Barcelona  - Lyons - London

Too soon for my liking we closed the door on our sumptuous Barcelona hotel room. Dark wood panelling and a bathroom bigger than my entire flat were ours no more. The shower cubicle alone was huge and so amazingly lit by diddy spotlights and futuristically lined with frosted glass and stainless steel, I hadn’t known whether to wash or ask Scotty to teleport me somewhere.

            At breakfast Steve and Dave, “The Jag Boys”, were demolishing a dainty continental breakfast. We joined them and heard their Northern views of the event so far, expressed with an agricultural vocabulary. Like us they had mixed feelings, the idea of the run was great but slightly over shadowed by poor and ever-decreasing event management. We knew later that day we’d be snaking through Andorra which promised some of the best roads so far, and with that in mind and an imminent check-point opening, we dispersed from the hotel café and loaded our cars.

Only in daylight was it apparent how vast the Blue Marine Hotel was. A real landmark. How we’d struggled to find it the night before was an embarrassing mystery and I put it down to poor weather, a long day and simple fatigue that we’d arrived well after 11pm the night before. Cars were spread everywhere now, boots and bonnets open, some even on jacks, with two long, hard days obviously taking their toll. Whilst Wes got our bags brought down (this was one posh hotel!), I wandered off and collected the car from the hotel underground car park although on resurfacing I was met by Spanish police hustling everyone out of the hotel grounds. This rattled me a bit. The inside of the car was a mess. Spent route listings everywhere, sweet wrappers, pages from the road atlas, half full water bottles; I’d wanted five minutes in peace just to get ourselves square again. No such luck and with a mixed sense of frustration and relief we left a muddled parking lot.

Barcelona was gridlocked that morning. In amongst heavy commuter traffic, Cannonball Cars played dodgems to gain some time in hand with the F dancing round some of the bigger players, exploiting the smallest gaps, much to our delight. At one point I could see a silver Nissan Skyline ahead, with yards of open carriageway in front of it. Another Cannonball casualty, it was simply dead, not moving and cars and trucks jostled in to the adjacent lane to get by. As the local traffic plodded off to the city centre, we climbed sweeping three lane roads towards Andorra. These were terrific roads through some rugged hills, wide and fast, with just enough bends and hills to keep them interesting. Boring pre-cast concrete bridges were transformed in to spectacular feats of engineering by the huge ravines they spanned and with hardly any local traffic around but several other Cannonballers in our company, all in all it looked like day three would be the most rewarding.

Until, that is, we were flagged down by the two Spanish police officers. Just over the brow of a hill, coming out of a bend, hidden from view it would have been impossible for them to have witnessed any illicit goings-on, even if they had occurred. This was simply a blockade of all Cannonball cars, brought about by the actions of one of the front runners. Falling back once more on honesty, courtesy and a bit of respect, we stayed in the car. I’m not sure why but I felt wandering up and down the side of the road as some of the others were doing would indicate restlessness and anxiety which in turn would suggest to the Police a degree of guilt….about something. Powering down the window I greeted the Spanish traffic copper. By comparison to us motoring vagrants he was impressively well-presented for someone who worked outdoors and he spoke very good English.

“Your path-port and licence, pleeeease?”

I handed over the documents, saying nothing and after a little eyebrow-raising deciphering he commented, “You have nil points…very good”

“Well…” I replied confidently, “I like a fast drive but I’m not stupid about it”.

“Ah! But some of your friends…” he retorted, gesturing towards the various logos over the car as he spoke.

“I know and I can only apologise” I offered, “But really they’re nothing to do with me, we’re just on the same tour”.

With that, he sighed, shrugged his shoulders in light hearted resignation and returned my documents with a grin.

“OK, you have no points, you careful, I see that....you can go, but not be silly, ok?” he said, emphasising the “not” by wiping away his smile as he spoke.

I thanked him and drove away leaving the Aston Martin, two Subarus, the Caterham and an RX7 to talk their way out of what had at first appeared to be a lot of trouble. The only down side was that we hadn’t got to speak to the traffic cop’s partner. The slinky blonde pony tail swishing from under her peaked hat set the uniform off far better than his neatly cropped moustache.

A few hours down route and our new found notoriety was off set by simply the best sports-car roads I’ve ever driven.

Andorra. Small, mountainous, tax-free and with no tarmac straights longer than 30 metres. It was absolutely fantastic to drive and our morale boiled at an all time high. Accelerate, brake, nigh on full lock through a hairpin, then accelerate again, brake, full opposite lock through the next, it was terrific and went on for mile after glorious mile. At last we were in F country. The internal debris of three days on the road was gradually working loose by being shunted left then right and after half an hour of playing Twister we stopped to either re-stow items in the boot or resecure them under the seats and on the parcel shelf. My elbows hurt, my right ankle throbbed and Wes was also complaining about bruised elbows but nothing, absolutely nothing was going to over shadow the pure exhilaration of that leg of our journey. For a while the silver RX7 tagged behind us and as a pair we happily swerved our way through proper mountain roads the likes of which the UK just can’t rival. Dense grey mountains rose vertically from the roadside, dwarfing the cars, whilst over the opposite kerb lush Sound of Music hills plummeted to a roaring river at the valley bottom. It was, quite simply, fabulous. As we passed through a mountain village dazzled by brilliant high altitude sunshine we stopped for a quick suck of gas. The petrol station was already hosting three other Cannonball cars, all taking time out to allow brakes to cool and arms to relax after serious hairpin territory. Everywhere we looked happy Cannonballers were grinning inanely. The Jag wafted past and two joyous smiles could be seen from within and around the petrol forecourt everyone agreed we hadn’t been given enough routing like that day’s.

            A little higher in the hills Wes offered me a simple choice. Two roads, a short toll-road through a mountain or a free one over it. No contest…….purely on financial grounds you understand?

However, just before heading further up the mountain pass we spotted another dead car at the side of the road. The Porsche 944 with which we’d had such fun the day before had turned it’s diff to swarf and was totally immobile. Sad in a way, as it was another of the genuine enthusiasts’ cars that had been gently coaxed through the previous days. Unable to do anything but commiserate, we departed and completed the last section of Andorran roads before dropping down in to France. A convoy of caravans and coaches impeded our progress and despite a good pace through the switchbacks that morning, we arrived in the walled village of Mirepoix a little late for lunch. The market square was full of cars, all looking very dusty by now, sponsorship decals peeling off, sooty stains around exhaust tail pipes, peppered with dead flies, the sheer mileage was showing on every car, one way or another.

            A quick lunch and we turned towards Lyon, our stop for that night. Wes looked at the figures again and admitted another late night was looking unavoidable. Along with our enthusiasm, the roads flattened to dull motorways once more and high speed cruising was again the order of the day. As dusk crept in rain, light at first but becoming ever heavier, washed away the high sprits of earlier that day and Andorra was in a different world as we entered Lyon in pouring rain searching for the hotel. It shouldn’t have been difficult, it was billed as Europe’s highest and sure enough, after directing me to the tallest building he could see Wes got us to the night stop far quicker than in Barcelona. Seventy floors up with a drenched city spread beneath the bay windows of the restaurant we sat down to dine well after 11pm, this time with Steve and Dave, who’s Jaguar XJRS had split a radiator hose shortly after lunch. Over the meal the subject of the promised track day cropped up and none of us could see how it was possible to fit one in to our remaining schedule of 24 hours AND get us home. It all looked extremely unlikely and echoed the disorganised chaos of our arrival in Morocco.

            Next morning I threw open the curtains to reveal a city still gleaming in torrential rain, visible even in the darkness of the early hours. Part of me wanted to believe we would get to niggle the big BMWs and the like with the F’s mid-engined handling round a track, but looking at the streams of water flowing inevitably down the glass I knew it would never happen, especially as we were due to be sitting down to a black tie dinner in the UK in a little over fourteen hours.

            For the last time I pestered Wes to get up and we dragged ourselves down to a final, dawn breakfast before returning to the little blue car to squeeze everything in again. From here it was home and our packing reflected this. A little hap-hazard knowing the next time we unpacked would be at our leisure. 

            Heavy raindrops drummed on the roof as we pulled away from under the hotel entrance following the wing of the big wide 911 GT2. French rush-hour traffic, with trams, in the rain. Wonderful. Despite being the final day, the mood never lifted, nor did the weather and arriving at Dijon race track just hours before our stated return ferry to the UK, it was clear things were unravelling faster than the organising team could knit them together again. Added to this, three cars had arrived at Dijon well ahead of everyone else and finding an open gate simply staked the track as their own and headed circuit-side.

No briefing, no marshals, no safety cover.

Unsurprisingly, no one else would enter the track that day come rain or, unlikely though it was, come shine.

With our final route book handed to Wes, we agreed our main aim was simply to get going and ignore the suggested route if necessary. After four days and two thousand miles, I gave in to the disappointment of seeing the heavy rain only add to a rising flood of chaos that saw driver’s everywhere resign themselves to a Saigon-style exodus in order to make the liberty boat home.

            As we exited Dijon race track, the Humvee and all-female Subaru just arrived, the Porsche crowd had left before we’d even got there and someone was still playing racetrack roulette around the circuit. All this was being overseen by just one event manager. The MG just could not get to Calais fast enough. Since leaving the UK I’d felt, at the back of my mind, that events were falling in to place rather than being planned, and now things were straying from the easy safety of the straight and narrow, previous luck and good fortune simply wouldn’t see us through as a group.

Right on cue, the already heavy rain intensified. Timings fell by the wayside, even the overall event was slipping in to insignificance. The agitated collective mood, people’s edgy attitudes and frayed goodwill, excessive fatigue and degraded ability…all appeared to go in to free fall in a near-desperate dash for that ferry. The general atmosphere wasn’t the only thing to suffer and within three hours one of the Maseratis, two Porsches, the Jag XJRS and the Caterham had either hit other vehicles or aquaplaned in to crash barriers.

            Wes then discovered another weak link in this already over-loaded chain of events. Even if we did make the ferry, it’s UK arrival time meant we’d have just 90 minutes to get off the ferry, through a dark, wet rush-hour M25 and find the final hotel in Weybridge.

BMW at the Oatlands Park Hotel in Weybridge

Another Cannonballer in the damp at Weybridge

For possibly the first time on the whole trip, common sense prevailed and we pulled over to think long and hard about where this would end. Weybridge obviously, but above that….what the hell had happened ?  With the ludicrous timing for the last leg it just seemed everything had been for nothing. We’d driven hard, slept little and ultimately it had proved to be futile. The vital time keeping, our holy grail at the start of the weekend crusade, had long since ceased to feature in our decision making and as we sat in a rain swept, tired MG discussing our options, an uneasy reality emerged. To get to Weybridge in anything like enough time to then enjoy the dinner-finale, we’d have to seek other means across the channel. Other, subterranean means. That said, if we had to resort to the extreme measure and added cost of getting ourselves home in time, could we then genuinely share the company, even for an evening, of those who failed to adequately plan our return ? 

            With literally nothing to lose, we veered off the autoroute early and headed for the Tunnel. Feeling so totally let down and deserted by the event team smarted and was hard to swallow but the fact we were at last paving our own way home was a relief of sorts and once the decision to take the Tunnel was made, we had something to aim for.  With poetic coincidence we arrived in a Folkestone smothered in angry storm clouds. A bright sun was gradually giving way to rain, ironically reflecting our return home. Wes looked at his watch and cursed as he noted that our scheduled ferry hadn’t even left France and we had just over an hour to reach Weybridge.

Around the M25 we mixed with mundane, everyday commuters, unaware of their unique company, ignorant of where we’d been and what we’d undertaken and, despite the late failure of the event itself, what we’d achieved for ourselves.

At Weybridge, we found the hotel with well practised ease but simply felt overt celebration was some how inappropriate. We were happy to be home, immensely impressed with the car and had learnt a lot about each other, but it was underpinned by insecure foundations of knowing most of the friends we’d made over the weekend were either stuck in France negotiating the recovery of a damaged vehicle, or kicking their heels on a ferry crossing engineered such that they could do nothing but fail to make the final curtain.

Four days, three top hotels, two ferries, one tunnel and 2873 miles later we had done it. Tangiers and back in an F, almost non-stop.

Needing no weak handshake or cheap champagne to cement this in our minds, we quietly drove away headed this time for a very late lie-in.