Road to Le Mans. Audi RS Q3

It’s the morning of the third day, and the sun has just poked its way above the horizon. Beside me, the Audi – now coated in two days-worth of bug roadkill – ticks itself cool. To my left, the pit boxes once used by Mercedes, Bugatti and Alfa Romeo among others to usher the likes of Tazio Nuvolari, Sir Stirling Moss and Juan-Manual Fangio to Grand Prix glory. To my right, and across a brand new strip of tarmac, the main grandstand, now badly weathered. These two structures are all that remain of the Reims-Geux Circuit, home to the French Grand Prix intermittently across the 1950s. It’s eerily quiet, only the sound of Tim’s shutter working furiously breaking the silence. It’s also surprisingly emotional: once or twice as the sun shines across national flags at full mast, I have to catch a lump in my throat. Where once Grand Prix machines sluiced by at over 200kph, trucks and crappy little hatchbacks now barrel through on the daily run to work. And were it not for a passionate group of motor racing fans, these edifices would have been long gone too.

Amidst the excitement of the driving roads, the stunning backdrops and the benevolence of the Audi RS Q3, on occasion it’s been easy to forget why we set out from Munich in the first place. But at Reims, the sense of history, and the passion involved therein reminds both Tim and I of the race we’re about to attend, the heritage it’s built up, and the ultimate goal of our journey.

It’s much the same feeling we get when, after another three hours on the road and with wildly unkempt beards, we arrive at La Sarthe, ZZ Top’s Smart Dressed Man now playing with ever-increasing irony. There are hundreds, simply HUNDREDS, of cars that have just completed their own road trip. To our left, as the traffic slows on the approach to the circuit’s main gates, there’s a TVR Tuscan. In our rearview mirror, a BMW i8. Being pushed along the hard shoulder with steam billowing from under the bonnet is a classic MG. Five minutes in, we stop counting the number of Porsche 911s we pass.

I’m reminded yet further of the weekend’s jocularity when, on the approach to our campsite, we come across a crowd lining the main road, beverages in-hand, offering thumbs up to passing motorists, each of which is encouraged to do a burnout. Just for the sake of it. Once again, the RS Q3 draws a lot of attention.

As for that matter do I, a cry of “WIINNNNDDOOOOOOOWWWWWW” from the pavement as I drive by followed swiftly by a jet of water being sprayed right into my face through the open driver’s side window. Were he not laughing uncontrollably, I’d like to think Tim would be sympathetic. But given the roar of approval from the crowd, and confident that I can’t be the first one today who’s received this initiation, it’s difficult not to see the funny side. Indeed, as I’m pitching the tent just 20 minutes later (my right temple throbbing where the bootlid makes contact for a second time), the enthusiasm of our fellow road-trippers is striking: some of the more fanatical fans, as I later find out round the campsite burger van, have already been on-site for three days, and the race is not due to start for another 36 hours. For them, the race is why they’re here, but it’s the journey that’s made the experience.

For many, the road to Le Mans is a long, hard schlep. For me, it’s been one of the best experiences of my life.