Check out a MotoGP race and enjoy some Portugal sun? Sounds like a nice vacation from the gloomy English fall weather right?
The alarm on my computer shrieked a warning. This could be only one thing: an e-mail from MCUSA’s Managing Editor, Bart Madson, had arrived issuing mission instructions. Mr. Madson is a very, very important person and so communications with underlings like me are rare and have to be acted upon immediately. The message was terse to the point of brutality. Thus:
“Melling, you will go forthwith to
MotoGP at Estoril. As befits your status in life, you will not blag free tickets; scrounge over cooked barbecue chicken wings from some unsuspecting team’s buffet lunch or even a fancy plastic pass holder with a printed name on the strap.
You will be what you are: a peasant amongst the peasants.”
Still, the assignment didn’t look too bad. England in late October is getting cold and dark so a long weekend in the Portuguese sun looked to be a seriously pleasant experience. Pack the shorts, sandals and sun lotion and watch the best racing in the world. How bad could that be?
The Prologue:
If only being an expert traveler would get you on the plane any faster.
For the 73% of Americans who do not have a passport believe me, international travel is not nearly as exotic as it seems. We wait, with British stoicism, as the line for the airport security moves with geological slowness. Mountain ranges have been formed quicker than the progress we are making. The Colorado River was probably just beginning to form the Grand Canyon when we joined the end of the line.
Because I clearly look like a terrorist, I have to remove my highly suspicious paddock jacket, watch, cell phone, notebook, pen, keys, fleece, belt and shoes. I am now left with only four items of clothing.
To the intense disappointment of the security staff I do not trigger any alarms but this still does not prevent me being selected for a full, and embarrassingly intimate, body search. As I balance on one leg, the security officer checks between my toes. For what? Just what is the credible chance of a fat, bald, middle-aged man hiding explosives between his toes?
Around 235 million passengers flew from British airports last year and not one explosive device was found. In a population of 60 million, five people died of lightning strikes in the same time. Truly, Al-Qaeda has won the war by terrifying the Western nations into subservience.
Still, as we trudge wearily to the plane - buses must now be a security risk - the mood lifts and the gossip amongst the
And yes, that does mean you!
bike fans who make up a lot of the passengers is of Rossi, Lorenzo, Stoner, the sun, beach, and some fine Portuguese wine.
Friday 29 October:
Being a peasant, the first job is to buy a ticket. The website prices have been something of a shock. An unreserved seat in the one covered grandstand at Estoril is $150 - or two month’s salary from MCUSA - and $300 is just too big a hit for us. We need help.
The expert of all experts in terms of MotoGP ticketing is Gordon Howell of
Pole Position Travel. Gordon knows the location of every square inch of every stadium of every circuit in the world. If you do decide to travel outside the US to see MotoGP or World Superbike it’s well worth consulting Gordon. He sources two tickets for us at a far more reasonable $75 each - along with the promise of the use of two paddock passes the following day.
Saturday 30 October:
Someone must have mislaid the script. Thank goodness that we brought our heavy, winter Thundersprint paddock jackets rather than leaving them in the car at the airport. The rain lashes down and the wind is howling in straight off the Atlantic.
The rain soaked car park during the cancelled MotoGP qualifying.
We meet Gordon as we shelter underneath the concrete buttresses of the grandstands. It’s like a Hollywood Gangsta movie except that it’s not bags of crack being exchanged but the holy paddock passes.
The passes go to and fro in a blur of joy - and disappointment.
Ducati are well represented in the pass business as are the smaller teams. The blessed ones receive their passes like starving refugees getting hold of a UN food parcel. The rejected are cast into the slough of despond. An unpassed person is a MotoGP Eunuch.
Meanwhile, the wind gathers strength and the rain intensifies.
Moto 2 Qualifying:
At heart, I still remain what I have been since I was 10 years old: a bike racing junkie who has never really grown up. That’s why I stand in awe of the courage and skill of these young men as they scream their bikes past the grandstands at 160 mph in conditions which make it difficult even to stand.
The rain is blown horizontal by winds approaching 40mph and yet still the heroes battle on as if the track were dry and the conditions perfect. Their bravery is inspiring - their skill and commitment humbling.
125 Qualifying:
Umbrella girls were automatically entered into the wet t-shirt competition.
It’s difficult to believe but the rain is actually getting harder. I persuade a group of promotional girls to pose briefly under their umbrellas but the photo shoot lasts about 10 seconds as the umbrellas are wrecked and the girls are about to involuntarily enter the
wet t-shirt competition which is rapidly spreading throughout the paddock.
We chat to British hopeful Danny Webb. Danny had a good ride in free practice and is second fastest. We like Danny a lot. He is courageous and tenacious, battling the best in the world with his enthusiastic, but under resourced, Andalucia Cajasol team. He represents all that is good about motorcycle racing - brave, determined and committed.
Danny has a near permanent smile but now the 19-year-old is looking tense and concerned. Outside, the rain and storm has reached near biblical proportions.
Carol – wife, best friend and business partner – has a smile which will melt glaciers and so she persuades the security guard that we should be allowed to cower underneath the covering at the entrance to the VIP Village. Inside, the glitterati sip champagne and eat tiny, but extremely expensive, sandwiches - and all for a bargain $1250 a ticket.
Maybe it was some light reflecting off some swamp gas near a weather balloon but I tell you I saw the MotoGP World champ some where in this rain soaked mess!
Outside, we are deeply grateful for the cover provided by the concrete roof and for the kindness of the nice security guard.
125 qualifying is delayed and, although having spent a lifetime at circuits, I see a totally new phenomenon: waves on a race track. Really and truthfully, and without any exaggeration, the rain is so heavy that the track is completely flooded and the wind pushes the water into tiny white capped waves.
All that is missing is Beach Boys music; some miniature surf boards and the House Elves from a Harry Potter movie and the scene would be complete.
We wait, but in truth I know that this job is going nowhere at all. If the rain were to cease immediately the track would still remain underwater for the rest of the day.
We make our way back to the car park soaked and freezing cold but there is hope. Behind the electric fences, machine gun towers and attack dogs, is the special MotoGP paddock where the air is so rarefied that mere mortals need oxygen tanks just to exist. By carefully lining up the gap between three
Yamaha trucks I am sure that I can see the edge of Urban Spaceman
Jorge Lorenzo’s head and one ear. The rain is lashing down so heavily that my vision is blurred but I am convinced that I have, in real life, seen the World Champ.
By contrast, Carol says it is a Portuguese janitor brushing the water away. Cynic she may be but I know the truth and I have been blessed.
Getting back from the track was a challenge for anyone not sporting a 4wd. Didn't get the note to pack your waders?
By the time we reach the car park, we - and a lot more people - have a real problem. The water laps around the wheels of our little hire car and I deeply wish that Bart would beam MCUSA’s Dodge Durango across from Oregon. The good news is that beneath the water is nice solid, Portuguese stone and gravel - but it is with a distinct sigh of relief that we reach the main highway.
Sunday 31 October - The Portuguese GP:
We like the Portuguese style of doing things. Parking is completely anarchic - but with good humor - as is admission to the circuit. Stick your car wherever it will fit and jam your bike literally anywhere - with the blessing of the police. This has to be the most relaxed GP in the world.
The weather is cold but the rain has stopped so we’re looking forward to a great day’s racing.
Unfortunately, the laid back Portuguese attitude also extends to the treatment of spectators. There is no PA system and, in typical MotoGP fashion, the paying fans are considered merely as irritants. The track is literally 150 yards distant from the grandstand and it is impossible to see the numbers on the Moto 2 bikes. This is a shame because if we could actually see the circuit, and work out who was where, we know that we are watching a great race.
Portugeuse parking was very creative...
VIPs are taken on a tour to see the peasants in their cages.
But we can’t, so we join the spectators who are texting; making sandwiches; reading magazines; preparing to make babies and generally doing anything but watch the racing.
Dorna then finish off what has been a truly unmemorable race by allowing VIPs to drive around the inside of the track and laugh at the peasants who have paid good money to be on the outside hoping to watch world class motorcycle racing. Entertainment for the ruling class? Maybe. But it’s we who are paying for their chauffeur driven
BMWs. Suddenly I feel a burst of La Marseillaise coming across the infield:
Grab your weapons, citizens!
Form your battalions!
Let us march! Let us march!
May impure blood
Water our fields!
But re-running the revolution of 1789 will have to wait a bit longer because I just have to find a high quality viewing spot for MotoGP.
With all the tenacity of an FDA Spaniel hunting a stash of dope I go exploring and there, hidden at the bottom of the hill, is a tiny - and almost empty - concrete bleacher around which the track runs. At last we can see, hear and feel the racing for which we have travelled over 1000 miles.
And herein lays the problem. It is right to despise the arrogance of Dorna; mock their pretentious behaviour and despair at the way they treat their audience. Then you see
Nicky Hayden fight the squirming Ducati on the warm up lap and you are in awe. You feel the raw, savage sound of the MotoGP engines hammer through your rib cage and into your heart and you forgive everything. You watch the commitment of these incredible riders and feel humble in their presence.
Watching the MotoGP riders squirm their way around a wet track on the most powerful trackbikes in the world. Even despite Dorna's best efforts, the show is exhilarating.
And so it goes on for 28 soul stirring laps. The greatest riders in the world competing on the planet’s finest racing motorcycles puts you in the presence of greatness and for anyone with a love of bikes this is an inspirational experience.
The only sad thing is that MotoGP is one of the supreme spectacles in the sporting world - maybe even THE greatest - and yet, with the current promotion and organization it is doomed to remain a minority interest.
There will be two MotoGP rounds in the US next year and regardless of how you are treated by the promoters, make sure that you take the pain and see these bikes in action for the experience is worth the effort.
