheim, Technik Museum Speyer is a vast, sprawling collection dedicated to all forms of transport and engineering. You know you’ve found it because there’s a Boeing 747 100 feet up in the sky on stilts just off the autobahn.
The museum is set on land adjacent to Speyer’s small airport, an airstrip which dates as far back as the First World War and features its own hotel. It’s fairly basic but the car parking is safe and there’s a jet fighter set on stilts at the entrance. You may detect something of a theme here…
It seems as if our whole trip is punctuated by museums but we excel ourselves on day two by visiting not one, but two. We kick off with a visit to Hockenheim. Possessing a long history as the venue for the German Grand Prix, the track is an easy 20 minutes’ drive from Speyer so we head over straight after breakfast to sample its museum and check out the historic circuit itself.
We find Hockenheim buzzing gently with preparations for its first major race meeting of the year: for the inaugural time, DTM will be sharing the billing with the World Rallycross Championship and it’s hard not to feel a pang of regret that we can’t be there to join in the fun. The giant corporate stands from the big German manufacturers are slowly being constructed but most interesting of all is the development of the Rallycross layout.
Set in the heart of the circuit’s famous stadium section, it twists back and forth across the macadam and the grassed areas in between. It looks challenging for the drivers and the views for spectators promise to be fantastic. Hockenheim’s stadium is enormous. My nearest frame of reference is the final part of the lap at Circuit de Catalunya, where we joined the wild, local MotoGP crowds in 2012. Hockenheim, however, takes this up a notch. The grandstands are simply massive and offer an expansive view of the climax of the lap. Though, sadly, that lap has now been emasculated, one can only sit and wonder at what it must’ve been like to have seen racing on the ‘proper’ layout. The cars would’ve been out of sight for 90 seconds giving rise to an anxious wait before a fright of colourful, screaming V8, V10 and V12 monsters loomed out of the forests. Running skinny rear wings, they’d have skated through the stadium before blasting back out to into the forest once more…Magic.
Having explored a little of the current race track, we duck into the Motor Sport Museum. This is only a small facility and actually majors on motorcycles ahead of cars. Racing at Hockenheim dates back to the 1930s and today’s layout is one of several which have existed on the site down the years. A tour of the place is available but, sadly, we don’t have time for that today due to our commitments at Speyer.
The museum is fairly small and almost entirely in German. This challenges my translation skills – and my two years of studying German as a pre-teen do little to help with making sense of some of the more in-depth displays. Still, we muddle through and enjoy tracking the development of the racing motor cycle in its many forms. Most fascinating of all is a brace of Bimota Tesi 2Ds, featuring front swing arms and crazy suspension geometry. We ponder these unusual machines for some time, struggling to make sense of the unusual arrangement of coupling rods. And to think I sometimes dismiss motorcycles as mostly looking the same…
There are, of course, cars as well and the displays include four wheeled heroes from the worlds of F1, F2, F3, FVee, DTM and drag racing. It’s easy to forget that Hockenheim’s unique arrangement also created scope for a drag strip – and that’s a form of racing which holds almost as much importance to the place as does road racing and continues to this day.
In spite of the linguistic challenges, we learn plenty about Hockenheim’s history and the displays provide a useful insight into German racing generally. It’s small – don’t go there expecting the Donington Grand Prix Collection – but taken for what it is, it’s a charming place which gives some context to a visit to the old circuit.
As a Lotus owner and enthusiast, no trip to Hockenheim would be complete without paying our respects to Jim Clark. The great Scot, who died in a still-unexplained accident deep in the forests, remains revered in all quarters. The spot where he died is now buried in deep woodland and not easy to find but, since the construction of the current layout, a new memorial has been built for him, just behind the current turn two.
We drive half-way out there before taking to our feet. It’s a warm day and the short stroll is no hardship. The memorial is unpretentious but provides a fitting tribute to one of the titans of the sport, who was lost while still at the absolute peak of his powers. Adjacent is a smaller memorial to German driver Bert Hawthorne, who also lost his life racing here. The site is well-maintained and we pause in silence to pay our respects. It’s peaceful out here and reflection comes naturally. Our sport can carry grave penalties.
Behind the memorials, the old circuit once carried drivers in a flat-out blast between the trees. Gently curving ‘straights’ hurled drivers at terrific speed towards nadgetty chicanes. The mists would hang among the trees. This was once a unique and special place. Today, the only clue that racing formerly took place here is the immaturity of the trees on the line of the old track. The macadam has been torn up and forestation planted in its place; even the museum justifies this move on ecology. I have a lump in my throat.
We head back to Speyer as preparations for the forthcoming DTM / World Rallycross weekend continue apace; not much time for sentimentality – these guys are making race history today.
Technik Museum Speyer is a crazy kind of museum; in fact the only place I can compare it to is its brethren at Sinsheim. Occupying a number of former military and manufacturing units adjacent to Speyer airport (a slightly grand term, though apparently it does receive the odd commercial flight), the air buzzes constantly with the gentle drone of light aircraft. The sound is broken only once when a jet fighter takes off just out of our sight, rattling the windows as it goes.
There’s an undeniable sense of fun about both Speyer and Sinsheim; it’s hard not to experience a kind of vague amusement at the sight of a fighter plane, speared up the exhaust, pointing skywards outside the place, giant yellow letter behind spelling out ‘WILLKOMMEN’. It’s kind of serious and kind of fun at the same time.
The collection is simply enormous and it’s spread out over an huge area. Outside are the serious units: aeroplanes; boats; trains; military vehicles; a u-boat. Inside, all available halls are stuffed from front to back and top to bottom with exhibits. It’s a cerebral overload; chewing gum for the eyes. Every form of transport is on display, either resting on the ground, swinging from the rafters or climbing the walls. And if you love fire engines you’ll be in heaven.
It’s not worth trying to list even a fraction of the exhibits but there are cars, bikes, trains, planes, fire engines, buses, funicular railway carriages, boats, submarines, racing trucks, maglevs, tractors, dragsters, luna buggies and even a ruddy space shuttle (or the Eastern equivalent). It’s hard not to ponder how all of these objects – each of which is fascinating in its own right – have ended up in this corner of Germany.
The star exhibit is the ex-Lufthansa Boeing 747. It sits in the middle of the main courtyard, way up in the sky and gently tilted to give the impression of circling in to land. It’s undeniably impressive and a lengthy set of steps leads visitors into the fuselage to explore. Those crazy Germans have even created a walkway on the wing which is at least 15 times as scary as it sounds. Near the top of the stairs, boisterous visitors can hop on a sack and ride a slide to the bottom. Like I said, this place mixes fun with its engineering geekery.
The listing 747 is fascinating, as various areas have been deconstructed to enable you to see the construction of the plane and its various components. Its tilt also makes navigation slightly treacherous; it’s amazing how disorientating it is to guide oneself around a plane which isn’t in level flight or on the ground. I cannot imagine how much red tape would need to be cut in order to permit such a ludicrous, interactive installation in the UK today.
At ground level we’re excited to find a display celebrating 20 years of Team Rosberg. It’s easy to forget that Keke Rosberg has enjoyed a successful second career in motor racing, since hanging up his helmet. A pair of DTM Calibras reminds us of happy days at Donington Park during the golden era of Class One DTM and ITC weapons. Several cars from the career of Keke’s son, Nico, bring the story more up-to-date.
Just a few feet away sits the Buran space craft – Russia’s answer to the Space Shuttle. Even by space voyages standards, this example is pretty well-travelled, having been displayed in Sydney ahead of the Olympic Games before passing a couple of years in Bahrain. It was delivered to Speyer by water along the Rhine and now sits in pride of place among a series of spacey exhibits. As with everything at Speyer, it has been opened up to display its workings, with a walkway to allow visitors to see inside. Essentially a lorry intended to travel into space; it possesses a large cargo area, while the skin comprises thousands of ceramic tiles – just like the Space Shuttle.
Even a whistle-stop tour around Technik Museum Speyer will last half a day and thoroughly learning the identity and history of each item might take a lifetime. It’s an overwhelming place but an absolutely essential visit if you treasure transport, technology and engineering.
The rest point for our first night is Speyer, a couple of hours south east from Nürburg. Away from the Eiffel region and the going is pleasant but pretty uninspiring on the autobahns. It’s my turn to take the wheel and I manage my trip-best of 139mph during a reasonable length without restriction. We find easy motoring and the drivers seem a little less likely to pull out without warning than I’d remembered. A 100-110mph cruise seems to strike a nice balance between covering ground and experiencing periodic moments of horror as slow-moving cars wander into the outside lane. The Vantage is right in its sweet spot here. The exhaust valves are just closed for quiet(ish) cruising but it’s right on cam and a gentle squeeze on the throttle pedal brings strong, building acceleration accompanied by the car’s trademark thunderous soundtrack.
Speyer is one of Germany’s most ancient cities, with a recorded history dating back two millennia to its days as a Roman camp. Situated on the banks of the mighty Rhine, the city’s name is the result of its striking skyline, punctuated by tall spires. Construction of the lofty cathedral, a stone’s throw from the river commenced in 1030, when the civilisation was already 1000 years old. Today’s it’s a distinctly German town. You can’t expect to find an English menu in a restaurant and there exists a gentle cafe culture-type vibe with locals enjoying the early evening sun with a beer or an ice cream. It’s a side of the country you wouldn’t expect without visiting and it’s rather charming. Naturally, the local pilsner is served in huge glasses with a generous head to tickle your moustache.
As if so much inspiring history and pleasant culture isn’t enough, Speyer is home to an enormous museum of special interest to nerds like us. Paired with a facility in the same vein less than half an hour away at Sinsheim, Technik Museum Speyer is a vast, sprawling collection dedicated to all forms of transport and engineering. You know you’ve found it because there’s a Boeing 747 100 feet up in the sky on stilts just off the autobahn.
The museum is set on land adjacent to Speyer’s small airport, an airstrip which dates as far back as the First World War and features its own hotel. It’s fairly basic but the car parking is safe and there’s a jet fighter set on stilts at the entrance. You may detect something of a theme here…
It seems as if our whole trip is punctuated by museums but we excel ourselves on day two by visiting not one, but two. We kick off with a visit to Hockenheim. Possessing a long history as the venue for the German Grand Prix, the track is an easy 20 minutes’ drive from Speyer so we head over straight after breakfast to sample its museum and check out the historic circuit itself.
We find Hockenheim buzzing gently with preparations for its first major race meeting of the year: for the inaugural time, DTM will be sharing the billing with the World Rallycross Championship and it’s hard not to feel a pang of regret that we can’t be there to join in the fun. The giant corporate stands from the big German manufacturers are slowly being constructed but most interesting of all is the development of the Rallycross layout.
Set in the heart of the circuit’s famous stadium section, it twists back and forth across the macadam and the grassed areas in between. It looks challenging for the drivers and the views for spectators promise to be fantastic. Hockenheim’s stadium is enormous. My nearest frame of reference is the final part of the lap at Circuit de Catalunya, where we joined the wild, local MotoGP crowds in 2012. Hockenheim, however, takes this up a notch. The grandstands are simply massive and offer an expansive view of the climax of the lap. Though, sadly, that lap has now been emasculated, one can only sit and wonder at what it must’ve been like to have seen racing on the ‘proper’ layout. The cars would’ve been out of sight for 90 seconds giving rise to an anxious wait before a fright of colourful, screaming V8, V10 and V12 monsters loomed out of the forests. Running skinny rear wings, they’d have skated through the stadium before blasting back out to into the forest once more…Magic.
Having explored a little of the current race track, we duck into the Motor Sport Museum. This is only a small facility and actually majors on motorcycles ahead of cars. Racing at Hockenheim dates back to the 1930s and today’s layout is one of several which have existed on the site down the years. A tour of the place is available but, sadly, we don’t have time for that today due to our commitments at Speyer.
The museum is fairly small and almost entirely in German. This challenges my translation skills – and my two years of studying German as a pre-teen do little to help with making sense of some of the more in-depth displays. Still, we muddle through and enjoy tracking the development of the racing motor cycle in its many forms. Most fascinating of all is a brace of Bimota Tesi 2Ds, featuring front swing arms and crazy suspension geometry. We ponder these unusual machines for some time, struggling to make sense of the unusual arrangement of coupling rods. And to think I sometimes dismiss motorcycles as mostly looking the same…
There are, of course, cars as well and the displays include four wheeled heroes from the worlds of F1, F2, F3, FVee, DTM and drag racing. It’s easy to forget that Hockenheim’s unique arrangement also created scope for a drag strip – and that’s a form of racing which holds almost as much importance to the place as does road racing and continues to this day.
In spite of the linguistic challenges, we learn plenty about Hockenheim’s history and the displays provide a useful insight into German racing generally. It’s small – don’t go there expecting the Donington Grand Prix Collection – but taken for what it is, it’s a charming place which gives some context to a visit to the old circuit.
As a Lotus owner and enthusiast, no trip to Hockenheim would be complete without paying our respects to Jim Clark. The great Scot, who died in a still-unexplained accident deep in the forests, remains revered in all quarters. The spot where he died is now buried in deep woodland and not easy to find but, since the construction of the current layout, a new memorial has been built for him, just behind the current turn two.
We drive half-way out there before taking to our feet. It’s a warm day and the short stroll is no hardship. The memorial is unpretentious but provides a fitting tribute to one of the titans of the sport, who was lost while still at the absolute peak of his powers. Adjacent is a smaller memorial to German driver Bert Hawthorne, who also lost his life racing here. The site is well-maintained and we pause in silence to pay our respects. It’s peaceful out here and reflection comes naturally. Our sport can carry grave penalties.
Behind the memorials, the old circuit once carried drivers in a flat-out blast between the trees. Gently curving ‘straights’ hurled drivers at terrific speed towards nadgetty chicanes. The mists would hang among the trees. This was once a unique and special place. Today, the only clue that racing formerly took place here is the immaturity of the trees on the line of the old track. The macadam has been torn up and forestation planted in its place; even the museum justifies this move on ecology. I have a lump in my throat.
We head back to Speyer as preparations for the forthcoming DTM / World Rallycross weekend continue apace; not much time for sentimentality – these guys are making race history today.
Technik Museum Speyer is a crazy kind of museum; in fact the only place I can compare it to is its brethren at Sinsheim. Occupying a number of former military and manufacturing units adjacent to Speyer airport (a slightly grand term, though apparently it does receive the odd commercial flight), the air buzzes constantly with the gentle drone of light aircraft. The sound is broken only once when a jet fighter takes off just out of our sight, rattling the windows as it goes.
There’s an undeniable sense of fun about both Speyer and Sinsheim; it’s hard not to experience a kind of vague amusement at the sight of a fighter plane, speared up the exhaust, pointing skywards outside the place, giant yellow letter behind spelling out ‘WILLKOMMEN’. It’s kind of serious and kind of fun at the same time.
The collection is simply enormous and it’s spread out over an huge area. Outside are the serious units: aeroplanes; boats; trains; military vehicles; a u-boat. Inside, all available halls are stuffed from front to back and top to bottom with exhibits. It’s a cerebral overload; chewing gum for the eyes. Every form of transport is on display, either resting on the ground, swinging from the rafters or climbing the walls. And if you love fire engines you’ll be in heaven.
It’s not worth trying to list even a fraction of the exhibits but there are cars, bikes, trains, planes, fire engines, buses, funicular railway carriages, boats, submarines, racing trucks, maglevs, tractors, dragsters, luna buggies and even a ruddy space shuttle (or the Eastern equivalent). It’s hard not to ponder how all of these objects – each of which is fascinating in its own right – have ended up in this corner of Germany.
The star exhibit is the ex-Lufthansa Boeing 747. It sits in the middle of the main courtyard, way up in the sky and gently tilted to give the impression of circling in to land. It’s undeniably impressive and a lengthy set of steps leads visitors into the fuselage to explore. Those crazy Germans have even created a walkway on the wing which is at least 15 times as scary as it sounds. Near the top of the stairs, boisterous visitors can hop on a sack and ride a slide to the bottom. Like I said, this place mixes fun with its engineering geekery.
The listing 747 is fascinating, as various areas have been deconstructed to enable you to see the construction of the plane and its various components. Its tilt also makes navigation slightly treacherous; it’s amazing how disorientating it is to guide oneself around a plane which isn’t in level flight or on the ground. I cannot imagine how much red tape would need to be cut in order to permit such a ludicrous, interactive installation in the UK today.
At ground level we’re excited to find a display celebrating 20 years of Team Rosberg. It’s easy to forget that Keke Rosberg has enjoyed a successful second career in motor racing, since hanging up his helmet. A pair of DTM Calibras reminds us of happy days at Donington Park during the golden era of Class One DTM and ITC weapons. Several cars from the career of Keke’s son, Nico, bring the story more up-to-date.
Just a few feet away sits the Buran space craft – Russia’s answer to the Space Shuttle. Even by space voyages standards, this example is pretty well-travelled, having been displayed in Sydney ahead of the Olympic Games before passing a couple of years in Bahrain. It was delivered to Speyer by water along the Rhine and now sits in pride of place among a series of spacey exhibits. As with everything at Speyer, it has been opened up to display its workings, with a walkway to allow visitors to see inside. Essentially a lorry intended to travel into space; it possesses a large cargo area, while the skin comprises thousands of ceramic tiles – just like the Space Shuttle.
Even a whistle-stop tour around Technik Museum Speyer will last half a day and thoroughly learning the identity and history of each item might take a lifetime. It’s an overwhelming place but an absolutely essential visit if you treasure transport, technology and engineering.
Thanks, fellas. Really appreciate you having a look, a read and taking the time to respond. Speyer is fantastic and the town is lovely too. We were blessed with fine weather which always helps, of course.
It's only about half an hour from the sister museum at Sinsheim which I think you'd also love. I covered it on my last trip, which is written up here: http://www.motorcardiaries.co.uk/2012/boys-big-dri... The photos didn't embed back then but you'll figure which thumbnails relate to Sinsheim pretty easily! They're both awesome fun if you love 'stuff'.
It's only about half an hour from the sister museum at Sinsheim which I think you'd also love. I covered it on my last trip, which is written up here: http://www.motorcardiaries.co.uk/2012/boys-big-dri... The photos didn't embed back then but you'll figure which thumbnails relate to Sinsheim pretty easily! They're both awesome fun if you love 'stuff'.
Part three - into Austria.
Day three features our longest drive of the whole trip – 700kms to complete in the day. We study the route on the morning of departure and decide we need a break along the way so pick a trajectory which enables an easy stop-over at Ingolstadt to visit the Audi museum. Yes, another bloody museum. Still, whatever it takes to stop somewhere nice for lunch, you understand.
The route is long and not blessed with stunning scenery throughout. In fact I’m struggling to take in much of this section of the drive at all. Maybe my brain is suffering some kind of malaise resulting from over-stimulation in Speyer. Early on we pass the Technik Museum Sinsheim; the sight of its Concorde and Concordski perched atop the roof remains beguiling and bizarre.
As we plunge further into Bavaria, things pick up and there are vast swathes of coniferous forest providing that trademark Bavarian aesthetic. We head east towards Nuremberg (which we both desperately wish to visit…maybe next time) before dropping due south towards Ingolstadt on the A9. This is the fastest section of our entire trip. A chunk of the route follows parallel to the railway line and it’s a surprise to find ourselves out-dragging the trains. The road surface is mill pond smooth, with speeds high. The old chap touches 142mph which feels brisk enough in midday traffic. It’s easy to see why modern Audis are so capable at daft three-figure speeds if this is the company’s proving ground.
Ingolstadt is visually uninspiring – at least the section we encounter – and the traffic is heavy. It’s hard to generate much enthusiasm for the place so we’re both relieved to find ourselves at the gates of the mammoth Audi corporate machine. We end up in a subterranean car park, filled with VAG products, mostly Audis. RS6s are commonplace and there’s even a British-registered Bentley Continental next to us. In spite of flying the wrong brand flag, we receive a thumbs-up from a couple of chaps in suits as we drove in so assume the guys here possess reasonably broad tastes.
Audi Forum is similar in principle to BMW Welt, not far away in Munich. It’s an enormous complex and the entire place exudes that clinical, precise feel you infer from Audi’s current product range. It’s design-led, airy, actually slightly relaxed but very smart. This applies to the exterior spaces, the architecture and even the people themselves. The cafeteria, a simple staff canteen in principle, is neat, orderly and beautifully wrought. I’m not one to dress up for anything except weddings and funerals but here my camo shorts and tattoos feel scruffy in the extreme.
By sheer good fortune, there’s an event of some kind on today which has no bearing on our visit other than permitting free entry to the museum. We can’t argue with that – thank you, Audi.
The museum is extremely corporate; I suppose promoting the brand is its function so it’s hardly surprising. It’s lighter and easier to navigate than the BMW equivalent but less ‘arty’ for want of a better word. It’s more architecturally restrained, but still dramatic when judged by UK standards. It’s hard to imagine MG ever being in the position to promote itself with such unerring confidence.
Buy into the mindset that created it and this is a really superb museum. It eschews child-orientated exhibits and gives each piece room to breathe – actually a welcome departure from the craziness of Speyer. You work chronologically from the top, with the story of the company told in gentle circles as you work your way around the levels.
I confess that Auto Union, to me, has always been a race car manufacturer more than a road car OEM. It unified in the wake of the Wall Street crash, which ravaged every western economy, Germany in particular. The union took place in 1932 between Horch, Wanderer, DKW and Audi, who all occupied different ends of the motor spectrum. Where Horch produced very high-end motorcars, DKW was really a motor cycle manufacturer which also produced humble, two-stroke cars. The parallels between Auto Union and British Leyland aren’t hard to spot, though separated by a couple of decades.
After the war and to my surprise, for my knowledge of the brand outside racing is scant, Auto Union was purchased by Daimler-Benz. It seems hard to countenance in today’s market and the marriage was short, with VW buying the company a short time later. Audi narrowly escaped losing its identity and started producing a small range of cars – some its of own design and others based on VW offerings – during the 1960s, when it was paired with NSU in yet another acquisition / merger.
The rest, as they say, is history and Audi quickly grew to become the automotive powerhouse we know today. This story is told, rather better and in rather more detail, as you traverse the museum. The top floor is dedicated to the pre-war period and that means Auto Union race cars – the absolute highlight of the trip. One thing I like about Germany – and Austria for that matter – is that the people are, in spite of their reputation, extremely liberal. The smoking ban hasn’t yet reached Austria, Germany permits unlimited speeds on its motorway network and you are generally treated like autonomous adults who are expected to behave with a degree of responsibility and civility.
The manifestation of this at Audi being that its magnificent Auto Union race cars aren’t shielded behind Perspex or miles away guarded by droopy rope. You can walk right up to the exhibits, smell them and get a sense of their aura. In the case of the special Type C-D Bergrennwagen, that aura is one of sheer fear. It’s among the ultimate examples from one of the greatest periods of motor racing history.
The Bergrennwagen is a hybrid of C-Type V16 engine and D-Type chassis and competed in hillclimb events through 1938. Today it exists as the most original remaining Auto Union race car and it is truly, truly wonderful. After the war, all the Auto Unions were captured by the Russians and were lost behind the Iron Curtain. The Bergrennwagen turned up, mostly intact, at a motor museum in Riga, Latvia. In a deal which one can only conclude must have secured the future of the Riga Motor Museum for eternity, Audi swapped the Bergrennwagen for a perfect replica created by Crossthwaite and Gardiner in the UK. The replica is now the prized exhibit in Riga; the real deal the prized exhibit in Ingolstadt. That the car exists at all is almost a miracle so it’s impossible not to get goosebumps in its presence.
Recounting the unlikely tale of the Bergrennwagen to my father, I notice I have attracted the attention of an Audi attendant. Presuming I’m erroneously reporting an aspect of the unlikely story, I quiz him on my accuracy. It transpires he’s only been half-listening but instead is struck by my tattooed legs. We are soon conversing in colloquial English; our new friend is actually a greaser. His immaculate grey suit and salt n pepper around the temples hide a secret love for hot rods and old board track racing motor cycles.
He shows us around the top floor of the museum, infusing us with his enthusiasm for certain exhibits we’d otherwise have walked past without a second glance. It’s so refreshing to learn that, behind the corporate veneer, Audi isn’t staffed by robots and that even aging moshers are welcomed in Ingolstadt.
The rest of the museum can’t possibly live up to the mighty Bergrennwagen but there’s a fine blend of road and race cars. The multi-storey vehicle lift turns slowly on one side, as dramatic a visual spectacle as the museum permits itself. Its hypnotic rotation displays a wide selection of NSUs from the ages, including many I’d never heard of before, let alone seen.
With time pressing and several hundred more kilometres still to pass under our wheels before our next overnight stop, we pause for a light lunch before firing up the Aston and pointing the long nose south once more. Our next destination is Austria. And of course I bought an Auto Union mug. How could I not?
Leaving Audi, we dive head-first into a traffic jam resulting from road works in a nondescript corner of a fairly uninspiring town. Losing 20 minutes when we have so many miles to cover is a little soul-destroying but one of the keys to a road trip on this scale is simply to keep you energy and enthusiasm levels high. And there’s always the motivation that what lies ahead is a new country; it’s not like gridlock on the commute to the office.
We are fortunate that there’s a nice section cross-country from Ingolstadt and, once we clear the town itself, we enjoy picturesque countryside for half an hour or so. This is probably the highlight of the day from a motoring perspective. More fast, sweeping, smooth and – crucially – well-sighted roads make decent progress a total pleasure. We pass through rural villages and open farmland, including large, distinctive frames, which look to be facilitating fruit growing though that remains pure speculation as their true purpose is never revealed. They are sufficiently redolent of the area to feature on road signs though.
Passing through one village, it’s something of a surprise to find a Lamborghini Diablo VT rumbling towards us. An unusual sight at a supercar meeting, we certainly hadn’t anticipated encountering one in rural Bavaria. I scramble for my camera while simultaneously exchanging thumbs-up with the driver. The results are, predictably, disastrous on both fronts.
Having crossed the border into Austria, the drama of the vistas increases considerably. Tall, snow-capped peaks loom into view on the horizon. While on the autobahn we find ourselves diving through long tunnels, rather than looping over any obstructive mountains. With the old chap having put in a solid stint behind the wheel, we pause at a service area for sustenance and a driver change. It’s here where I feel the only slight awkwardness or wariness of our trip. We are now a very long way from home and it’s notable that German registrations have given way to Czech, Croatian, Latvian, Slovenian and Slovakian plates – as reflects our geography.
Our chosen service area possesses a slightly less carefree vibe than many we’ve encountered and, for some intuitive but inexplicable reason, I feel slightly ill-at-ease. It’s impossible to drive something as visible as an Aston Martin without feeling a significant degree of social conscience about it. Here, as we head towards areas where such indulgence is less commonplace, I’m aware that we are perhaps making a bolder statement about ourselves than my personality is totally comfortable with.
With all that said, I’m a chap who needs no excuse to experience severe social awkwardness and we rub along just fine with the locals, though my German still struggles with anything more advanced than ordering sausage and a beer. We strap in for the final push to Vital Hotel Styria, our home for three nights over the Rechbergrennen weekend.
Daylight’s now fading fast so we have to deploy headlamps. Thankfully, the fault which blighted the Vantage earlier in our trip is not repeating itself and we approach Rechberg under cover of darkness. There’s a frisson of excitement as we pass signs for Spielberg and the Red Bull Ring, but we still have 40 minutes of cross-country motoring before we can rest.
We finally hit Rechbergstraße – part of which forms the famous hillclimb. The road writhes and twists through trees. It’s totally dark either side of the road so we’re driving on the lights. It’s a clear night but it looks like there’s a big drop off to the right-hand side. It’s fun to blast between the hairpins but I decide discretion is the better part of valour under the circumstances and exercise a good degree of restraint. So much restraint, in fact, that I’m soon overtaken by a C63 AMG Mercredes which blasts past in flatulent defiance.
I begin to recognise a few landmarks on the course from my hours watching on-board footage on YouTube and it’s apparent that we are now tackling the hillclimb in reverse – and at something less than racing speed. Things start to plateau out eventually and we arrive upon a bustling oasis of light and action. Suddenly there are boozy folk wandering the streets and racing cars everywhere. Quite literally – I very nearly drive into an awning which somebody has constructed half-way onto the road. Soon enough one entire lane is lost to make-shift pit garages which are now occupying the road. There’s a smell of barbecue in the air and groups of people milling about or huddling round fires, beers in hand. What looks like a Group C car is parked up next to the road. This is bizarre.
We fight the urge to join in as it’s late and we’re getting hungry – the cars will still be there tomorrow. We head a little way past Tullwitz (the heart of the event) and up the hill, through into Fladnitz Teichalm. It’s pitch black now and we’ve no idea what our surroundings look like but our hotel is lovely. The pilsner is tasty and the food is traditional Austrian fare and perfect for sating the weary traveller. We’ve survived our 700km day but I think we’re both grateful not to have to drive anywhere tomorrow. I can’t believe I’m really here – the legendary Rechbergrennen kicks off tomorrow.
Day three features our longest drive of the whole trip – 700kms to complete in the day. We study the route on the morning of departure and decide we need a break along the way so pick a trajectory which enables an easy stop-over at Ingolstadt to visit the Audi museum. Yes, another bloody museum. Still, whatever it takes to stop somewhere nice for lunch, you understand.
The route is long and not blessed with stunning scenery throughout. In fact I’m struggling to take in much of this section of the drive at all. Maybe my brain is suffering some kind of malaise resulting from over-stimulation in Speyer. Early on we pass the Technik Museum Sinsheim; the sight of its Concorde and Concordski perched atop the roof remains beguiling and bizarre.
As we plunge further into Bavaria, things pick up and there are vast swathes of coniferous forest providing that trademark Bavarian aesthetic. We head east towards Nuremberg (which we both desperately wish to visit…maybe next time) before dropping due south towards Ingolstadt on the A9. This is the fastest section of our entire trip. A chunk of the route follows parallel to the railway line and it’s a surprise to find ourselves out-dragging the trains. The road surface is mill pond smooth, with speeds high. The old chap touches 142mph which feels brisk enough in midday traffic. It’s easy to see why modern Audis are so capable at daft three-figure speeds if this is the company’s proving ground.
Ingolstadt is visually uninspiring – at least the section we encounter – and the traffic is heavy. It’s hard to generate much enthusiasm for the place so we’re both relieved to find ourselves at the gates of the mammoth Audi corporate machine. We end up in a subterranean car park, filled with VAG products, mostly Audis. RS6s are commonplace and there’s even a British-registered Bentley Continental next to us. In spite of flying the wrong brand flag, we receive a thumbs-up from a couple of chaps in suits as we drove in so assume the guys here possess reasonably broad tastes.
Audi Forum is similar in principle to BMW Welt, not far away in Munich. It’s an enormous complex and the entire place exudes that clinical, precise feel you infer from Audi’s current product range. It’s design-led, airy, actually slightly relaxed but very smart. This applies to the exterior spaces, the architecture and even the people themselves. The cafeteria, a simple staff canteen in principle, is neat, orderly and beautifully wrought. I’m not one to dress up for anything except weddings and funerals but here my camo shorts and tattoos feel scruffy in the extreme.
By sheer good fortune, there’s an event of some kind on today which has no bearing on our visit other than permitting free entry to the museum. We can’t argue with that – thank you, Audi.
The museum is extremely corporate; I suppose promoting the brand is its function so it’s hardly surprising. It’s lighter and easier to navigate than the BMW equivalent but less ‘arty’ for want of a better word. It’s more architecturally restrained, but still dramatic when judged by UK standards. It’s hard to imagine MG ever being in the position to promote itself with such unerring confidence.
Buy into the mindset that created it and this is a really superb museum. It eschews child-orientated exhibits and gives each piece room to breathe – actually a welcome departure from the craziness of Speyer. You work chronologically from the top, with the story of the company told in gentle circles as you work your way around the levels.
I confess that Auto Union, to me, has always been a race car manufacturer more than a road car OEM. It unified in the wake of the Wall Street crash, which ravaged every western economy, Germany in particular. The union took place in 1932 between Horch, Wanderer, DKW and Audi, who all occupied different ends of the motor spectrum. Where Horch produced very high-end motorcars, DKW was really a motor cycle manufacturer which also produced humble, two-stroke cars. The parallels between Auto Union and British Leyland aren’t hard to spot, though separated by a couple of decades.
After the war and to my surprise, for my knowledge of the brand outside racing is scant, Auto Union was purchased by Daimler-Benz. It seems hard to countenance in today’s market and the marriage was short, with VW buying the company a short time later. Audi narrowly escaped losing its identity and started producing a small range of cars – some its of own design and others based on VW offerings – during the 1960s, when it was paired with NSU in yet another acquisition / merger.
The rest, as they say, is history and Audi quickly grew to become the automotive powerhouse we know today. This story is told, rather better and in rather more detail, as you traverse the museum. The top floor is dedicated to the pre-war period and that means Auto Union race cars – the absolute highlight of the trip. One thing I like about Germany – and Austria for that matter – is that the people are, in spite of their reputation, extremely liberal. The smoking ban hasn’t yet reached Austria, Germany permits unlimited speeds on its motorway network and you are generally treated like autonomous adults who are expected to behave with a degree of responsibility and civility.
The manifestation of this at Audi being that its magnificent Auto Union race cars aren’t shielded behind Perspex or miles away guarded by droopy rope. You can walk right up to the exhibits, smell them and get a sense of their aura. In the case of the special Type C-D Bergrennwagen, that aura is one of sheer fear. It’s among the ultimate examples from one of the greatest periods of motor racing history.
The Bergrennwagen is a hybrid of C-Type V16 engine and D-Type chassis and competed in hillclimb events through 1938. Today it exists as the most original remaining Auto Union race car and it is truly, truly wonderful. After the war, all the Auto Unions were captured by the Russians and were lost behind the Iron Curtain. The Bergrennwagen turned up, mostly intact, at a motor museum in Riga, Latvia. In a deal which one can only conclude must have secured the future of the Riga Motor Museum for eternity, Audi swapped the Bergrennwagen for a perfect replica created by Crossthwaite and Gardiner in the UK. The replica is now the prized exhibit in Riga; the real deal the prized exhibit in Ingolstadt. That the car exists at all is almost a miracle so it’s impossible not to get goosebumps in its presence.
Recounting the unlikely tale of the Bergrennwagen to my father, I notice I have attracted the attention of an Audi attendant. Presuming I’m erroneously reporting an aspect of the unlikely story, I quiz him on my accuracy. It transpires he’s only been half-listening but instead is struck by my tattooed legs. We are soon conversing in colloquial English; our new friend is actually a greaser. His immaculate grey suit and salt n pepper around the temples hide a secret love for hot rods and old board track racing motor cycles.
He shows us around the top floor of the museum, infusing us with his enthusiasm for certain exhibits we’d otherwise have walked past without a second glance. It’s so refreshing to learn that, behind the corporate veneer, Audi isn’t staffed by robots and that even aging moshers are welcomed in Ingolstadt.
The rest of the museum can’t possibly live up to the mighty Bergrennwagen but there’s a fine blend of road and race cars. The multi-storey vehicle lift turns slowly on one side, as dramatic a visual spectacle as the museum permits itself. Its hypnotic rotation displays a wide selection of NSUs from the ages, including many I’d never heard of before, let alone seen.
With time pressing and several hundred more kilometres still to pass under our wheels before our next overnight stop, we pause for a light lunch before firing up the Aston and pointing the long nose south once more. Our next destination is Austria. And of course I bought an Auto Union mug. How could I not?
Leaving Audi, we dive head-first into a traffic jam resulting from road works in a nondescript corner of a fairly uninspiring town. Losing 20 minutes when we have so many miles to cover is a little soul-destroying but one of the keys to a road trip on this scale is simply to keep you energy and enthusiasm levels high. And there’s always the motivation that what lies ahead is a new country; it’s not like gridlock on the commute to the office.
We are fortunate that there’s a nice section cross-country from Ingolstadt and, once we clear the town itself, we enjoy picturesque countryside for half an hour or so. This is probably the highlight of the day from a motoring perspective. More fast, sweeping, smooth and – crucially – well-sighted roads make decent progress a total pleasure. We pass through rural villages and open farmland, including large, distinctive frames, which look to be facilitating fruit growing though that remains pure speculation as their true purpose is never revealed. They are sufficiently redolent of the area to feature on road signs though.
Passing through one village, it’s something of a surprise to find a Lamborghini Diablo VT rumbling towards us. An unusual sight at a supercar meeting, we certainly hadn’t anticipated encountering one in rural Bavaria. I scramble for my camera while simultaneously exchanging thumbs-up with the driver. The results are, predictably, disastrous on both fronts.
Having crossed the border into Austria, the drama of the vistas increases considerably. Tall, snow-capped peaks loom into view on the horizon. While on the autobahn we find ourselves diving through long tunnels, rather than looping over any obstructive mountains. With the old chap having put in a solid stint behind the wheel, we pause at a service area for sustenance and a driver change. It’s here where I feel the only slight awkwardness or wariness of our trip. We are now a very long way from home and it’s notable that German registrations have given way to Czech, Croatian, Latvian, Slovenian and Slovakian plates – as reflects our geography.
Our chosen service area possesses a slightly less carefree vibe than many we’ve encountered and, for some intuitive but inexplicable reason, I feel slightly ill-at-ease. It’s impossible to drive something as visible as an Aston Martin without feeling a significant degree of social conscience about it. Here, as we head towards areas where such indulgence is less commonplace, I’m aware that we are perhaps making a bolder statement about ourselves than my personality is totally comfortable with.
With all that said, I’m a chap who needs no excuse to experience severe social awkwardness and we rub along just fine with the locals, though my German still struggles with anything more advanced than ordering sausage and a beer. We strap in for the final push to Vital Hotel Styria, our home for three nights over the Rechbergrennen weekend.
Daylight’s now fading fast so we have to deploy headlamps. Thankfully, the fault which blighted the Vantage earlier in our trip is not repeating itself and we approach Rechberg under cover of darkness. There’s a frisson of excitement as we pass signs for Spielberg and the Red Bull Ring, but we still have 40 minutes of cross-country motoring before we can rest.
We finally hit Rechbergstraße – part of which forms the famous hillclimb. The road writhes and twists through trees. It’s totally dark either side of the road so we’re driving on the lights. It’s a clear night but it looks like there’s a big drop off to the right-hand side. It’s fun to blast between the hairpins but I decide discretion is the better part of valour under the circumstances and exercise a good degree of restraint. So much restraint, in fact, that I’m soon overtaken by a C63 AMG Mercredes which blasts past in flatulent defiance.
I begin to recognise a few landmarks on the course from my hours watching on-board footage on YouTube and it’s apparent that we are now tackling the hillclimb in reverse – and at something less than racing speed. Things start to plateau out eventually and we arrive upon a bustling oasis of light and action. Suddenly there are boozy folk wandering the streets and racing cars everywhere. Quite literally – I very nearly drive into an awning which somebody has constructed half-way onto the road. Soon enough one entire lane is lost to make-shift pit garages which are now occupying the road. There’s a smell of barbecue in the air and groups of people milling about or huddling round fires, beers in hand. What looks like a Group C car is parked up next to the road. This is bizarre.
We fight the urge to join in as it’s late and we’re getting hungry – the cars will still be there tomorrow. We head a little way past Tullwitz (the heart of the event) and up the hill, through into Fladnitz Teichalm. It’s pitch black now and we’ve no idea what our surroundings look like but our hotel is lovely. The pilsner is tasty and the food is traditional Austrian fare and perfect for sating the weary traveller. We’ve survived our 700km day but I think we’re both grateful not to have to drive anywhere tomorrow. I can’t believe I’m really here – the legendary Rechbergrennen kicks off tomorrow.
Finally...Part 4 is finished. Bit of a tough one, this, as you'll find out if you can face reading the whole thing.
At the risk of revealing rather more about myself online than might be prudent, I like to sleep with the curtains open. There’s nothing like waking up without the fevered blare of an alarm, instead being gently coaxed awake by the dawn light – especially when one is on holiday. And so I am stirred from a weary slumber by my first Austrian sunrise. Having landed in the area in total darkness, I hadn’t even considered my surroundings; such was the focus on a safe arrival and a comfy bed.
My insistence on not drawing the curtains means a vaguely reluctant six am wake-up. In a moment of remarkable morning boisterousness, I rise from the bed to check out the view, rather than my usual lazy scan of Facebook or interrogation of Autosport. I’m suitably rewarded.
My hotel room features large, double casement windows; two of them framing the most incredible Alpine vista. I don’t know quite what to do – in fact for the first time in my life I think I might be speechless. The hotel is elevated from neighbouring houses, creating a vast panorama. The skies are perfect pastel blue, with a couple of aeroplane vapour trails to break up the palette. Early morning dew blankets the ground, with sparse trees poking their jagged branches out from the soft greens of the surrounding pastures. The mists hang low over the fields, dampening the scene, creating a private, almost mystical atmosphere.
The colours are glorious, with those morning mists softening the mountains which create the backdrop. The local buildings are all formed from natural, earthy hues; adding to the spectacle, not taking away from it. I open the windows and poke my head out into the cool air, trying to breathe everything in and capture the atmosphere. I reckon it’s about the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. And then the church bells start. Something intuitive deep in my psyche retains a unique affection for the sound of church bells. There is just nothing to compare to their noble tones peeling across a rural valley. It’s absolutely magical.
Eventually I tear myself away from the view – I love good scenery but I love racing even more. We’re immensely fortunate to have a guide for the weekend. My friend and motor racing accomplice Clemens grew up in the hills around Rechberg and has been coming to the event since he was a child. He’s kindly offered to show us around for the weekend. Such an idiosyncratic and non-anglicised event could be tough for those of us whose German barely extends to enthusiastically announcing trips to the cinema.
Rechbergrennen is quite unlike any other race meeting. Those well-versed in UK hillclimb and club events won’t be unfamiliar with parking in farmers’ fields – crikey, the stony track up to Prescott’s car park still gives me nightmares – but the paddock arrangements are plain bizarre. There is no space for a proper paddock so the event simply adopts every square inch of grass, macadam and agricultural shed within a mile of the start line. In practice this means the main road is fully of awnings, fields are (bilaterally I hasten to add) plundered and local farmers lease their outbuildings; presumably the livestock is put out to pasture but the lack of obvious bovine activity suggests they might be in the farmhouses themselves. At Rechbergrennen, you simply cease to be surprised by the sheer communal integration of the event.
The paddock (such as it might be) is absolutely mega. The smell of race fuel fills the air, the sun is burning off the early morning mist and the atmosphere is buzzing. Each car is a hive of activity as the locals prepare to range themselves against the hill and their European Championship counterparts. This is not a commercially-driven area of the sport and even the fastest machines are prepared by just a small team of mechanics. Don’t expect corporate hospitality to land here any time soon.
There’s a real buzz in the air this morning; everyone’s well fired up for the event and the crowd is large, even at 9am on practice day. It retains that relaxed vibe and inclusive accessibility that makes club race meetings the most feel-good to attend.
That’s not to say this isn’t a significant event. It’s a qualifier for the FIA’s European Hillclimb Championship and, until the return of F1 to the Red Bull Ring in 2014, was the country’s best-attended motorsport event. A crowd of 30,000 isn’t unusual and the passion of the spectators is as fever-injected as you’ll find at any F1 race. The Austrians love their racing – and love their hillclimbing.
The morning’s runs are well under way by the time we reach the startline. Uniquely in my experience, the start is directly adjacent to a large, malodorous, steaming pile of manure belonging to the near-by farm. The German translation is misthaufen (thanks, Clemens, for usefully expanding my vocabulary) and it must rank as the most incongruous thing I’m yet to see at a race track. The event is shaped, and takes its character, from just these features.
With the smell of the misthaufen still clogging our nostrils we pause to watch a few of the opening runs. There’s generous spectator banking along most of the course and the start is a popular spot. The locals are already in attendance in strong numbers and the beers are flowing. Of particular interest is the high percentage of young fans. While this kind of event in the UK would be populated almost exclusively by greying, beardy chaps of a nerdy disposition (I speak as one myself…), here teenagers are gathering in excited groups, independent of their parents. Clearly this is an event these guys grow up with and it’s certainly no niche hobby.
Off the startline, drivers bang it up a couple of gears before hitting a slow-ish chicane. Formed artificially from tyre barriers, this simply keeps speeds down before one of the fastest sections of the track. With a farm on the right-hand side, a left over a bridge crossing a small stream leads drivers into a flat-out wooded blast flanked by Armco. We climb into the woods and prop ourselves among the trees. The warm, earthy smells of the woodland floor and trees contribute to a unique, all-sensory spectacle.
The sound is fantastic through here, and so is the sense of speed. We chance upon a mixed group of touring cars – from Group N-type Mitsubishi Evos through to savage home-built specials. The engine noises bouncing off the barriers and the trees, the warmth of the woodland and the fever of the crowds (who ascend trees to catch the best views) are utterly beguiling.
We dive out of the woodland and trek across open fields bordering the track. It’s really quick here and the prototypes are out in force. Pedals mashed and throttles open, these guys are flying; mere feet away from us and a similar distance from trees on their left. It’s flat out for the best and the engine notes only fall from the tyre scrub of the next right-hander, just out of our sight. Faggioli, the great Italian champion, flashes by; blink and you’ll miss him. Quite literally: the top boys are travelling so quickly they’re in view for no more than a second. It’s fierce, breathless stuff.
While the top guys like Faggioli take two minutes to ascend the entire hill, we labour across a grassy field and, carefully negotiating one family’s back garden (I promise I’m not making this up), pop out above the long left-hand hairpin which has become such a crowd favourite. This huge corner is still pretty brisk and the land surrounding it forms a natural amphitheatre, attracting huge crowds. We settle on the ground to enjoy the fastest cars of the weekend. A black, Italian Reynard F3000 weapon screams into view, stage left, a couple of sharp downchanges, a swift change of direction and it’s soaring up the hill away from us. A proper race car on a mountain road. Wow.
Barely has the Reynard faded from view than we are treated to the next aural assault. Otakar Kramsky’s Reynard K15 is tackling the flat out right, hidden among the woods. The scream of race engine is suddenly silenced by a sickening thump. There’s smoke rising from the trees and mild hysteria from the confused crowd. It’s immediately clear this is a very serious situation.
Emergency vehicles and attendants are quickly on the scene but it’s evident it’s not a straight forward incident. All activities on track are curtailed until further notice. In the absence of anything else to do we continue to wander up the track, awaiting good news. It’s a truly beautiful day and the horror of Kramsky’s accident couldn’t juxtapose more angularly with the perfect day. The hills are vivid green, the skies glorious blue and that amazing ribbon of Tarmac carving a perfect grey swathe amongst the natural beauty.
We adopt a fantastic spectating spot high up on the hill, with the valley opening out in front of us, mountains in the distance and the track curving gently beneath our feet. We enjoy the local wurstl – a delightfully oily sausage served with crusty bread, tomato ketchup and horseradish mustard. It’s a snip at €3.50.
While he’s not translating anything very positive, it’s a great comfort to have Clemens here to translate. All the commentary is in German and there’s no interspersion from a Brit to break things up as one might experience during the major events at Spa, Monza, Monaco or Le Mans. Without Clemens there, it would’ve been a deeply confusing time – and even more so had Kramsky’s accident been out of our sight. We just have to sit tight and wait for updates.
Eventually, the terrible news we’d feared is announced: the Czech driver is dead. It’s only the fourth fatal accident at an event I’ve been present for and it sends a chill down my spine. How can such a wonderful sport, one which brings such joy to so many, present such tragedy? It’s a terrible confliction and one I often struggle to reconcile. Kramsky, I learn, had been an extremely capable hillclimb racer; not a young man, he was a multiple Czech champion. The only consolation we can find is that he had perished doing what he loved.
The atmosphere is subdued among the crowds now. They have remained out in force, enjoying the fine weather and the local pilsner but now begin the trudge back home. We follow the circuit road downhill and wonder at its challenge. There are grass banks, trees, ditches, signposts, rainwater gullies, farmhouses, bus stops and all manner of road-based ephemera to snag the unwary. This special challenge is what had drawn me to this branch of the sport in the first place – the thought of drivers tackling open country roads in proper race cars. It seems to me to be one of the last links to those great days of Continental road racing: Le Mans; Spa; the Mille Miglia; the Targa Florio; Dundrod; et al. I had anticipated that the drivers would master the challenge and not the other way round. The irony of wanting to witness the spectacle but not the potential consequences was not lost on me. We humans are nothing if not contrary.
It’s surprising and bizarre to find ourselves walking the section of track where Kramsky’s accident actually occurred. It feels slightly voyeuristic and deeply macabre, yet we can’t stop ourselves. It seems that Kramsky put wheels just a little too far to the inside of the long, fast right-hander. Whether he caught the kerb, a bollard, or simply lost it on the dirt is unclear. What is painfully clear is that he lost grip and immediately plunged off the road to the left. Here the trees were unprotected by any kind of barrier and the poor driver would’ve simply been a terrified passenger. His Reynard felled several trees before coming to rest among in woodland. I have a lump in my throat.
Breakfast the next morning is a sober affair. The frisson of excitement in the air is gone. The FIA’s representatives for the weekend are staying in the same hotel and they wear forlorn expressions throughout. Most awful is the appearance of Faggioli with his team and family. He dines with his wife and young son; it’s impossible to imagine the demons he must be wrestling: the burden of responsibility for his family but his all-consuming passion for his sport. It’s impossible not to feel moved seeing the innocent playfulness of the man’s son and the equal concern of his wife.
At one stage on Saturday, it looked as if track activity on Sunday might even have been curtailed altogether. In the end, the drivers convened and agreed to proceed; it was what Kramsky would’ve wanted. The morning is slightly subdued compared to the previous day. There’s a feeling that everyone just wants to get a safe run under their belts. Having lost most of the Saturday running, and certainly their momentum, the drivers are running briskly but safely.
There’s no return loop at Rechberg and the cars don’t run in batches, as one might see in the UK. That means the entire field (all 251 of them!) runs up, then waits at the top before running back down the hill to the paddock. Compared to the neat 20-car batches one might know from, say, Loton Park, it feels odd.
Still, the cars are coming thick and fast and there’s a huge variety of awesome machinery to savour. A few teams have obviously decided to leave early – or suffered mechanical malaise. That means a few entries are missing which is disappointing but, under the circumstances, understandable. Tiny Steyr Puch650 TRs kick proceedings off and from there a fresh competitor appears every 30 seconds or so. From a pre-war Alta to the latest, hugely potent, prototypes and amateur modified hatchbacks to wind tunnel-developed single seaters – all tastes are catered for.
It’s hard to know where to start when picking highlights from this heady cocktail of motor racing miscellany. Certainly I’m struck by a couple of beautifully-wrought home-brew specials: one Opel Kadett and one Ford Escort Mk2 remind me of the great days of Special Saloons, Modsports and AMOC Intermarque. Exaggerated wheel arches, jutting splitters and crazy rear wings all redolent of a time when ideas were big and rulebooks were small.
The Bulgarian Audi Sport Quattro is a sight to behold. The small crew has annexed a lay-by on the street for its portion of ‘paddock’ and brought with it an enthusiast gang of fans. Apparently kicking out 850bhp, the Quattro is utterly savage. Announcing its arrival with the usual chorus of chirrups and whistles, it pitches on its suspension as it brakes and accelerates; that iconic five cylinder warble providing its exit music. It’s hard to imagine the terror of trying to maintain anything like safe and dignified progress in light of such ludicrous performance.
It would be remiss not to mention the car which led me to Rechbergrennen in the first place: the mighty Team Edlinger BMW 320 IRL. Taking the modified saloon car to its natural conclusion, the BMW retains a very vague E30 320 silhouette but packs a 550bhp Nissan Indy Racing League punch – and delivers it through a Prost F1 gearbox. The arches are wild, the aero heroically silly and the noise is from the heavens. Driver Erich Edlinger grew up in the mountains around here and his driving reflects his local knowledge: he’s straight on it. The crowd loves the car – and with good reason. It’s as awesome as I had hoped and expected.
With the runs completed, the real fun can start. The entire field (all 200+ cars) descends the hill in a crocodile longer than the course itself. The crowds break ranks and line the road side, loudly and demonstratively showing their appreciation. Forget the Tifosi at Monza or the Holden fans at Bathurst, this is pure automotive passion. The drivers are greeted like heroes and the cars are worshipped similarly. It’s loads of fun and again we are treated as responsible human beings and expected not to do something stupid like walk in front of a car: very refreshing.
We elect to watch the day’s final runs from nearer the start of the course, in fact just a few hundred metres further on from the previous day’s tragic accident. This is a pretty long corner – certainly not a hairpin in the traditional fashion – but gently cambered and reasonable quick. It’s approached flat out as the drivers dodge lamp posts and bus stops. The sight and sound of the fastest guys through here remains surreal.
A rain shower briefly interrupts proceedings, but only by slowing everyone down a little. In fact Team Edlinger falls victim to it badly and its ascent in the afternoon is a full thirty seconds down on its morning run. Tough break during a national championship final, but that’s hillclimbing and that’s motor racing.
Into the last dozen or so racers of the weekend and the track is dry once more, the spectacle of the cars at speed is magnificent. It’s intoxicating hearing proper racing engines at maximum attack among the mountains, and on public roads. Suddenly the crisp perfection of competition exhaust snarl is broken once again. A light blue sports prototype is spinning through the air vertically, shedding bodywork as it goes. It can barely be 100 metres from the spot where Otakar Kramsky had perished 24 hours earlier.
Once again we sit and wait; a second medical extraction in as many days. The atmosphere is sombre as Renzo Maggiani is removed from his car and airlifted to hospital. The news arrives later that he is recovering well and soon discharged from hospital. In light of those two massive accidents, it comes as a relief that the remaining drivers ascend the hill with typical force, precision and in safety. As the great Faggioli flies towards us, threading his way past the street furniture at a speed beyond any of his rivals, I think of his young son playing innocently at breakfast time.
And, with Faggioli once again crowned king (by a full nine seconds), the 43rd Grosser Bergpreis von Osterreich is over and the drivers can meander back to their make-shift homes. There’s still something of the carnival atmosphere going off around the track. The fans here revere the drivers and the sport, and they cheer for those competitors who have so thrilled them. Privately they will mourn the loss of one of their own. In the meantime, the local teenagers need to try and snare a photo with the best-looking female drivers. It’s like The Inbetweeners have landed in Austria and gone racing.
It’s been something of a rollercoaster of emotions. This event is truly magical: to see pukka racing machinery let loose on such spectacular roads is unmissable. This particular weekend, though, has provided a vivid demonstration of the true perils of road racing. Real roads and real racing cars make for a special combination but the price of any mistake is high. Rest in peace, Otakar Kramsky, and thank you for doing so well what most of us can only dream of.
At the risk of revealing rather more about myself online than might be prudent, I like to sleep with the curtains open. There’s nothing like waking up without the fevered blare of an alarm, instead being gently coaxed awake by the dawn light – especially when one is on holiday. And so I am stirred from a weary slumber by my first Austrian sunrise. Having landed in the area in total darkness, I hadn’t even considered my surroundings; such was the focus on a safe arrival and a comfy bed.
My insistence on not drawing the curtains means a vaguely reluctant six am wake-up. In a moment of remarkable morning boisterousness, I rise from the bed to check out the view, rather than my usual lazy scan of Facebook or interrogation of Autosport. I’m suitably rewarded.
My hotel room features large, double casement windows; two of them framing the most incredible Alpine vista. I don’t know quite what to do – in fact for the first time in my life I think I might be speechless. The hotel is elevated from neighbouring houses, creating a vast panorama. The skies are perfect pastel blue, with a couple of aeroplane vapour trails to break up the palette. Early morning dew blankets the ground, with sparse trees poking their jagged branches out from the soft greens of the surrounding pastures. The mists hang low over the fields, dampening the scene, creating a private, almost mystical atmosphere.
The colours are glorious, with those morning mists softening the mountains which create the backdrop. The local buildings are all formed from natural, earthy hues; adding to the spectacle, not taking away from it. I open the windows and poke my head out into the cool air, trying to breathe everything in and capture the atmosphere. I reckon it’s about the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. And then the church bells start. Something intuitive deep in my psyche retains a unique affection for the sound of church bells. There is just nothing to compare to their noble tones peeling across a rural valley. It’s absolutely magical.
Eventually I tear myself away from the view – I love good scenery but I love racing even more. We’re immensely fortunate to have a guide for the weekend. My friend and motor racing accomplice Clemens grew up in the hills around Rechberg and has been coming to the event since he was a child. He’s kindly offered to show us around for the weekend. Such an idiosyncratic and non-anglicised event could be tough for those of us whose German barely extends to enthusiastically announcing trips to the cinema.
Rechbergrennen is quite unlike any other race meeting. Those well-versed in UK hillclimb and club events won’t be unfamiliar with parking in farmers’ fields – crikey, the stony track up to Prescott’s car park still gives me nightmares – but the paddock arrangements are plain bizarre. There is no space for a proper paddock so the event simply adopts every square inch of grass, macadam and agricultural shed within a mile of the start line. In practice this means the main road is fully of awnings, fields are (bilaterally I hasten to add) plundered and local farmers lease their outbuildings; presumably the livestock is put out to pasture but the lack of obvious bovine activity suggests they might be in the farmhouses themselves. At Rechbergrennen, you simply cease to be surprised by the sheer communal integration of the event.
The paddock (such as it might be) is absolutely mega. The smell of race fuel fills the air, the sun is burning off the early morning mist and the atmosphere is buzzing. Each car is a hive of activity as the locals prepare to range themselves against the hill and their European Championship counterparts. This is not a commercially-driven area of the sport and even the fastest machines are prepared by just a small team of mechanics. Don’t expect corporate hospitality to land here any time soon.
There’s a real buzz in the air this morning; everyone’s well fired up for the event and the crowd is large, even at 9am on practice day. It retains that relaxed vibe and inclusive accessibility that makes club race meetings the most feel-good to attend.
That’s not to say this isn’t a significant event. It’s a qualifier for the FIA’s European Hillclimb Championship and, until the return of F1 to the Red Bull Ring in 2014, was the country’s best-attended motorsport event. A crowd of 30,000 isn’t unusual and the passion of the spectators is as fever-injected as you’ll find at any F1 race. The Austrians love their racing – and love their hillclimbing.
The morning’s runs are well under way by the time we reach the startline. Uniquely in my experience, the start is directly adjacent to a large, malodorous, steaming pile of manure belonging to the near-by farm. The German translation is misthaufen (thanks, Clemens, for usefully expanding my vocabulary) and it must rank as the most incongruous thing I’m yet to see at a race track. The event is shaped, and takes its character, from just these features.
With the smell of the misthaufen still clogging our nostrils we pause to watch a few of the opening runs. There’s generous spectator banking along most of the course and the start is a popular spot. The locals are already in attendance in strong numbers and the beers are flowing. Of particular interest is the high percentage of young fans. While this kind of event in the UK would be populated almost exclusively by greying, beardy chaps of a nerdy disposition (I speak as one myself…), here teenagers are gathering in excited groups, independent of their parents. Clearly this is an event these guys grow up with and it’s certainly no niche hobby.
Off the startline, drivers bang it up a couple of gears before hitting a slow-ish chicane. Formed artificially from tyre barriers, this simply keeps speeds down before one of the fastest sections of the track. With a farm on the right-hand side, a left over a bridge crossing a small stream leads drivers into a flat-out wooded blast flanked by Armco. We climb into the woods and prop ourselves among the trees. The warm, earthy smells of the woodland floor and trees contribute to a unique, all-sensory spectacle.
The sound is fantastic through here, and so is the sense of speed. We chance upon a mixed group of touring cars – from Group N-type Mitsubishi Evos through to savage home-built specials. The engine noises bouncing off the barriers and the trees, the warmth of the woodland and the fever of the crowds (who ascend trees to catch the best views) are utterly beguiling.
We dive out of the woodland and trek across open fields bordering the track. It’s really quick here and the prototypes are out in force. Pedals mashed and throttles open, these guys are flying; mere feet away from us and a similar distance from trees on their left. It’s flat out for the best and the engine notes only fall from the tyre scrub of the next right-hander, just out of our sight. Faggioli, the great Italian champion, flashes by; blink and you’ll miss him. Quite literally: the top boys are travelling so quickly they’re in view for no more than a second. It’s fierce, breathless stuff.
While the top guys like Faggioli take two minutes to ascend the entire hill, we labour across a grassy field and, carefully negotiating one family’s back garden (I promise I’m not making this up), pop out above the long left-hand hairpin which has become such a crowd favourite. This huge corner is still pretty brisk and the land surrounding it forms a natural amphitheatre, attracting huge crowds. We settle on the ground to enjoy the fastest cars of the weekend. A black, Italian Reynard F3000 weapon screams into view, stage left, a couple of sharp downchanges, a swift change of direction and it’s soaring up the hill away from us. A proper race car on a mountain road. Wow.
Barely has the Reynard faded from view than we are treated to the next aural assault. Otakar Kramsky’s Reynard K15 is tackling the flat out right, hidden among the woods. The scream of race engine is suddenly silenced by a sickening thump. There’s smoke rising from the trees and mild hysteria from the confused crowd. It’s immediately clear this is a very serious situation.
Emergency vehicles and attendants are quickly on the scene but it’s evident it’s not a straight forward incident. All activities on track are curtailed until further notice. In the absence of anything else to do we continue to wander up the track, awaiting good news. It’s a truly beautiful day and the horror of Kramsky’s accident couldn’t juxtapose more angularly with the perfect day. The hills are vivid green, the skies glorious blue and that amazing ribbon of Tarmac carving a perfect grey swathe amongst the natural beauty.
We adopt a fantastic spectating spot high up on the hill, with the valley opening out in front of us, mountains in the distance and the track curving gently beneath our feet. We enjoy the local wurstl – a delightfully oily sausage served with crusty bread, tomato ketchup and horseradish mustard. It’s a snip at €3.50.
While he’s not translating anything very positive, it’s a great comfort to have Clemens here to translate. All the commentary is in German and there’s no interspersion from a Brit to break things up as one might experience during the major events at Spa, Monza, Monaco or Le Mans. Without Clemens there, it would’ve been a deeply confusing time – and even more so had Kramsky’s accident been out of our sight. We just have to sit tight and wait for updates.
Eventually, the terrible news we’d feared is announced: the Czech driver is dead. It’s only the fourth fatal accident at an event I’ve been present for and it sends a chill down my spine. How can such a wonderful sport, one which brings such joy to so many, present such tragedy? It’s a terrible confliction and one I often struggle to reconcile. Kramsky, I learn, had been an extremely capable hillclimb racer; not a young man, he was a multiple Czech champion. The only consolation we can find is that he had perished doing what he loved.
The atmosphere is subdued among the crowds now. They have remained out in force, enjoying the fine weather and the local pilsner but now begin the trudge back home. We follow the circuit road downhill and wonder at its challenge. There are grass banks, trees, ditches, signposts, rainwater gullies, farmhouses, bus stops and all manner of road-based ephemera to snag the unwary. This special challenge is what had drawn me to this branch of the sport in the first place – the thought of drivers tackling open country roads in proper race cars. It seems to me to be one of the last links to those great days of Continental road racing: Le Mans; Spa; the Mille Miglia; the Targa Florio; Dundrod; et al. I had anticipated that the drivers would master the challenge and not the other way round. The irony of wanting to witness the spectacle but not the potential consequences was not lost on me. We humans are nothing if not contrary.
It’s surprising and bizarre to find ourselves walking the section of track where Kramsky’s accident actually occurred. It feels slightly voyeuristic and deeply macabre, yet we can’t stop ourselves. It seems that Kramsky put wheels just a little too far to the inside of the long, fast right-hander. Whether he caught the kerb, a bollard, or simply lost it on the dirt is unclear. What is painfully clear is that he lost grip and immediately plunged off the road to the left. Here the trees were unprotected by any kind of barrier and the poor driver would’ve simply been a terrified passenger. His Reynard felled several trees before coming to rest among in woodland. I have a lump in my throat.
Breakfast the next morning is a sober affair. The frisson of excitement in the air is gone. The FIA’s representatives for the weekend are staying in the same hotel and they wear forlorn expressions throughout. Most awful is the appearance of Faggioli with his team and family. He dines with his wife and young son; it’s impossible to imagine the demons he must be wrestling: the burden of responsibility for his family but his all-consuming passion for his sport. It’s impossible not to feel moved seeing the innocent playfulness of the man’s son and the equal concern of his wife.
At one stage on Saturday, it looked as if track activity on Sunday might even have been curtailed altogether. In the end, the drivers convened and agreed to proceed; it was what Kramsky would’ve wanted. The morning is slightly subdued compared to the previous day. There’s a feeling that everyone just wants to get a safe run under their belts. Having lost most of the Saturday running, and certainly their momentum, the drivers are running briskly but safely.
There’s no return loop at Rechberg and the cars don’t run in batches, as one might see in the UK. That means the entire field (all 251 of them!) runs up, then waits at the top before running back down the hill to the paddock. Compared to the neat 20-car batches one might know from, say, Loton Park, it feels odd.
Still, the cars are coming thick and fast and there’s a huge variety of awesome machinery to savour. A few teams have obviously decided to leave early – or suffered mechanical malaise. That means a few entries are missing which is disappointing but, under the circumstances, understandable. Tiny Steyr Puch650 TRs kick proceedings off and from there a fresh competitor appears every 30 seconds or so. From a pre-war Alta to the latest, hugely potent, prototypes and amateur modified hatchbacks to wind tunnel-developed single seaters – all tastes are catered for.
It’s hard to know where to start when picking highlights from this heady cocktail of motor racing miscellany. Certainly I’m struck by a couple of beautifully-wrought home-brew specials: one Opel Kadett and one Ford Escort Mk2 remind me of the great days of Special Saloons, Modsports and AMOC Intermarque. Exaggerated wheel arches, jutting splitters and crazy rear wings all redolent of a time when ideas were big and rulebooks were small.
The Bulgarian Audi Sport Quattro is a sight to behold. The small crew has annexed a lay-by on the street for its portion of ‘paddock’ and brought with it an enthusiast gang of fans. Apparently kicking out 850bhp, the Quattro is utterly savage. Announcing its arrival with the usual chorus of chirrups and whistles, it pitches on its suspension as it brakes and accelerates; that iconic five cylinder warble providing its exit music. It’s hard to imagine the terror of trying to maintain anything like safe and dignified progress in light of such ludicrous performance.
It would be remiss not to mention the car which led me to Rechbergrennen in the first place: the mighty Team Edlinger BMW 320 IRL. Taking the modified saloon car to its natural conclusion, the BMW retains a very vague E30 320 silhouette but packs a 550bhp Nissan Indy Racing League punch – and delivers it through a Prost F1 gearbox. The arches are wild, the aero heroically silly and the noise is from the heavens. Driver Erich Edlinger grew up in the mountains around here and his driving reflects his local knowledge: he’s straight on it. The crowd loves the car – and with good reason. It’s as awesome as I had hoped and expected.
With the runs completed, the real fun can start. The entire field (all 200+ cars) descends the hill in a crocodile longer than the course itself. The crowds break ranks and line the road side, loudly and demonstratively showing their appreciation. Forget the Tifosi at Monza or the Holden fans at Bathurst, this is pure automotive passion. The drivers are greeted like heroes and the cars are worshipped similarly. It’s loads of fun and again we are treated as responsible human beings and expected not to do something stupid like walk in front of a car: very refreshing.
We elect to watch the day’s final runs from nearer the start of the course, in fact just a few hundred metres further on from the previous day’s tragic accident. This is a pretty long corner – certainly not a hairpin in the traditional fashion – but gently cambered and reasonable quick. It’s approached flat out as the drivers dodge lamp posts and bus stops. The sight and sound of the fastest guys through here remains surreal.
A rain shower briefly interrupts proceedings, but only by slowing everyone down a little. In fact Team Edlinger falls victim to it badly and its ascent in the afternoon is a full thirty seconds down on its morning run. Tough break during a national championship final, but that’s hillclimbing and that’s motor racing.
Into the last dozen or so racers of the weekend and the track is dry once more, the spectacle of the cars at speed is magnificent. It’s intoxicating hearing proper racing engines at maximum attack among the mountains, and on public roads. Suddenly the crisp perfection of competition exhaust snarl is broken once again. A light blue sports prototype is spinning through the air vertically, shedding bodywork as it goes. It can barely be 100 metres from the spot where Otakar Kramsky had perished 24 hours earlier.
Once again we sit and wait; a second medical extraction in as many days. The atmosphere is sombre as Renzo Maggiani is removed from his car and airlifted to hospital. The news arrives later that he is recovering well and soon discharged from hospital. In light of those two massive accidents, it comes as a relief that the remaining drivers ascend the hill with typical force, precision and in safety. As the great Faggioli flies towards us, threading his way past the street furniture at a speed beyond any of his rivals, I think of his young son playing innocently at breakfast time.
And, with Faggioli once again crowned king (by a full nine seconds), the 43rd Grosser Bergpreis von Osterreich is over and the drivers can meander back to their make-shift homes. There’s still something of the carnival atmosphere going off around the track. The fans here revere the drivers and the sport, and they cheer for those competitors who have so thrilled them. Privately they will mourn the loss of one of their own. In the meantime, the local teenagers need to try and snare a photo with the best-looking female drivers. It’s like The Inbetweeners have landed in Austria and gone racing.
It’s been something of a rollercoaster of emotions. This event is truly magical: to see pukka racing machinery let loose on such spectacular roads is unmissable. This particular weekend, though, has provided a vivid demonstration of the true perils of road racing. Real roads and real racing cars make for a special combination but the price of any mistake is high. Rest in peace, Otakar Kramsky, and thank you for doing so well what most of us can only dream of.
Mark Benson said:
^^^ What he said.
Really catches the mood.
The truth is, few who race like to think about what could happen in the worst circumstances - if you did you'd never be competitive.
Whenever my wife used to want to have the talk at the start of another season I used to skirt around the subject - she knows better now
Thanks, Mark. Really catches the mood.
The truth is, few who race like to think about what could happen in the worst circumstances - if you did you'd never be competitive.
Whenever my wife used to want to have the talk at the start of another season I used to skirt around the subject - she knows better now
I imagine having those conversations, or even those thoughts, must be extremely tough. I was really moved seeing Faggioli's son over breakfast - really brought home to me the impact of these events. That's why we so admire the guys who really lay it on the line. Watching John McGuiness set a new lap record around at the IOM during the Senior TT, for example: nothing left on the table; everything on the line. Proper stuff!
Part 5 takes us across Austria to Salzburg.
Monday morning and it’s time to leave Rechberg and head west towards our next resting point at Salzburg. The area immediately around Hotel Vital Styria, which has been our home for the last three nights, is truly breath-taking. Having explored the environs a little, those vistas from The Sound of Music are still unspoilt and utterly beautiful. It’s tempting to stay and just discover more great roads in our locale but we have plenty of ground to cover.
We kick off with an ascent of the hill which hosted the weekend’s racing. Sadly we get stuck behind another motorist which rather curtails any thoughts of challenging Fagiolli’s times but this gives us time to savour the course. It’s smooth, wide and fast. Even the hairpins present a tempting challenge but one’s eyes are constantly drawn to the abundant street furniture and hazards which would pass the racers’ noses at 120mph plus.
Beyond the climb itself, we encounter glorious and picturesque forest-lined roads. Huge, mature coniferous trees disappear in waves in every direction with big views poking out during breaks in the arboreal action. It’s about half an hour from our hotel back to civilisation but it’s enough to convince us that we must come back – and next time make more time to drive for driving’s sake.
Our first target is the Red Bull Ring near Zeltweg, about an hour from Rechberg. This area has a long history of motor racing, with Grand Prix held on Zeltweg airport before the legendary Österreichring was constructed in 1969. The airport still exists and sits on a broad plain between the mountains, with the Red Bull Ring sitting just to the north, mountains behind and that vast plain shaping long views in all other directions. It’s certainly a spectacular location for a race track.
We have a reasonable distance to cover today so we haven’t allocated too much time to this stop-over but we’re keen to have a poke around and you never know what you might find at a Grand Prix circuit mid-week. The facility is as glossy as you’d expect for something funded by Red Bull dollars: It’s clean, precise, modern and tasteful. There’s a distant V8 rumble from an unidentified vehicle lapping the course but our first stop is to the Jochen Rindt memorial. A simple bust in tribute to one of Austria’s most celebrated and mourned sons. Even among the Red Bull sheen, there’s opportunity for reflection.
The on-site shop is open and mercifully for my bank balance a wonderful-looking book charting the history of the circuit is in German only. Our curiosity gets the better of us and we wander over to the pit lane to find out a bit more about what’s going on. Remarkably, we’ve stumbled upon a couple of retired F1 drivers, a film crew and an AC Cobra. Mark Webber and David Coulthard, both former Red Bull drivers, are evidently engaged in a filming event of some kind. Having had the garage door closed on our noses, we retreat to the Bistro above the pitlane to observe activities.
The Bistro warrants mention. Situated a couple of stories up, polite staff serve delicious coffee in an elegant and restrained environment; a full-length balcony offers perfect views of the start line. I’m a self-confessed motor racing elitist and whole-heartedly endorse the race track greasy spoon (see Mallory or Cadwell Park) but this is really rather nice. I wonder how one goes about getting access to the balcony over a Grand Prix weekend.
Back to the present and we’re trying to suss out the nature of the filming event. The Cobra is probably not entirely original – it looks like a Dax Rush or equivalent but no matter; it sounds awesome. A chap we presume to be the owner does a few laps before Webber dons Coulthard’s helmet and performs a couple of laps himself. Since returning home we discovered that the filming is for a German-language TV show and there’s some video on YouTube.
It seems strange to bump into a couple of members of the racing royal family but, if we can stumble upon Lewis Hamilton at Mont Tremblant then why not a couple of Red Bull athletes at the company’s own circuit?
The celebrities are using a short track which turns right half-way along the up-hill second straight and loops behind the pits along the GP layout, probably about half the distance of the full circuit. We head up to the highest point of the facility to see it with the benefit of elevation. Sadly there isn’t the time to chase the layout of the mighty old Österreichring but that will be a fine reward for the next trip. The bar at the top isn’t open so we have to imagine a beverage in our hands. Still, it’s warm, sunny and there’s that off-beat V8 soundtrack filling our ears. This is pretty good.
It’s time to saddle up and continue our progress onwards towards Salzburg. It’s not too far but we want to enjoy the best of the countryside and avoid autobahns where we can. We first head north towards Trieben before branching west to the delightfully-monickered Grimming. It’s a surprise to encounter a travelling circus, complete with a train of camels – for apparently ‘train’ is the collective noun for a camel gathering – grazing peacefully.
At this stage, our route is fairly flexible – we can see some smaller roads in the atlas but decide to play it by ear, depending on how we find things.
From Grimming, the roads are fantastic. We don’t appear to lose or gain altitude particularly quickly; in fact it feels as if we spend most of the time gently rising and falling in pastures and valleys without the need to ascend scores of hairpins. That said, the descent into Bad Ausee is incredible: Smooth, well-sighted roads which cling to the rock face on one side and present a dizzying fall on the other. This is very different from the jeopardy of the Furka Pass in Switzerland but no less engaging.
We settle into a rhythm which is matched a couple of days later during subsequent driving: Wide open section of fun roads where right-foot restraint is paramount; picturesque, traditional village; wide open section; picturesque village. Somehow it’s never less than surprising to find another quaint, borderline creepy, village as if lifted from a Brothers Grimm fairytale; all gothic script and angular timber buildings. It’s surprising to find snow on the grass verges, but the roads are clear, dry and grippy.
By early afternoon we are making fine progress towards Salzburg and decide we’re ready for a bite to eat. Sitting alone on a gentle crest, with a view opening out to distant snow-capped mountains, we chance upon a delightfully weird and creepy little cafe and just can’t resist. You know you’ve discovered a gem when there’s a giant picture of three children untidily scoffing chocolate on the wall.
The cafe sits adjacent to a confectioner’s premises which seems to produce and sell traditional Austrian delicacies. As tempting as they are, we are really after something more substantial. The ‘oldtimer’ cafe next door is just the ticket. The entire place is packed with old car and motorcycle memorabilia including, rather unusually several actual cars and motorcycles. The Austrian / German obsession with mannequins means that some of the vehicles are being piloted as well. I struggle through with some schoolboy German and somehow we end up with quite a tasty meal but the whole vibe is bizarre – but, I suppose, thoroughly authentic.
We pause to savour the wonderful views and fresh air before continuing our journey west. We have another automotive diversion before we reach Salzburg – the Salzburgring, a circuit which, until 2015, held the Austrian round of the World Touring Car Championship. Given our earlier good fortune at the Red Bull Ring, we can’t help wondering what treats might lay in store here.
The circuit sits in a typically pretty spot about eight miles from Salzburg; it’s fairly rural but there are signs of civilisation. On arrival we drive down to the pits and intend to have a nose around. Unfortunately we are ordered to leave the area immediately and are shepherded away from the pitlane and back to the entrance where we are permitted very limited views of the track itself. It’s a slightly surprising attitude given that the day’s track activity is simply a follow-the-leader BMW event featuring a handful of road-going 1-series hatchbacks.
It’s hard to say too much about the place on that basis, other than it possesses a Draconian attitude towards inquisitive foreign visitors. There’s certainly not much to hold one’s interest. The location is nice but less spectacular than the Red Bull Ring. The topography is impressive and it’s probably a hoot to drive but it’s not what you’d call a classic in the Spa / Nurburgring mould. Maybe we’ll try it again if we’re ever in the area but compared to a generally positive experience at other circuits, this is a disappointment.
That said, our short stop meant we were ahead of schedule and therefore easily distracted when we find ourselves driving past a Red Bull-liveried jet fighter parked outside an industrial unit a few miles further towards Salzburg. It transpires that the jet is part of a small private museum called the Manro Classic. This afternoon we seem to be the only visitors so the place is virtually opened specifically for us. The proprietor heads into the main collection room, puts some jazz on the jukebox and leaves us to it.
The collection is dedicated, broadly, to cars and music. It’s actually hard to describe but imagine collecting ‘stuff’ for a lifetime and, rather than selling anything, you simply keep it and put it in a museum. This applies equally to cars as it does to car magazines.
The main display room is densely packed with delectable classic cars. At one end there’s a full-size stage, complete with mannequins of the Blues Brothers mid-performance. The cars are displayed in neat rows and unusually many of them are facing nose-in which means you get a good opportunity to count the exhaust pipes on a Ferrari Testarossa – a habit of mine since childhood. In between the cars sits all manner of motorised ephemera such as a jet engine, motorcycles, models and Ferrari exhaust systems for sale. It’s eccentric and fun.
The other rooms contain musical instruments, models, an Ilmor IndyCar engine, magazines and toys. This is all framed by a family backdrop which includes a parrot in a cage, giant boxer dog and the proprietor eating his eat at a long dining table in the corner. He beckons us over to join him and his daughter translates. He even shares his meal with us, handing slices of ham and breadsticks for us to enjoy; there aren’t many car museums where the owner is prepared to break bread with his customers. It’s a crazy place and we’re both so glad to have made the effort to check it out – I doubt any two visits would be the same.
We have two nights in Salzburg and arrive in the late afternoon on a stunning day. Our lodgings are pretty basic but it’s comfortable and the parking is secure. Rain is forecast for Tuesday so we take to our feet to explore while the sun’s out. I’ve virtually no preconceptions about Salzburg and, beyond it being the birthplace of Mozart, knew little about it. It’s a little disconcerting after several days in relative wilderness to find ourselves surrounded by hordes of tourists suddenly.
The old town, near the river, is truly stunning. There are pretty parks, open piazzas, narrow atmospheric streets and looming gothic buildings around every corner. The whole area sits under the shadow of the mighty castle, high above us. We find some terrific, authentic grub in an ancient beer hall right in the centre of the old town which gives the opportunity to sample the local pilsner as well. Certainly you’d struggle to run out of good dining options during a short city break.
Tuesday is as grey and rainy as forecast and the atmosphere of the city is completely different to Monday. The monolithic, gothic buildings seem foreboding and dark below heavy skies and the castle feels as unwelcoming as you’d hope from a storied military strong holding. In spite of the precipitation, we explore as much as we can, though avoid the abundant museums in favour of architecture, of which there is a great deal.
The castle is fascinating and continued military activity until well into the 20th century. As with so many, similar, places it has grown new limbs over the years creating a fascinating mix of construction techniques, visuals and history. That regular creepy Austrian vibe is at its most vivid in a puppet display which is every bit as terrifying as it sounds. We find the time to explore most of the old town, including the incredible Petersfriedhof – St Peter’s Cemetery. The oldest burial ground in Salzburg, it’s nestled below a rock face and surrounded by buildings and, while very different, is as beguiling as St Louis Cemetery No. 1 in New Orleans.
There’s certainly a good deal more to Salzburg than our short, rainy visit permits us to explore. For eager cultured types (I would certainly not count myself in their number) it must be manna from heaven as the number of museums dedicated to the arts is remarkable. That it equally rewards those of us who love architecture, food and machinery is fantastic.
Monday morning and it’s time to leave Rechberg and head west towards our next resting point at Salzburg. The area immediately around Hotel Vital Styria, which has been our home for the last three nights, is truly breath-taking. Having explored the environs a little, those vistas from The Sound of Music are still unspoilt and utterly beautiful. It’s tempting to stay and just discover more great roads in our locale but we have plenty of ground to cover.
We kick off with an ascent of the hill which hosted the weekend’s racing. Sadly we get stuck behind another motorist which rather curtails any thoughts of challenging Fagiolli’s times but this gives us time to savour the course. It’s smooth, wide and fast. Even the hairpins present a tempting challenge but one’s eyes are constantly drawn to the abundant street furniture and hazards which would pass the racers’ noses at 120mph plus.
Beyond the climb itself, we encounter glorious and picturesque forest-lined roads. Huge, mature coniferous trees disappear in waves in every direction with big views poking out during breaks in the arboreal action. It’s about half an hour from our hotel back to civilisation but it’s enough to convince us that we must come back – and next time make more time to drive for driving’s sake.
Our first target is the Red Bull Ring near Zeltweg, about an hour from Rechberg. This area has a long history of motor racing, with Grand Prix held on Zeltweg airport before the legendary Österreichring was constructed in 1969. The airport still exists and sits on a broad plain between the mountains, with the Red Bull Ring sitting just to the north, mountains behind and that vast plain shaping long views in all other directions. It’s certainly a spectacular location for a race track.
We have a reasonable distance to cover today so we haven’t allocated too much time to this stop-over but we’re keen to have a poke around and you never know what you might find at a Grand Prix circuit mid-week. The facility is as glossy as you’d expect for something funded by Red Bull dollars: It’s clean, precise, modern and tasteful. There’s a distant V8 rumble from an unidentified vehicle lapping the course but our first stop is to the Jochen Rindt memorial. A simple bust in tribute to one of Austria’s most celebrated and mourned sons. Even among the Red Bull sheen, there’s opportunity for reflection.
The on-site shop is open and mercifully for my bank balance a wonderful-looking book charting the history of the circuit is in German only. Our curiosity gets the better of us and we wander over to the pit lane to find out a bit more about what’s going on. Remarkably, we’ve stumbled upon a couple of retired F1 drivers, a film crew and an AC Cobra. Mark Webber and David Coulthard, both former Red Bull drivers, are evidently engaged in a filming event of some kind. Having had the garage door closed on our noses, we retreat to the Bistro above the pitlane to observe activities.
The Bistro warrants mention. Situated a couple of stories up, polite staff serve delicious coffee in an elegant and restrained environment; a full-length balcony offers perfect views of the start line. I’m a self-confessed motor racing elitist and whole-heartedly endorse the race track greasy spoon (see Mallory or Cadwell Park) but this is really rather nice. I wonder how one goes about getting access to the balcony over a Grand Prix weekend.
Back to the present and we’re trying to suss out the nature of the filming event. The Cobra is probably not entirely original – it looks like a Dax Rush or equivalent but no matter; it sounds awesome. A chap we presume to be the owner does a few laps before Webber dons Coulthard’s helmet and performs a couple of laps himself. Since returning home we discovered that the filming is for a German-language TV show and there’s some video on YouTube.
It seems strange to bump into a couple of members of the racing royal family but, if we can stumble upon Lewis Hamilton at Mont Tremblant then why not a couple of Red Bull athletes at the company’s own circuit?
The celebrities are using a short track which turns right half-way along the up-hill second straight and loops behind the pits along the GP layout, probably about half the distance of the full circuit. We head up to the highest point of the facility to see it with the benefit of elevation. Sadly there isn’t the time to chase the layout of the mighty old Österreichring but that will be a fine reward for the next trip. The bar at the top isn’t open so we have to imagine a beverage in our hands. Still, it’s warm, sunny and there’s that off-beat V8 soundtrack filling our ears. This is pretty good.
It’s time to saddle up and continue our progress onwards towards Salzburg. It’s not too far but we want to enjoy the best of the countryside and avoid autobahns where we can. We first head north towards Trieben before branching west to the delightfully-monickered Grimming. It’s a surprise to encounter a travelling circus, complete with a train of camels – for apparently ‘train’ is the collective noun for a camel gathering – grazing peacefully.
At this stage, our route is fairly flexible – we can see some smaller roads in the atlas but decide to play it by ear, depending on how we find things.
From Grimming, the roads are fantastic. We don’t appear to lose or gain altitude particularly quickly; in fact it feels as if we spend most of the time gently rising and falling in pastures and valleys without the need to ascend scores of hairpins. That said, the descent into Bad Ausee is incredible: Smooth, well-sighted roads which cling to the rock face on one side and present a dizzying fall on the other. This is very different from the jeopardy of the Furka Pass in Switzerland but no less engaging.
We settle into a rhythm which is matched a couple of days later during subsequent driving: Wide open section of fun roads where right-foot restraint is paramount; picturesque, traditional village; wide open section; picturesque village. Somehow it’s never less than surprising to find another quaint, borderline creepy, village as if lifted from a Brothers Grimm fairytale; all gothic script and angular timber buildings. It’s surprising to find snow on the grass verges, but the roads are clear, dry and grippy.
By early afternoon we are making fine progress towards Salzburg and decide we’re ready for a bite to eat. Sitting alone on a gentle crest, with a view opening out to distant snow-capped mountains, we chance upon a delightfully weird and creepy little cafe and just can’t resist. You know you’ve discovered a gem when there’s a giant picture of three children untidily scoffing chocolate on the wall.
The cafe sits adjacent to a confectioner’s premises which seems to produce and sell traditional Austrian delicacies. As tempting as they are, we are really after something more substantial. The ‘oldtimer’ cafe next door is just the ticket. The entire place is packed with old car and motorcycle memorabilia including, rather unusually several actual cars and motorcycles. The Austrian / German obsession with mannequins means that some of the vehicles are being piloted as well. I struggle through with some schoolboy German and somehow we end up with quite a tasty meal but the whole vibe is bizarre – but, I suppose, thoroughly authentic.
We pause to savour the wonderful views and fresh air before continuing our journey west. We have another automotive diversion before we reach Salzburg – the Salzburgring, a circuit which, until 2015, held the Austrian round of the World Touring Car Championship. Given our earlier good fortune at the Red Bull Ring, we can’t help wondering what treats might lay in store here.
The circuit sits in a typically pretty spot about eight miles from Salzburg; it’s fairly rural but there are signs of civilisation. On arrival we drive down to the pits and intend to have a nose around. Unfortunately we are ordered to leave the area immediately and are shepherded away from the pitlane and back to the entrance where we are permitted very limited views of the track itself. It’s a slightly surprising attitude given that the day’s track activity is simply a follow-the-leader BMW event featuring a handful of road-going 1-series hatchbacks.
It’s hard to say too much about the place on that basis, other than it possesses a Draconian attitude towards inquisitive foreign visitors. There’s certainly not much to hold one’s interest. The location is nice but less spectacular than the Red Bull Ring. The topography is impressive and it’s probably a hoot to drive but it’s not what you’d call a classic in the Spa / Nurburgring mould. Maybe we’ll try it again if we’re ever in the area but compared to a generally positive experience at other circuits, this is a disappointment.
That said, our short stop meant we were ahead of schedule and therefore easily distracted when we find ourselves driving past a Red Bull-liveried jet fighter parked outside an industrial unit a few miles further towards Salzburg. It transpires that the jet is part of a small private museum called the Manro Classic. This afternoon we seem to be the only visitors so the place is virtually opened specifically for us. The proprietor heads into the main collection room, puts some jazz on the jukebox and leaves us to it.
The collection is dedicated, broadly, to cars and music. It’s actually hard to describe but imagine collecting ‘stuff’ for a lifetime and, rather than selling anything, you simply keep it and put it in a museum. This applies equally to cars as it does to car magazines.
The main display room is densely packed with delectable classic cars. At one end there’s a full-size stage, complete with mannequins of the Blues Brothers mid-performance. The cars are displayed in neat rows and unusually many of them are facing nose-in which means you get a good opportunity to count the exhaust pipes on a Ferrari Testarossa – a habit of mine since childhood. In between the cars sits all manner of motorised ephemera such as a jet engine, motorcycles, models and Ferrari exhaust systems for sale. It’s eccentric and fun.
The other rooms contain musical instruments, models, an Ilmor IndyCar engine, magazines and toys. This is all framed by a family backdrop which includes a parrot in a cage, giant boxer dog and the proprietor eating his eat at a long dining table in the corner. He beckons us over to join him and his daughter translates. He even shares his meal with us, handing slices of ham and breadsticks for us to enjoy; there aren’t many car museums where the owner is prepared to break bread with his customers. It’s a crazy place and we’re both so glad to have made the effort to check it out – I doubt any two visits would be the same.
We have two nights in Salzburg and arrive in the late afternoon on a stunning day. Our lodgings are pretty basic but it’s comfortable and the parking is secure. Rain is forecast for Tuesday so we take to our feet to explore while the sun’s out. I’ve virtually no preconceptions about Salzburg and, beyond it being the birthplace of Mozart, knew little about it. It’s a little disconcerting after several days in relative wilderness to find ourselves surrounded by hordes of tourists suddenly.
The old town, near the river, is truly stunning. There are pretty parks, open piazzas, narrow atmospheric streets and looming gothic buildings around every corner. The whole area sits under the shadow of the mighty castle, high above us. We find some terrific, authentic grub in an ancient beer hall right in the centre of the old town which gives the opportunity to sample the local pilsner as well. Certainly you’d struggle to run out of good dining options during a short city break.
Tuesday is as grey and rainy as forecast and the atmosphere of the city is completely different to Monday. The monolithic, gothic buildings seem foreboding and dark below heavy skies and the castle feels as unwelcoming as you’d hope from a storied military strong holding. In spite of the precipitation, we explore as much as we can, though avoid the abundant museums in favour of architecture, of which there is a great deal.
The castle is fascinating and continued military activity until well into the 20th century. As with so many, similar, places it has grown new limbs over the years creating a fascinating mix of construction techniques, visuals and history. That regular creepy Austrian vibe is at its most vivid in a puppet display which is every bit as terrifying as it sounds. We find the time to explore most of the old town, including the incredible Petersfriedhof – St Peter’s Cemetery. The oldest burial ground in Salzburg, it’s nestled below a rock face and surrounded by buildings and, while very different, is as beguiling as St Louis Cemetery No. 1 in New Orleans.
There’s certainly a good deal more to Salzburg than our short, rainy visit permits us to explore. For eager cultured types (I would certainly not count myself in their number) it must be manna from heaven as the number of museums dedicated to the arts is remarkable. That it equally rewards those of us who love architecture, food and machinery is fantastic.
YouTube link for the Red Bull Cobra event: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DKE8KDDMfI0
This is the last installment of our little jaunt and features more of beautiful Austria, another couple of museums and a bit more motor racing.
Just as a note, a few of the photos from Spa have ended up looking a bit grainy when I've resized them. I'll rectify ASAP.
It’s impossible to spend any time in Austria without observing constant reference to one of the nation’s most remarkable exports: Red Bull. Dieter Materzitch’s Austrian empire is vast, with his devotion to extreme sports and machinery being most visible at Hangars 7 and 8. These hugely dramatic and cavernous structures are home to numerous of Red Bull’s most important and iconic machines – from the worlds of motor racing, aviation and wider extreme sports.
The buildings themselves are other-worldly – huge monuments to the success of the energy drinks brand. Situated just to the side of Salzburg Airport, the two hangars face one another, flanking a concrete apron leading out onto the airport. Hangar 7 is the larger and is open to the public (for free) year-round. Hangar 8 is used solely for storing aircraft.
Hangar 7 shows equal appreciation for architecture, engineering and cuisine. Featuring specially-selected plants, it offers an atmosphere of unrivalled opulence, combined with an eerie calm. It’s all delivered with a measured self-assurance that we awkward Brits would struggle to countenance, let alone realise.
The building itself is a masterpiece; wrapped in glass with the walls and roof forming a parabolic whole, the fenestrated shell delicately resting on a perfectly wrought, curving steel endoskeleton. Those massive curves and distant panes create a tremendous sense of both space and isolation.
I’m no Kevin McCloud but suffice it to say that Hangar 7 is far more remarkable in the flesh than any photo might convey. The collection within is equally impressive with a diverse smattering of products from Red Bull’s back catalogue. Of greatest interest to us are, naturally, the racing cars – and there are plenty of those. Grand prix weapons from Sauber, Red Bull Racing and Toro Rosso remind one of the company’s unique achievements. Imagine telling Enzo Ferrari that his beloved red cars would one day be vanquished around Monza by the product of a caffeinated beverage manufacturer.
There are examples on display from each of the Milton Keynes team’s title-winning seasons, as well as the very Toro Rosso in which a youthful Sebastien Vettel put the manners on the old guard at Monza in 2008; establishing himself as the buoyant, smiling assassin. From America are the Dallara IndyCar which transported Tomas Scheckter to victory around the fearsome banked Michigan International Speedway and an example from Red Bull’s foray into NASCAR team ownership.
There are scores of aircraft on display – as one might rationally expect from a hangar. The Flying Bulls is the arm of Red Bull which cares for the company’s aviation treasures and they are immaculately presented; both fixed wing and rotor blade varieties. The jewel in the crown is the Douglas DC-6B. Having spent time in Yugoslavia and Zambia, it has been with the Flying Bulls about 15 years, having been brought back from Africa where it was used for tourism and promotional purposes. Now carrying a highly-polished skin and four new 18 cylinder Pratt and Whitney radial engines (2,400hp each…), it’s a fitting centrepiece for the collection.
Almost as elegant is the twin-boom Lockheed P-38 Lightning which was rescued from Greenland after a forced landing during the Second World War. Wearing a similarly polished exterior, the P-38 is the only example left flying in Europe and spends its morning gleaming on the apron outside Hangar 7. We can only hope Lord March might proffer an invitation to fly at Goodwood one day.
While the building and its vehicular contents are remarkable, Hangar 7 is equally famed for its culinary offerings. Sadly we can only stretch to a coffee but it’s delivered with the class one might expect. In keeping with the Germanic countries, there are little moments of humour, such as the way-faring sign for the lavatories featuring the traditional male and female silhouettes dangling from parachutes.
While a clear demonstration of its own financial clout and global pre-eminence, it’s hard to fault the Red Bull Hangars. Visually they are magnificent, with the contents maintained perfectly and displayed beautifully. The backdrop of snow-kissed mountains is as spectacular as that blessing any museum in the world. And all this without an entry fee.
Sated with coffee, it’s time to get comfortable in the Aston again as we’ve got quite a bit of ground to cover today and we want to enjoy some great roads. The initial chunk of the journey is deathly dull. Reduced speed limits are imposed on the autobahn as we slowly work our way around Innsbruck and the scenery is great, but feels somehow distant; we’re in its vicinity but not really part of it.
That feeling of separation from our surroundings is eased considerably when we clear Innsbruck and dive north towards Reutte on the 179. Once more we are purring over rolling green meadows, chasing distant mountains. At Reutte we bank west and take the 198 – an inspired choice as it transpires.
Traffic on both roads is mercifully light and the 198 in particular feels genuinely supercar-sized. It’s broad, smooth and well-sighted; blessed with long straights and broad, open-radius bends. The beautiful natural vistas are broken occasionally by bizarre villages; all gothic script, theatrical battlements and creepy wall murals. It’s a bewitching (perhaps literally) brew.
Towards the end of the run – and with me in the driving seat meaning I’ve no idea where we were – we elect to take a twisty route merely out of curiosity and because we’ve made decent time. It feels as if we’ve climbed 1000 feet. The snow banks have closed in to hug the verge and there’s water cascading off the tops of the open-sided tunnels. The snow drifts have organised themselves into huge fluffy pillows, punctuated by similarly-sized tufts of green grass.
If this heady mix of creepy villages, jagged mountains and petrolhead plains wasn’t enough, we encounter a cattle drive ambling along the road and a brief road closure where a group of intrepid chaps is chiselling at a cliff face. They look as surprised to see us as we do them.
All good roads must come to an end and eventually we emerge back into civilisation at the south eastern tip of Lake Bodensee. Bordered by Switzerland, Austria and Germany, Bodensee is vast and we meander along its northern shoreline, passing vineyards as we go and, sadly, out of time to visit the local Zeppelin museum. Next time…
Our destination for the night is Bodman-Ludwigshafen, a pretty village which dips its toes into the water at the lake’s most north westerly point. Our hotel is simple and clean with ample underground parking and a quick five minute walk to the water’s edge. Bodensee is on a scale not dissimilar to the great Italian lakes, though the atmosphere doesn’t feel quite so romantic. It’s calm and picturesque, with the surrounding village feeling nicely preserved and undisturbed. I wouldn’t advocate travelling a huge distance specifically to see Bodman-Ludwigshafen but it’s a charming place to stop on a big trip like this one.
From the enormous Lake Bodensee, it’s time to head virtually due north and into the Black Forest. I’ve had a tip-off about the B500, supposedly a pretty special stretch of road – and conveniently one which leads towards our next destination.
We join the B500 at the amusingly-titled Titisee and follow it north through Triberg and on to Hausach. It’s typical of German country roads, blessed without hedgerows to crowd the views and punctuated by white marker bollards to help you trace a path. This provides great visibility and allows you to plan far in advance of the typical British equivalent. The countryside is broad, with rolling green pastures extending out in all directions. There are rugged hilltops in the distance but this isn’t Alpine terrain by any means. The route is dotted with occasional clutches of tall, coniferous trees close to the road but much of the arboreal action is set back from the macadam, organised into neat forests. It’s picture-postcard stuff, but in an entirely different manner to the grandeur of Austria the day before.
The road itself is awesome – with the potential to rise into severely licence-threatening speeds without a little restrain. There are a few hairpins but much of our drive up to Hausach is simply through glorious, open sections, gently rising and falling with the natural elevation of the land. It’s one of those roads you just want to turn around and enjoy again.
Sadly we’ve no time for such frivolous shenanigans for we have an impending visit to a model railway. Schwarzwald Modell Bahn is, at over 400m2, Europe’s largest model railway replicating actual scenery. That is to say, there may be bigger model railways in Europe but they depict fictional worlds. Schwarzwald is the Black Forest Railway, rendered in miniature.
There comes a time in every man’s life when he is old enough to admit that he likes model trains. Having been a childhood enthusiast, I was wowed first by Scalextric, then by radio controlled buggies, before passing my driving test and obsessing over real cars. At one time I was vaguely interested in girls. Now, though, I’m comfortable with admitting that watching tiny trains traversing miniature worlds is beguiling.
The layout at Schwarzwald is as detailed as it is massive. It snakes its way around its exhibition hall in a seemingly-infinite, serpentine loop. It even ascends and descends spiral towers to clear a doorway. Ducking in and out of walls and featuring a couple of different stations, there’s an easy couple of hours’ exploring for even the casual locomotive lover.
I learn from my co-pilot that the continental scaling for model locos is slightly different to the traditional UK 00-gauge. This means the rolling stock is better-proportioned – and you can tell. The scenery is spectacular and the lights replicate the movements of the sun as the room lightens and dims over time, offering the chance to explore the layout under cover of darkness, twinkling station lights and illuminated carriages guiding the way.
The detail and quality of the modelling is exceptional, with dad suggesting it’s as good as he’s ever seen. The sheer size of the layout is impressive and gives plenty of room for everything to breathe. There are farms and quarries and hotels and campsites and classic car garages nestling among the hills, streams and bridges. Autonomous road vehicles glide along track-less highways on pre-ordained routes, as if by magic.
It’s pretty mega and definitely one to check out if you find yourself in the Black Forest. Embrace your love of model trains.
Sadly, though, we have yet more ground to cover and from southern Germany we need to get up to Belgium in time for a good night’s sleep. I take the wheel for this leg and endure my now-traditional boring blaze up through France. It’s not a memorable drive, mercifully, for it rains and takes us through long sections of rather monotonous countryside. Still, a warm welcome greets up at our favourite Belgian hotel, Château Bleu near Trooz. I wouldn’t dare stay anywhere else.
While Trooz itself is worthy of mention only to recommend avoiding it if possible, the surrounding countryside is lovely and well worth exploring. Château Bleu has become our default choice when visiting Spa-Francorchamps. It’s a pleasant 30 minute drive to the track, as well as serving the best bread and pastries east of Paris.
The FIA has conveniently scheduled the Spa round of the World Endurance Championship to coincide with the last leg of our trip. Sadly commitments in the UK mean we can’t stay for race day but we can watch free practice and qualifying. We reason that a day watching LMP and GTE cars blasting around Europe’s finest circuit will be pretty ace, even if they’re not bashing wheels for position.
Fortunately the scheduling for the day is fairly relaxed and that gives us chance to head over to Abbaye Stavelot – the museum a few miles from the circuit which includes an area dedicated to the history of the great track. The Abbaye itself is an ancient monastery with a documented history dating back almost 1500 years.
Having traced part of the route of the ‘old’ Spa layout and savoured the awesome flow of the Masta Kink, it’s alarming to find ourselves bouncing over traditional Belgian pavé. Still, we eventually come to rest in an underground car park and head off to explore the motor racing collection within the museum – housed in the old cellars framed by evocative brick arched ceilings. It’s strange to find so many great cars stored in absence of natural light, but it provides an earthy feeling which is reassuring for those of us in love with the sport’s history. Imagine the musty realism of the now-defunct Maranello Rosso collection.
The museum isn’t huge but it’s packed full of fascinating exhibits which span Spa’s special history as a venue for all levels of the sport. There are examples from the worlds of junior single seaters, GTs, touring cars, sports racers, F5000, IndyCar and F1. Whether you love the 1970s kit-car era of F1, modern sports prototypes or evocative Group 1 saloonatics, you will find an exhibit or two to pique your interest. The cars are interspersed with displays and videos from the venue’s rich history.
The jewel in the crown is a brace of Gulf-liveried sports racers. The JWA Porsche 917 needs little introduction and this is a genuine Wyer car – chassis 013 – and now resides in the hands of Mark Findburgh. Sitting alongside is an example of the gloriously sonorous and equally gorgeous Lola-Aston Martin B09/60. It doesn’t get much better than these two.
As diverting and atmospheric as the Abbaye is, it doesn’t justify a long visit and we’re soon itching to get trackside – to see motor racing history as it happens. We take the chance to explore a leg of the old circuit which neither of us has driven previously – from the awesome banked Stavelot (now a one-way right-hander outside the town) through to the road’s conclusion at the current Stavelot bend. It’s a phenomenal run, with the road flowing down gentle sweepers and it’s impossible not to let the Aston off the leash a little. No wonder the Belgians decided to turn these dusty trails into a race track – they’re mega.
We park up opposite the old pits, just near the old Eau Rouge hairpin (as it once was) and wander over to the paddock where Fred Makovici and Tom Kristensen are donning their helmets and climbing into road-going Porsche 911 and Audi R8 respectively to treat a couple of lucky passengers to the rides of their lives. Both drivers are straight on it – blasting up Radillion and away along the Kemmel Straight in a blare of revs. We try to suppress our jealousy.
Practice for the Porsche Carrera Cup GB has just finished and the cars are pushed out of parc fermé and the drivers are milling around. Champion-elect Dan Cammish (even in early May the title momentum is with him) is looking especially relaxed. Sadly there’s some timetabling confusion and the advertised pit lane walk-about has already occurred so there’s nothing for it but to trek up the hill, following the cars clockwise to watch WEC practice kick off.
We start the session about half-way along the Kemmel Straight, with all cars at pretty much terminal velocity, hammering towards Les Combes in top gear, just as so many generations of sports racing cars have done before them. Even having seen them at Silverstone a few weeks earlier, the variety of shapes, sounds and colours delight.
It’s staggering standing at the turn-in point for Les Combes; that little bit of gradient enables everyone to brake so late, with the GTE cars making the finest sounds and the LMP cars bewildering with the speed they carry to the first apex. It’s a blur. A virtual safety car gives us a couple of minutes’ grace so we duck under the track at the tunnel between Les Combes and Rivage. This brings us out above the nameless left-hander and with the iconic view of the valley reaching across to the pitlane. No petrol head could tire of that vista.
Behind our heads, the cars are above us but they start plunging downhill, carrying huge speed towards Rivage. This is one of the finest spectator spots in world motor racing – you can really watch the drivers at work. The quick cars (LMP1, F1 and the like) are accelerating tremendously hard downhill before exercising maximum retardation and tipping into the endless Rivage right-hander, the road dropping away throughout the process. The ferocity of their motion at this point is shocking. The backdrop of decrepit caravans lining the outside of the course serves only to make these space-age racing cars seem even more other-worldly. It’s absolutely magical.
All too soon the session is over and we’re left to lament the lack of track time for the WEC. Next time we’ll head back for race day. We trace the course clockwise and find ourselves on the outfield at Blanchimont for the start of the Porsche Carrera Cup GB race. It remains one of the great places to watch racing cars – any racing cars – as they seem to dive-bomb towards your feet as they aim for the second apex.
This race is unusual for the 2015 championship as Dan Cammish has to accept second place. Reigning champion Josh Webster is flawless in defence as he holds Cammish at bay for the duration of the race. Just when he appears to have a few car lengths’ breathing space, Webster faces a new onslaught from the young pretender. Cammish has to settle for the second step of the podium and fastest lap for his efforts. Behind the duelling duo, it’s a surprise to find former champion Michael Meadows lose it under braking for the Bus Stop and take to the run-off area, broadside.
All that remain are two qualifying sessions for the World Endurance Championship and they promise to be thrilling. The season opener at Silverstone had been too close to call – with Porsche phenomenally quick in a straight line; Audi bringing awesome downforce and Toyota close behind on both fronts. Behind them, LMP2 at Spa promises great things with reigning Le Mans champ Jota Sport bringing its open-top Gibson to upset the ORECA / Ligier party. In a session of their own, the GTE runners are equally mixed up with Aston Martin looking good after Silverstone but who’d want to count out Porsche and Ferrari?
We perch on the old pit buildings, overlooking the cars as they hammer out of La Source, steeply downhill before plunging into the compression of Eau Rouge and firing up Radillion and out of our sight. It’s a brief glimpse of automotive fury, no more than a couple of seconds but it’s a compelling place to watch fast cars. Forget all the chat in F1 about this complex no longer being a challenge; in a GTE car the difference between the drivers is marked. There’s no hiding if you jump out of the throttle here.
The grid is decided from aggregated times set by two drivers in each car. GTE Pro is too close to call with Ferrari, Aston Martin and Porsche all quick. It comes down to consistency with the #99 V8 Vantage of Alex Macdowall, Fernando Rees and Richie Stanaway pipping the Ferrari duo of Gianmaria Bruni and Toni Vilander by less than a tenth of a second. The variety in the class remains fascinating, with the brutal Astons and lone Corvette thumping the macadam in defiance, while the 458 Italia howls longest and hardest, it’s coarse flat-plane crank bestowing it with the loudest and most distinctive voice in the entire field. It’s no Colombo V12, perhaps, but it sounds suitably evocative out here in the Ardennes forests.
The prototype session mixes LMP1 and LMP2 runners, though the quickest LMP2 runner – the #26 G-Drive Ligier – is less than ten seconds off the back of the LMP1 field. It’s fascinating watching the cars’ behaviour. Most of the cars are grounding out in the compression, with puffs of smoke as their planks strike the macadam, leaving a light mark on the surface. The mighty Porsche 919s, though, are sending a shower of sparks in their wake. It’s truly dramatic and the photographers are loving the spectacle with a pack of them crouching on the outfield awaiting each 150mph pass. There are few more impressive demonstrations of the astounding performance of a modern sports prototype than this. It’s mesmerising watching the cars twitch and pitch, right on the edge; just for a second and then they’re gone, pounding out into the countryside and following in the wheel tracks of virtually every great racing driver of the last hundred years. Special stuff.
It’s something of a surprise to notice that the KPMG Oreca is cocking its inside rear wheel under maximum provocation through the right-hand section of the corner. These things are working hard; imagine that relentless strain for six hours.
The LMP2 line-up reiterates the results from the WEC and ELMS at Silverstone, proving that the new breed of coupé won’t have things all its own way this year. The surprise of the session is the Morgan of the beleaguered SARD team which emerges second in qualifying; derived from a design which dates back a decade and fielded by a team in a state of some turmoil.
The LMP1 field is more clear-cut with Porsche’s mighty 8MJ hybrid system working perfectly in Belgium. Boasting a three-car entry in preparation for Le Mans, the team steals the first three grid positions, with the #17 of Bernhard, Webber and Hartley snatching pole ahead of interlopers Hülkenberg, Bamber and Tandy. It’s a remarkable effort by the new boys to beat the experienced hands in the #18 car. With Audi occupying the next two spots, Toyota is – relatively – nowhere in what was to prove an ominous portent for the balance of the season. Silverstone, sadly, was a flash in the pan and the TS040 wouldn’t look a competitive force again until Bahrain at year’s end.
Porsche’s domination of the session effectively brings the curtain down on another wonderful road trip. While a Belgian traffic jam threatened to delay us sufficiently to miss our train, we just get to Calais in time and are reluctantly spat back out onto the British motorway network. It’s been another unforgettable trip with the little Aston providing wonderful driving memories and our heroes thrilling us out on the race track. Final thoughts go out to Otakar Kramsky and his family; rest in peace.
Just as a note, a few of the photos from Spa have ended up looking a bit grainy when I've resized them. I'll rectify ASAP.
It’s impossible to spend any time in Austria without observing constant reference to one of the nation’s most remarkable exports: Red Bull. Dieter Materzitch’s Austrian empire is vast, with his devotion to extreme sports and machinery being most visible at Hangars 7 and 8. These hugely dramatic and cavernous structures are home to numerous of Red Bull’s most important and iconic machines – from the worlds of motor racing, aviation and wider extreme sports.
The buildings themselves are other-worldly – huge monuments to the success of the energy drinks brand. Situated just to the side of Salzburg Airport, the two hangars face one another, flanking a concrete apron leading out onto the airport. Hangar 7 is the larger and is open to the public (for free) year-round. Hangar 8 is used solely for storing aircraft.
Hangar 7 shows equal appreciation for architecture, engineering and cuisine. Featuring specially-selected plants, it offers an atmosphere of unrivalled opulence, combined with an eerie calm. It’s all delivered with a measured self-assurance that we awkward Brits would struggle to countenance, let alone realise.
The building itself is a masterpiece; wrapped in glass with the walls and roof forming a parabolic whole, the fenestrated shell delicately resting on a perfectly wrought, curving steel endoskeleton. Those massive curves and distant panes create a tremendous sense of both space and isolation.
I’m no Kevin McCloud but suffice it to say that Hangar 7 is far more remarkable in the flesh than any photo might convey. The collection within is equally impressive with a diverse smattering of products from Red Bull’s back catalogue. Of greatest interest to us are, naturally, the racing cars – and there are plenty of those. Grand prix weapons from Sauber, Red Bull Racing and Toro Rosso remind one of the company’s unique achievements. Imagine telling Enzo Ferrari that his beloved red cars would one day be vanquished around Monza by the product of a caffeinated beverage manufacturer.
There are examples on display from each of the Milton Keynes team’s title-winning seasons, as well as the very Toro Rosso in which a youthful Sebastien Vettel put the manners on the old guard at Monza in 2008; establishing himself as the buoyant, smiling assassin. From America are the Dallara IndyCar which transported Tomas Scheckter to victory around the fearsome banked Michigan International Speedway and an example from Red Bull’s foray into NASCAR team ownership.
There are scores of aircraft on display – as one might rationally expect from a hangar. The Flying Bulls is the arm of Red Bull which cares for the company’s aviation treasures and they are immaculately presented; both fixed wing and rotor blade varieties. The jewel in the crown is the Douglas DC-6B. Having spent time in Yugoslavia and Zambia, it has been with the Flying Bulls about 15 years, having been brought back from Africa where it was used for tourism and promotional purposes. Now carrying a highly-polished skin and four new 18 cylinder Pratt and Whitney radial engines (2,400hp each…), it’s a fitting centrepiece for the collection.
Almost as elegant is the twin-boom Lockheed P-38 Lightning which was rescued from Greenland after a forced landing during the Second World War. Wearing a similarly polished exterior, the P-38 is the only example left flying in Europe and spends its morning gleaming on the apron outside Hangar 7. We can only hope Lord March might proffer an invitation to fly at Goodwood one day.
While the building and its vehicular contents are remarkable, Hangar 7 is equally famed for its culinary offerings. Sadly we can only stretch to a coffee but it’s delivered with the class one might expect. In keeping with the Germanic countries, there are little moments of humour, such as the way-faring sign for the lavatories featuring the traditional male and female silhouettes dangling from parachutes.
While a clear demonstration of its own financial clout and global pre-eminence, it’s hard to fault the Red Bull Hangars. Visually they are magnificent, with the contents maintained perfectly and displayed beautifully. The backdrop of snow-kissed mountains is as spectacular as that blessing any museum in the world. And all this without an entry fee.
Sated with coffee, it’s time to get comfortable in the Aston again as we’ve got quite a bit of ground to cover today and we want to enjoy some great roads. The initial chunk of the journey is deathly dull. Reduced speed limits are imposed on the autobahn as we slowly work our way around Innsbruck and the scenery is great, but feels somehow distant; we’re in its vicinity but not really part of it.
That feeling of separation from our surroundings is eased considerably when we clear Innsbruck and dive north towards Reutte on the 179. Once more we are purring over rolling green meadows, chasing distant mountains. At Reutte we bank west and take the 198 – an inspired choice as it transpires.
Traffic on both roads is mercifully light and the 198 in particular feels genuinely supercar-sized. It’s broad, smooth and well-sighted; blessed with long straights and broad, open-radius bends. The beautiful natural vistas are broken occasionally by bizarre villages; all gothic script, theatrical battlements and creepy wall murals. It’s a bewitching (perhaps literally) brew.
Towards the end of the run – and with me in the driving seat meaning I’ve no idea where we were – we elect to take a twisty route merely out of curiosity and because we’ve made decent time. It feels as if we’ve climbed 1000 feet. The snow banks have closed in to hug the verge and there’s water cascading off the tops of the open-sided tunnels. The snow drifts have organised themselves into huge fluffy pillows, punctuated by similarly-sized tufts of green grass.
If this heady mix of creepy villages, jagged mountains and petrolhead plains wasn’t enough, we encounter a cattle drive ambling along the road and a brief road closure where a group of intrepid chaps is chiselling at a cliff face. They look as surprised to see us as we do them.
All good roads must come to an end and eventually we emerge back into civilisation at the south eastern tip of Lake Bodensee. Bordered by Switzerland, Austria and Germany, Bodensee is vast and we meander along its northern shoreline, passing vineyards as we go and, sadly, out of time to visit the local Zeppelin museum. Next time…
Our destination for the night is Bodman-Ludwigshafen, a pretty village which dips its toes into the water at the lake’s most north westerly point. Our hotel is simple and clean with ample underground parking and a quick five minute walk to the water’s edge. Bodensee is on a scale not dissimilar to the great Italian lakes, though the atmosphere doesn’t feel quite so romantic. It’s calm and picturesque, with the surrounding village feeling nicely preserved and undisturbed. I wouldn’t advocate travelling a huge distance specifically to see Bodman-Ludwigshafen but it’s a charming place to stop on a big trip like this one.
From the enormous Lake Bodensee, it’s time to head virtually due north and into the Black Forest. I’ve had a tip-off about the B500, supposedly a pretty special stretch of road – and conveniently one which leads towards our next destination.
We join the B500 at the amusingly-titled Titisee and follow it north through Triberg and on to Hausach. It’s typical of German country roads, blessed without hedgerows to crowd the views and punctuated by white marker bollards to help you trace a path. This provides great visibility and allows you to plan far in advance of the typical British equivalent. The countryside is broad, with rolling green pastures extending out in all directions. There are rugged hilltops in the distance but this isn’t Alpine terrain by any means. The route is dotted with occasional clutches of tall, coniferous trees close to the road but much of the arboreal action is set back from the macadam, organised into neat forests. It’s picture-postcard stuff, but in an entirely different manner to the grandeur of Austria the day before.
The road itself is awesome – with the potential to rise into severely licence-threatening speeds without a little restrain. There are a few hairpins but much of our drive up to Hausach is simply through glorious, open sections, gently rising and falling with the natural elevation of the land. It’s one of those roads you just want to turn around and enjoy again.
Sadly we’ve no time for such frivolous shenanigans for we have an impending visit to a model railway. Schwarzwald Modell Bahn is, at over 400m2, Europe’s largest model railway replicating actual scenery. That is to say, there may be bigger model railways in Europe but they depict fictional worlds. Schwarzwald is the Black Forest Railway, rendered in miniature.
There comes a time in every man’s life when he is old enough to admit that he likes model trains. Having been a childhood enthusiast, I was wowed first by Scalextric, then by radio controlled buggies, before passing my driving test and obsessing over real cars. At one time I was vaguely interested in girls. Now, though, I’m comfortable with admitting that watching tiny trains traversing miniature worlds is beguiling.
The layout at Schwarzwald is as detailed as it is massive. It snakes its way around its exhibition hall in a seemingly-infinite, serpentine loop. It even ascends and descends spiral towers to clear a doorway. Ducking in and out of walls and featuring a couple of different stations, there’s an easy couple of hours’ exploring for even the casual locomotive lover.
I learn from my co-pilot that the continental scaling for model locos is slightly different to the traditional UK 00-gauge. This means the rolling stock is better-proportioned – and you can tell. The scenery is spectacular and the lights replicate the movements of the sun as the room lightens and dims over time, offering the chance to explore the layout under cover of darkness, twinkling station lights and illuminated carriages guiding the way.
The detail and quality of the modelling is exceptional, with dad suggesting it’s as good as he’s ever seen. The sheer size of the layout is impressive and gives plenty of room for everything to breathe. There are farms and quarries and hotels and campsites and classic car garages nestling among the hills, streams and bridges. Autonomous road vehicles glide along track-less highways on pre-ordained routes, as if by magic.
It’s pretty mega and definitely one to check out if you find yourself in the Black Forest. Embrace your love of model trains.
Sadly, though, we have yet more ground to cover and from southern Germany we need to get up to Belgium in time for a good night’s sleep. I take the wheel for this leg and endure my now-traditional boring blaze up through France. It’s not a memorable drive, mercifully, for it rains and takes us through long sections of rather monotonous countryside. Still, a warm welcome greets up at our favourite Belgian hotel, Château Bleu near Trooz. I wouldn’t dare stay anywhere else.
While Trooz itself is worthy of mention only to recommend avoiding it if possible, the surrounding countryside is lovely and well worth exploring. Château Bleu has become our default choice when visiting Spa-Francorchamps. It’s a pleasant 30 minute drive to the track, as well as serving the best bread and pastries east of Paris.
The FIA has conveniently scheduled the Spa round of the World Endurance Championship to coincide with the last leg of our trip. Sadly commitments in the UK mean we can’t stay for race day but we can watch free practice and qualifying. We reason that a day watching LMP and GTE cars blasting around Europe’s finest circuit will be pretty ace, even if they’re not bashing wheels for position.
Fortunately the scheduling for the day is fairly relaxed and that gives us chance to head over to Abbaye Stavelot – the museum a few miles from the circuit which includes an area dedicated to the history of the great track. The Abbaye itself is an ancient monastery with a documented history dating back almost 1500 years.
Having traced part of the route of the ‘old’ Spa layout and savoured the awesome flow of the Masta Kink, it’s alarming to find ourselves bouncing over traditional Belgian pavé. Still, we eventually come to rest in an underground car park and head off to explore the motor racing collection within the museum – housed in the old cellars framed by evocative brick arched ceilings. It’s strange to find so many great cars stored in absence of natural light, but it provides an earthy feeling which is reassuring for those of us in love with the sport’s history. Imagine the musty realism of the now-defunct Maranello Rosso collection.
The museum isn’t huge but it’s packed full of fascinating exhibits which span Spa’s special history as a venue for all levels of the sport. There are examples from the worlds of junior single seaters, GTs, touring cars, sports racers, F5000, IndyCar and F1. Whether you love the 1970s kit-car era of F1, modern sports prototypes or evocative Group 1 saloonatics, you will find an exhibit or two to pique your interest. The cars are interspersed with displays and videos from the venue’s rich history.
The jewel in the crown is a brace of Gulf-liveried sports racers. The JWA Porsche 917 needs little introduction and this is a genuine Wyer car – chassis 013 – and now resides in the hands of Mark Findburgh. Sitting alongside is an example of the gloriously sonorous and equally gorgeous Lola-Aston Martin B09/60. It doesn’t get much better than these two.
As diverting and atmospheric as the Abbaye is, it doesn’t justify a long visit and we’re soon itching to get trackside – to see motor racing history as it happens. We take the chance to explore a leg of the old circuit which neither of us has driven previously – from the awesome banked Stavelot (now a one-way right-hander outside the town) through to the road’s conclusion at the current Stavelot bend. It’s a phenomenal run, with the road flowing down gentle sweepers and it’s impossible not to let the Aston off the leash a little. No wonder the Belgians decided to turn these dusty trails into a race track – they’re mega.
We park up opposite the old pits, just near the old Eau Rouge hairpin (as it once was) and wander over to the paddock where Fred Makovici and Tom Kristensen are donning their helmets and climbing into road-going Porsche 911 and Audi R8 respectively to treat a couple of lucky passengers to the rides of their lives. Both drivers are straight on it – blasting up Radillion and away along the Kemmel Straight in a blare of revs. We try to suppress our jealousy.
Practice for the Porsche Carrera Cup GB has just finished and the cars are pushed out of parc fermé and the drivers are milling around. Champion-elect Dan Cammish (even in early May the title momentum is with him) is looking especially relaxed. Sadly there’s some timetabling confusion and the advertised pit lane walk-about has already occurred so there’s nothing for it but to trek up the hill, following the cars clockwise to watch WEC practice kick off.
We start the session about half-way along the Kemmel Straight, with all cars at pretty much terminal velocity, hammering towards Les Combes in top gear, just as so many generations of sports racing cars have done before them. Even having seen them at Silverstone a few weeks earlier, the variety of shapes, sounds and colours delight.
It’s staggering standing at the turn-in point for Les Combes; that little bit of gradient enables everyone to brake so late, with the GTE cars making the finest sounds and the LMP cars bewildering with the speed they carry to the first apex. It’s a blur. A virtual safety car gives us a couple of minutes’ grace so we duck under the track at the tunnel between Les Combes and Rivage. This brings us out above the nameless left-hander and with the iconic view of the valley reaching across to the pitlane. No petrol head could tire of that vista.
Behind our heads, the cars are above us but they start plunging downhill, carrying huge speed towards Rivage. This is one of the finest spectator spots in world motor racing – you can really watch the drivers at work. The quick cars (LMP1, F1 and the like) are accelerating tremendously hard downhill before exercising maximum retardation and tipping into the endless Rivage right-hander, the road dropping away throughout the process. The ferocity of their motion at this point is shocking. The backdrop of decrepit caravans lining the outside of the course serves only to make these space-age racing cars seem even more other-worldly. It’s absolutely magical.
All too soon the session is over and we’re left to lament the lack of track time for the WEC. Next time we’ll head back for race day. We trace the course clockwise and find ourselves on the outfield at Blanchimont for the start of the Porsche Carrera Cup GB race. It remains one of the great places to watch racing cars – any racing cars – as they seem to dive-bomb towards your feet as they aim for the second apex.
This race is unusual for the 2015 championship as Dan Cammish has to accept second place. Reigning champion Josh Webster is flawless in defence as he holds Cammish at bay for the duration of the race. Just when he appears to have a few car lengths’ breathing space, Webster faces a new onslaught from the young pretender. Cammish has to settle for the second step of the podium and fastest lap for his efforts. Behind the duelling duo, it’s a surprise to find former champion Michael Meadows lose it under braking for the Bus Stop and take to the run-off area, broadside.
All that remain are two qualifying sessions for the World Endurance Championship and they promise to be thrilling. The season opener at Silverstone had been too close to call – with Porsche phenomenally quick in a straight line; Audi bringing awesome downforce and Toyota close behind on both fronts. Behind them, LMP2 at Spa promises great things with reigning Le Mans champ Jota Sport bringing its open-top Gibson to upset the ORECA / Ligier party. In a session of their own, the GTE runners are equally mixed up with Aston Martin looking good after Silverstone but who’d want to count out Porsche and Ferrari?
We perch on the old pit buildings, overlooking the cars as they hammer out of La Source, steeply downhill before plunging into the compression of Eau Rouge and firing up Radillion and out of our sight. It’s a brief glimpse of automotive fury, no more than a couple of seconds but it’s a compelling place to watch fast cars. Forget all the chat in F1 about this complex no longer being a challenge; in a GTE car the difference between the drivers is marked. There’s no hiding if you jump out of the throttle here.
The grid is decided from aggregated times set by two drivers in each car. GTE Pro is too close to call with Ferrari, Aston Martin and Porsche all quick. It comes down to consistency with the #99 V8 Vantage of Alex Macdowall, Fernando Rees and Richie Stanaway pipping the Ferrari duo of Gianmaria Bruni and Toni Vilander by less than a tenth of a second. The variety in the class remains fascinating, with the brutal Astons and lone Corvette thumping the macadam in defiance, while the 458 Italia howls longest and hardest, it’s coarse flat-plane crank bestowing it with the loudest and most distinctive voice in the entire field. It’s no Colombo V12, perhaps, but it sounds suitably evocative out here in the Ardennes forests.
The prototype session mixes LMP1 and LMP2 runners, though the quickest LMP2 runner – the #26 G-Drive Ligier – is less than ten seconds off the back of the LMP1 field. It’s fascinating watching the cars’ behaviour. Most of the cars are grounding out in the compression, with puffs of smoke as their planks strike the macadam, leaving a light mark on the surface. The mighty Porsche 919s, though, are sending a shower of sparks in their wake. It’s truly dramatic and the photographers are loving the spectacle with a pack of them crouching on the outfield awaiting each 150mph pass. There are few more impressive demonstrations of the astounding performance of a modern sports prototype than this. It’s mesmerising watching the cars twitch and pitch, right on the edge; just for a second and then they’re gone, pounding out into the countryside and following in the wheel tracks of virtually every great racing driver of the last hundred years. Special stuff.
It’s something of a surprise to notice that the KPMG Oreca is cocking its inside rear wheel under maximum provocation through the right-hand section of the corner. These things are working hard; imagine that relentless strain for six hours.
The LMP2 line-up reiterates the results from the WEC and ELMS at Silverstone, proving that the new breed of coupé won’t have things all its own way this year. The surprise of the session is the Morgan of the beleaguered SARD team which emerges second in qualifying; derived from a design which dates back a decade and fielded by a team in a state of some turmoil.
The LMP1 field is more clear-cut with Porsche’s mighty 8MJ hybrid system working perfectly in Belgium. Boasting a three-car entry in preparation for Le Mans, the team steals the first three grid positions, with the #17 of Bernhard, Webber and Hartley snatching pole ahead of interlopers Hülkenberg, Bamber and Tandy. It’s a remarkable effort by the new boys to beat the experienced hands in the #18 car. With Audi occupying the next two spots, Toyota is – relatively – nowhere in what was to prove an ominous portent for the balance of the season. Silverstone, sadly, was a flash in the pan and the TS040 wouldn’t look a competitive force again until Bahrain at year’s end.
Porsche’s domination of the session effectively brings the curtain down on another wonderful road trip. While a Belgian traffic jam threatened to delay us sufficiently to miss our train, we just get to Calais in time and are reluctantly spat back out onto the British motorway network. It’s been another unforgettable trip with the little Aston providing wonderful driving memories and our heroes thrilling us out on the race track. Final thoughts go out to Otakar Kramsky and his family; rest in peace.
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