Racing Hearts

By dusk, when the crowd migrated to either the fairground or one of the numerous beer gardens, not much had changed, except that most of the track was now illuminated by a great pool of halogen light. An exaggerated world of iridescent colours, the night-time stint at Le Mans is a paradoxical experience — you’ve got this multibillion-dollar sports-car collective sprinting its way around what has to be one of the biggest carnivals on the French entertainment calendar. While everyone else in a 5km radius was raging on some sort of mood-altering chemical, the crew members of teams still in the running focussed solely on servicing cars and drivers. Whether studying telemetry monitors, replacing shattered bodywork or cleaning bug-smeared windscreens, these Nomex-clad slaves displayed impressive levels of sobriety. But, when the Sunday sun rose on Le Mans and the floodlights were switched off, even the toughest mechanics felt the effects of exhaustion and many passed out on garage floors and tool-strewn workbenches. As some snoozed, those of us who had been watching their efforts throughout the night wandered around in a zombified state, until later regrouping for the all-important finish; that one ephemeral moment after a weekend of toil.

This year at exactly 3pm — after a tense final lap that seemed like an eternity — Marc Gené crossed the line in the #9 Peugeot Sport Total 908 Hdi to the thrill of the home crowd. Even though I’d been rooting for Aston Martin, Gené’s win caused a serious lump in my throat. Being there in person and witnessing the effects of a non-stop 24-hour race on both driver and car, I knew how hard Gené and the team had pushed to taste the sweet champagne spray of victory. I watched, even a little misty-eyed, as an army of ecstatic figures in blue overalls hugged and cheered and danced between pit and podium. There is, clearly, no bigger automotive achievement than winning Le Mans.

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