Harris Irfan. Driver’s Diary. ARM GT3, Round 2

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As I pull out of the pit lane for the start of the formation lap, I notice that the car has three quarters of a tank of fuel and for a split second, I think about asking the pit crew to drop in another 5 litres just to be safe. But the thought passes, and I carry on. We make three rounds of the circuit as the grid formation is not tight enough and I am concerned to note my fuel has dropped just below the three quarter mark. Hmm, not much I can do now, as no refuelling is allowed during pitstops, so no point clogging up the airwaves with idle chatter.

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No matter, the lights go out, and we’re off. I have a good start on the Ginetta and brake late into turn 1: the last GTA class Cup car has braked a tad early and I almost go into the back of him. He teeters on a wide line whilst he gets to grips with his cold tyres, and for a fraction of second I worry that he might get broadside and take me out, so I back off. The Ginetta and the Aston are up my exhaust, so it’s game on.

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The opening laps are fraught as I take a defensive line through the wider turns – I can almost hear Martin breathing down my collar as he jinks one way then the other to fool me into taking the “wrong” line. The Ginetta is well balanced through the direction changing flick-flack of turns 3 and 4, and always catching me there. I’m quicker through the Zuhour Kink but he catches me in the bowl. It’s a fascinating battle, but I’m imperceptibly starting to ease away.

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After the obligatory 90 second pit stop, I appear to be coasting. Let the limbs go loose, feel the rhythm, and like some New Age yoga guru, be the car. Idle chatter on the ARM radio occasionally spoils the moment (too much screaming of “I can’t hear you” going on), but it looks like this one is in the bag.

Or maybe not: the Ginetta’s had a driver change and Eric Charles is accelerating hard out of the pit lane, incredibly about to enter the track right in front of me. In my mind’s eye, Murray Walker is apoplectic with excitement at this point. But it’s cool, or rather, Eric’s tyres are, and he misjudges his turn into the flick-flack. I get a perfect entry onto the back straight, a welcome slipstream up his rear, then snap away sharply to retake the lead. F1 stylee. Just wish Murray could have seen it.

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All is not over though. One of the trailing GTA Cup cars spins on the bumpy turn 12 and rejoins the track ahead at a right angle. Not a good move and not a good time. I take avoiding action and come off the line to shadow him through the Zuhour Kink on the dusty section. Seriously dangerous stuff, and for a horrible moment, I think this might be the Big One. For me, a crash here will be a season ender – that kind of rebuild is not an option. The last thing I want to do is get involved in a dog fight with an ARM team mate whilst on P1. The Ginetta has regained some ground but is still some way behind, so I let discretion be the better part of valour.

And then… disaster. The fuel light blinks on and the engine starts losing power on tight turns. I radio to Alex to let him know but, with a heavy heart, I know this is probably it. Within a lap, the engine is spluttering to a halt and I coast down the main straight, banging my fist against any solid object within reach. This cannot be.

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The Calloway Corvette of Karim Al Azhari and Tarek Elgammal’s Porsche Cup are charging down in my rear view, followed moments later by the Ginetta and the Aston. Followed by every single car on the grid. Twice. Whilst I sit moronically turning the ignition key shouting, “Start, you bastard!”.

So two laps from the end, my weekend is over in ignominious fashion. I tumble out of the car and crouch pathetically by the side of the road in a sweat-drenched suit like a bedraggled cat, waiting for the recovery truck.

Back in the deserted pit garage, there is an eerie silence. Everyone is celebrating deeds done. God knows where. Welcome to the loneliness of the long distance loser. I may as well be on a hilltop in Middle England. Even my kids are at the podium expecting Dad to appear at any moment.

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There are commiserations from colleagues, but nothing can lift my blue funk. Someone suggests at least I won a moral victory. Except moral victories aren’t worth jack and quite frankly, I’d prefer the points. “It’s the taking part that counts” is the whiny philosophy of the perennial loser.

I’ll be back.