Frank's Goodwood Memoirs 2007 (digest)

Editor's note: The following paragraphs represent somewhat relevant excerpts from Frank's diary which relate to his visit to Goodwood. There are gaps and some of the more specific comments have been edited out. Do enjoy your read!

Wednesday, June 20, 2007 Today is the day. I’m finally on my way to the Goodwood Festival of Speed! I’m a little anxious about such a long trip so far from home, especially to a country I’ve never visited. I know I’ll have difficulty with the language, but I’ll be with Jeremy, who is practically a native. Luckily, the shuttle to LAX for my direct flight to Heathrow arrives 1.5 hours late, putting me instantly at ease. It also puts us on the 405 right at 3PM. Thank God rush hour traffic doesn’t start until 2:30. Thank God for the carpool lane as well. Whoops. Carpool lane jammed too. At this rate I’ll still have a full 4.2 minutes to check in, drop my bags, get through security and walk to the gate. Traffic eases and sensing my anxiety about arriving late, the Prime Time shuttle driver puts the pedal to the metal and shows that those vans are remarkably resilient, gliding along the center divider without even sparking at over 100 mph.

I arrive at LAX with plenty of time to spare. Check in, drop bags, breeze through security, walk to gate. Flight is oversold, they are asking for volunteers. Offer is $400 voucher, next day first class via Chicago, plus hotel for the night. Would miss black tie ball, but would get FIRST CLASS! Can’t do it. This black tie thing is supposed to be off the hook. Volunteers step up and save us. Board and take seat, which will be my home for the next 31 hours.

First glimpse of the UK tells me why Ireland is called the Emerald Isle. It’s covered in clouds. Must need a lot of rain to produce greenery. Fly over airport and circle around, because we all popped for the extra guided tour of downtown London for 4 bucks. A few holdouts were locked in the galley during this time. Spot London landmarks – Tower Bridge, Dome, Eye, Big Ben, Parliament, the Leaky Cauldron, etc as we circle over London before descending into Heathrow.

Take Jeremy’s advice to avoid longest lines and it pays off. It only takes 20 minutes to get out – of the plane. Another 20 to relieve myself in bathroom. Thank God I only had twelve waters. Thank God I only have one carryon too, even if it weighs 400 pounds because of all of the computer and photo equipment in it. After toilet stop I get stuck in bottleneck at end of terminal section. Ends up being the line for connections. After 5 minutes in line, I spot others on other side of queue (British English for long line with no signage. There’s probably another set of “ue”s in there, but whatever). Enter passport check zone eventually, spot quick line to right that Jeremy had told me about – “Nothing to declare”

Stopped cold for trying to enter what is actually “I’m much, much, much wealthier than you and should never be kept waiting” line. Re-enter peasant line, which was actually clearly labeled all the time. Must have missed it, or misread it as “pheasant.” Sandwiched between two clumps of sorority girls from the States (pronounced “Colonies” here). Could be worse I suppose.

Seven hours later I’m at the halfway point. Discover I can sleep standing up. Finally reach checkpoint, as everyone at the counters disappears. Tea time. How quaint. Six hours later I’m talking to a lovely woman who is asking me why I’ve come to the UK. After considering saying, “To learn about American sororities and British efficiency,” I say “Work.”

“How long will you be here?”

Glancing at my watch I realize I should probably be boarding my return flight in only a couple of hours and should just return to the gate. Not really. That’s just a bit of humor, err, humour (over here they apparently think the word itself isn’t humorous enough without an extra “u” stuck in at random). BTW, if you don’t find any of this humourous, read something else. Like War and Peace. Even I found that more humorous.

Get past nice Pakistani lady after I have to tell her this is my first time in the UK and that I have no idea where Goodwood is, that a friend will be driving me around. She confesses she has no clue about geography but has to ask. I tell her Goodwood is near the Shire and she stamps my passport.

I enter the baggage carousel area and notice my flight isn’t listed above any of the belts. I panic momentarily as I imagine I’ve gone through the wrong queueueue. I ask a gentleman who appears to work there and he says that I am indeed in the right place, and that they have placed the bags on the floor between 4 and 5. Apparently 20 hours on the belt and they have to come off for security reasons. I spot a hill in the distance that appears to be what I’m looking for. I dig through the pile and retrieve my other two bags. I’m on my way!

My host, Jeremy, spots me as I exit the area and motions me to the side. I owe him a lot. I will be staying with him while here. Jeremy’s work brings him to the UK a lot and so he has a home just outside of London in Felbridge. We will be staying there and using Jeremy’s car to get around. Despite the flight and airport woes, I’m thrilled to be here and extremely thankful for the opportunity to come to Goodwood.

Maybe this is a good time for a quick overview of “Goodwood.” Goodwood is the name of a Stately Home in West Sussex (it’s not like you’ll ever come here yourself, so I’ll just be making up town names along the way). The Earl of March hosts an annual event on his property where vintage cars are displayed and raced up the driveway in what’s known as a hillclimb. As should be apparent from its name, a hillclimb usually involves an elevation change from start to finish. This particular driveway rises over 27,000 from start to finish. The course is just 1.5 miles long, so it can be quite steep. Unless you’re a mountain goat. The hillclimb and car show is known as the Festival of Speed. Lord March also hosts a proper race at the nearby circuit, where vintage racers recreate road course racing from the golden age of motorsport. For the Revival, as it’s known, participants and spectators are even encouraged to dress in period costume. That event is held in September. But this story is about the FoS.

As we are exiting the airport, I start to spot the crazy little European cars I was so looking forward to seeing in person. All of these tiny and funky little runabouts that we just don’t get in the States. The parking lot (pronounced car park) is crammed full of Fiats, Citroens, Vauxhalls, Renaults, Alfas, Smarts, Skodas, Seats, and the like. Even the familiar marques produce unfamiliar models over here. VW has the Polo and Sharan and Lupo. Ford has the Mondeo, Fiesta and Ka, which is pronounced “K-A” to avoid the uncomfortable reality that “car” and “ka” would sound the same to some Brits who tend to drop that last “R” sound. (Dan eventually starts crowing like a…crow, when he sees them, as Oli’s pronunciation of Ka sounds like “CAW”.) For the rest of the trip I will be reacting like a schoolgirl who has spotted Becks, every time a car drives by. The Heathrow to Felbridge trip is a mercifully short one, so I only have 93,072 chances to react this way.

Felbridge is near East Grinstead, and a lot closer to Gatwick than Heathrow. Next time I’ll try to fly there instead, even if it means a non-direct flight. The journey from Heathrow is bout 60 miles and because traffic is light, it takes 42 hours. No, that’s an exaggeration. It takes 50. Ha ha, just a little more humouru. It actually takes about 2 hours and gives me just enough time to unpack and shower at the house before donning my monkey suit for the VIP ball at the Goodwood House this evening. Jeremy’s house is lovely. Exactly what I had hoped for. Brick building with beautiful foliage situated on a small courtyard stuffed full of those lovely little Euro cars.

After some confusion over the fact that “monkey suit” doesn’t literally mean simian costume, I track down a proper tuxedo. Dressed and ready to go, I discover Jeremy has a British-speaking Tom-Tom navi system in his car. An older male voice calls out directions in a very drawn-out fashion, with a bit of British uhumuouru thrown in for good measure. Turns out to be John Cleese. “Through the roundabout, second exit,” isn’t too funny until you hear Cleese say it. My personal favorites include his suggestions for turning around and the immortal, “At the junction, bear right. Beaver left.” Priceless.

The roads in Britain are a bit like the Mercedes lineup. They tend to start with a letter that helps you identify their size, and then a number that means absolutely nothing to anyone but the person who thought it up. Similarly, the roads tend to start with a letter that tells you something about their relative size and speed. For example, you may see references to M1, A262, B12 (BINGO!), etc. In M1, the “M” stands for Autobahn. Actually it stands for Motorway. Think of it like an American freeway or interstate. One step down are the “A” roads. These are like major streets or highways. The “B” roads are forest rally stages. Actually they are surface streets, country lanes, bicycle paths, etc. We spent a lot of time on B roads, thankfully. Especially when Jeremy’s friend, was driving who is a local and has a mastery of vehicle control and a knowledge of the roadways around Felbridge that was simply breathtaking. He pointed out that speed limit signs were mere suggestions because, honestly, who would trundle along at a mere 30 mph when there was clearly no obvious traffic around that blind bend over the humpback bridge just out of sight beyond the 20-foot-high, inches-from-the sideview mirror hedge along that 4-foot wide rain-slickened off-camber loosely packed gravel path?

Anyway, Jeremy and I proceeded to Goodwood for my first glimpse of the track and estate. A steady drizzle didn’t help as we searched for parking lot V off of Gate 4. For some reason, the estate planners thought it would be huuumouuuurouuus to label the gates sequentially, which Jeremy found very insulting. Apparently logic isn’t often used in these cases, instead giving way to eccentricity and tradition. But eventually we figured out it must be between gates 3 and 5 and sure enough, Bob’s your uncle. We parked and joined up with Oli and Claire, Paul and Kay, and took the shuttle up to the house.

We were allowed a preview of Friday’s auction lots while we were given hors douvres and champagne. Some great cars there. Personal favorites included the Lambo LM002, Lancia 037 Rally, and the four F1 cars at the front. Rather than having us walk on potentially boggy ground, the staff had laid out seagrass carpets throughout the tent. This worked remarkably well in leveling the lumpy earth and in providing sufficient seems between the strips to catch your toe or heel several times per minute. But I nitpick. We had arrived fairly early and had entered a nearly empty tent, but after a little while it was filling up with other guests. It was becoming difficult to get clear photos of the cars without getting some of the elegantly attired ladies in the shots. But I made do.

One note about English hospitality here. The champagne was abundant. The service staff kept my flute full all night long. After every gulp, a server would be at my elbow offering a refill. After 20 minutes in the tent, I had had 4 full glasses of the bubbly. More than enough for the whole evening. Realizing this just moments after narrowly avoiding a potentially embarrassing episode of “stumble and pin the billionaire’s wife (great-granddaughter?) to the priceless Bentley,” I decided I had had enough. At that moment, a call went out to the staff to break my resolve. A succession of eleventy cherubs filed up, each offering a top-off. “No thank you, thanks but no, that’s quite alright, honestly no, no, really, no, NO, what part of ‘NO’ don’t you understand, if you ask, I can’t be held responsible, but officer, I warned him,” and so on. I finally had the brilliant idea to flag down an orange-juice-dispensing lad to fill my glass and deflect future offers. He graciously fulfilled my request, while simultaneously pointing out that a champagne server would be around to complete the drink. Which he summoned. I felt bad for decking her, but honestly, can you blame me?

Another friend of Jeremy’s, Caroline, finally caught up with us as well, just after we were escorted into the house. Dinner was served and it was a lovely meal. I got the chance to learn more about Jeremy’s friends and decided that people are the same wherever you go. But special people are God’s reward for dealing with traffic. I felt very fortunate that God was smiling on me tonight. Great people with colorful lives and open hearts. It was an honour to have met them. After dinner we were taken outside to see the unveiling of the FoS central display. This year’s feature was a display of Toyota Motorsports vehicles honouring the company’s 50 years of racing and 70 years in business. Although it was raining, we stood below the massive erection…structure, and waited while a couple of short speeches were delivered and then fireworks illuminated the cars above. Front-most and lowest sat a current Toyota F1 car. Just behind it and higher up the display was a Champ car, followed by a Le Mans GT-One, GTP racer, and a rally car. The final vehicle in the line was probably 80 feet above us, closest to the house. Absolutely amazing display. But the unveiling wasn’t the only treat for us outside.

Still enduring a fairly heavy drizzle, we were coaxed trackside where we heard several engines being fired. A half dozen vehicles had been chosen to give us a special preview of the next day’s action. The only light we saw were headlights and a distant spotlight, but the sounds were enough. Loud revs, tires spinning madly, and a sudden whoosh as the cars went by. Lit only by camera flashes, I was amazed to see a Porsche 917K, Pike’s Peak Tundra, Colin McRae’s new C4, a Ferrari Testa Rossa, and an older Mercedes DTM car fly by. Holy crap this weekend was going to be incredible.

As we worked our way back to the house, some strange lights were visible near the rear porch. As we got closer we realized it was a special Toyota concept for personal transportation. Sort of like a Segway, the vehicle allowed the user to sit upright and drive with a pair of joysticks. The vehicle was able to change configurations and either drive upright balanced on just two wheels, or slightly reclined with a front wheel for extra support. The cockpit even rotated to lean through the turns. All the while, the thing kept changing colors with lit panels that made it look like Disco Fever on wheels. Quite spectacular. We went back into the house and proceeded through to the dancehall. It was actually a tent that stood over the future winner’s enclosure, but for tonight it was a dance floor. The invited guests danced the night away to the sounds of Mr. Washington and the Bookers. The blend of rhythm and blues and oldies was a definite hit with the crowd. It seemed every single guest was on the dance floor, shaking their moneymakers with abandon. Sadly the night ended all too soon, but we had a long way home and an early morning wake-up Friday.

After about 3 hours of sleep, we were up and on our way to the first day of real track action. It was drizzling on the way over, and because it was a practice day, we rightly assumed that the crowds would be fairly small.  Unfortunately, fairly small meant 50,000 people instead of 60,000. We were lucky enough, though, to have member passes that gave us parking in the lot closest to the entrance. It also meant we would have seating available for us in the Kinrara enclosure. This is the VIP setup that gets us our own catering and restrooms, plus a reserved grandstand and enclosed seating section, right on the inside of the first big turn. It was perfect. We had to wear sport coats while there, but it was an easy trade-off.

The first thing we saw as we neared the track was the supercar group heading down to the start line. We were keeping an eye out for a friend of ours who had just picked up a new Lotus 211. We didn’t see him come through but we did see a Marcos, an Invicta, Mosler, Veyron, SLR Roadster, Superleggera, Tesla, CLK 63 Black Series, the Glickenhaus 612 P4/5 and every Aston Martin variant extent, including the DBS. After watching a few of them take off, we saw Patrick and his 211 come to the line. We had been talking about his propensity for vehicular mishaps and were relieved to see him leave cleanly. The Superleggera was next up but it didn’t go right away. There was a pause and then Jeremy and I looked at each with the unspoken “Oh crap” between us. A delay probably meant a shunt somewhere up the course. And Patrick had just gone through. We waited breathlessly for news. Suddenly the PA announced that the Jaguar just ahead of Patrick had gone into the hay bales rather spectacularly at Pheasantry. Patrick was actually allowed to return to the start line for a do-over. We waited as the bales were rebuilt and Jeremy finally decided to move a bit closer to the first turn while I waited at the start line. It took quite a while but eventually they said that were ready to start up again. I trained my lens on the Lotus and… saw smoke. The passenger jumped out and after a few moments of animated excitement, the car was pushed aside. We thought of waiting to see if the car would eventually go by (even if on a flatbed), but in the end decided to proceed into the Kinrara enclosure. We went and had a wonderful Full English Breakfast (scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, sausages…and whatever leftovers they have lying around) and decided to check out some of the paddock and static display areas before it got even more crowded.

We had to climb up the hill a bit to reach the pedestrian bridge. It led us across the track and into the area below the central display. Around the corner was the Cartier “Style et Luxe” concours area. This is a judged competition that uses artists to judge the entries on their aesthetics rather than on their originality or restoration accuracy. It was a really eclectic gathering of historic vehicles from throughout history and around the world. After being greeted by a line of half-buried classic Caddies, we spotted a 75th anniversary tribute to the Ford Flathead V8. A small gathering of classic American hot rods and customs looked pretty spectacular next to a cluster of iconic Italian sports cars from the ‘50s. You could merely shift your focus and in one line see a 1912 Mercer Raceabout, a 1936 Jaguar SS-100, 1932 Ford ‘Deuce’ Coupe, 1957 Ferrari 250 GT Tour de France, 1959 Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz, and a 1961 Lotus Elite. Like I said, quite eclectic.

One especially impressive grouping included supercars that never really made it. There was a Schuppan 962, Vector W8, Jaguar XJR15, Monte Carlo Mega Track, Italdesign Aztec and a Spectre. Pretty cool display. Just to the side of these was the entrance to the stables. Fittingly, this area had been turned over to some prancing horses.

To help honour Ferrari’s 60th anniversary, the FoS had a small but significant gathering of some of Ferrari’s most iconic models. Front and center was Maranello’s latest, the 599 GTB Fiorano. Beside it sat a car that brought chills to most attendees. A 612 Scaglietti, complete with lightbar and Police decals. To the right were the modern supercars: F40, F50 and Enzo. But to the left stood the real stars: A Daytona, a 250 GTO and a Testa Rossa. Back through the arch, there was a tent to the right of the Cartier display.

Under the white canvas sat five extremely large old cars. Every one of these things had to be at least 20 feet long. Although somewhat similar, no two looked alike, except for their rather interesting elephant hood ornaments. Extremely lavish with enormous engines, these cars were five of the six Bugatti Type 41 Royales ever made. The cars were originally built exclusively for royalty and heads of state but have since passed into various trusts and private collections. The organizers were thrilled to have five but pointed out that they were unable to persuade the owner of the sixth car to allow them to display it with its siblings. How sad. But the five that were there were spectacular.

After a few moments in the presence of that $60 million cluster, we moved on to the supercar paddock where we got a few static shots of the cars and were lucky enough to see the arrival of Patrick and his Lotus. His little track special was a bit down on power, with three track marshals replacing the standard powerplant for the time being. Turned out to be a loose hose clamp that sprayed coolant into hot areas, producing lots of steam. A quick fix (by the car’s designer nonetheless, who happened to be with the neighboring Tesla now), and the car was good as new. Coming from exotic-car-rich Southern California, it was still an absolutely stunning display. Most of the cars in the paddock haven’t reached the States, if they ever will at all. But even the ones we have seen before were impressive for their company if nothing else. And knowing that most, if not all, were running up the hill, made this very special for all of us. As if it wasn’t enough to see that sweet new Lotus, it was flanked by a Marcos and Tesla. Just over were the Concept Climax and the Invicta. Across from them were the GB Roadster and LP640. And next to those were the Glickenhaus Ferrari and the newest Caparo T1 prototype. Around the other side was the lineup of Astons that included the new Vantage Roadster and the Rally GT by Prodrive. Not good enough for you? How about an R8, CLK63 Black Series, SLR Roadster, RUF CTR3, Mosler, Roush 600E, Maserati Granturismo or the Giugiaro Mustang? Something for everyone.

We left that paddock and worked our way back to the enclosure via the F1 paddock area. I was practically dumbstruck as seemingly every one of my favorite race cars from throughout history were on display. Aston Martin, Jaguar, Audi, BMW, Lancia, Ferrari, Lotus, Mercedes, Porsche, Tyrrell, Honda, Mazda, Peugeot, the list went on and on. And not just a single representative of each marque, mind you, but a whole cluster. Little known Lancia had not only the featured Group C cars that included their open top LC1, and the closed LC2, but beside them sat one of my favorite racers of all time, the Beta Montecarlo Group 5. All three done up in Martini livery. The Le Mans-winning R10 and DBR9, the dual rear tired Auto Union Type C, a Gulf 917K and Mark Donohue’s Sunoco 917/30, Silk Cut Jags, Rothman’s 956 and 962, Jaguar XJ13, dozens of F1 cars…it was like a highlight reel of racing greats.

We decided to hustle back to the enclosure to get some action shots the rest of the afternoon because it was getting too crowded for pics and we would be returning to the paddocks the next day when our friend Dan got into town. Lunch was as good as breakfast but the reality of the high cost of things here was starting to dampen my enthusiasm for wanting to live trackside for the rest of my life. We watched with glee as the rest of the classes filed past and then thundered by on their runs. Motorcycles, rally cars, hillclimb specials, drag racers, Wacky Racers, endurance, grand prix, land speed, NASCAR even. It was so unbelievable. The hours passed and the sky got gloomy and soon it was time to go. Just before we left, I was fortunate to meet some of Jeremy’s oldest UK friends, the Reids. Keith and Valerie have known Jeremy since he was just four years old, and still talk to him, so they must be eligible for sainthood. Pretty bad traffic but eventually we were home just in time for dinner with Dan and Oli. Oli had picked Dan up at the airport and with each of us stuck in traffic, it was an interesting game of who would get there first. We won. We even had time to swing by the Reid’s house to retrieve their parking pass for Goodwood.

After showing Dan around the house and informing him that he had a choice of a single bed next to Jeremy’s or the Venus flytrap, he chose the former. That put me in the trap. So-called because it’s a large bed with a pile of fairy dust in the center where some foam or springs should. Anyone who reclined on the bed’s center would disappear instantly from view. The sides would just fold up around you. It was funny. The first time. I learned to sleep with a rope attached to the headboard so I could climb back out in the morning. We stowed Dan’s gear and headed out to dinner. To avoid any potential drunk driving incident, we decided it would be best to walk. Oli and Jeremy assured us it was just up the road around the corner. As we scaled the mountain into East Grinstead, we had ample opportunity to discuss the following day’s agenda and to help a poor stranded bicyclist get back underway. Unfortunately it sapped the rest of my reserves and we had to steal the bike so I could make it the rest of the way to one of Jeremy’s favorite local places, La Farola. It’s a fun Spanish topless restaurant and we ate and drank to our heart’s content. Sadly, I realized a few hours in that it was in fact a tapas restaurant, not topless.

We tried desperately to get our waitress to crack a smile but the best we could manage was a smirk. Dan and I wanted to sample some of the local dishes and ordered everything that we didn’t recognize. Bait was about as good as it sounds, in case you’re wondering. The evening unfolded and just as we were about ready to call it a night, someone suggested dessert. Our wonderful server brought us menus with bright colorful photos of each of our options. The first thing that jumped out at me was Punky. Amidst the ice creams and cakes sat a cute little penguin. Having never sampled frozen penguin before, I thought it sounded like the perfect end to a perfect meal. Sadly, it wasn’t real penguin but a plastic souvenir bowl that held a sundae. Order the Punky and you get to keep the bird. The waitress returned and as I drew my finger to show her my choice, she looked at me, smirked and said, “You want Punky?” all low and insinuating. Apparently I was a bit old for Punky in her mind. Little did she know. She ‘helped’ choose a more suitable dessert for me and I ate it dutifully. The return trip down the hill went a lot quicker than the mountainclimb up and I even felt light-hearted to extract the little schoolgirl from the tree and return her bike. Must have been the Sambuca softening me up. Before we knew it the house was full of snoring enthusiasts eager to get a jump on Saturday’s racing.

When we had gone to bed about two hours earlier, it had been decided that we’d get up at 5 and get a quick round of showers before heading out. I happened to be first up in the morning. Let me explain briefly that the plumbing in most British houses, from what Jeremy told us, is pitiful. If only his was a typical British house. That would have been a step up. The water temperature is regulated through a complex system of boilers and tanks and valves and pipes that can fairly effectively guarantee you will never have water within 50 degrees of the temperature you desire. To compound matters, the water pressure tends to be that of a 90-year-old man with prostate trouble. To get around the pressure issue, Jeremy’s system utilizes an auxiliary pump that must be switched on after the water is turned on. Once the pump is switched on, you can only stand in the stream for about 4 seconds before your flesh peels away. That helps with the hot water situation actually.

What appeared to be a throwaway comment about making sure the shower wand was firmly in its holder before activating the pump, was quickly identified as a survival instruction. As soon as I hit the switch, I heard a terrible racket behind me. Anybody who hadn’t already woken up was instantly ejected from bed at the sound of the wand ricocheting around the shower stall. Like fighting a particularly feisty Python, it took all my strength to wrestle it back into its mount. And by that time, the water was already going cold. Uh-oh. Finished up and hopped over to switch the pump off. At that point I remembered the second instruction Jeremy had given me. Make sure your hands are dry before switching the pump back off. The good news is that I didn’t need to dry my hair, and that my constipation problem had been cured.

Not much was said over coffee before we headed to the car, but I could tell the cold water had invigorated the others for their day at the track. They had a focused, almost driven look on their faces and were in such a zone that they barely spoke to me on the ride over. Oh boy were we in for some fun today! We got there about an hour later and parked among the hoity-toity once again. The lovely grass lot was right next to the entrance and approximately six miles from where the peasants were parked in their asphalt and gravel boneyards. Not one to snicker at others’ misfortunes, I did enjoy a moment of smugness at their expense when we walked out into the path and had all eyes on us, wondering who we were to park in such close proximity to the course. But there wasn’t time to gloat, we needed to get to the enclosure to drop some stuff. After dumping a couple of bags, we headed across the bridge to see the paddocks and displays again. The crowd separated our group pretty quickly so I took Dan around to what I had seen the day before. It gave me a chance to get a few more photos of stuff I had missed the first time around. There were tons of incredible cars all around us. After seeing the central display we had moved swiftly through the Cartier Style et Luxe concours area and past the Bugatti Royales, before heading into the Ferrari stable area.

A quick peek inside and a long linger over the Royales and we were heading into the sports car paddock. We thought we might be able to find Jeremy and Oli in there but alas, it didn’t happen. We DID get to see all kinds of fascinating vehicles though. We watched as the oldest open-wheelers were lined up for their shot at the hill. We stood right above Babs as she was fired up, coating the crowd in oil and soot. We got up close and personal with the Milliken Camber car and the Chaparral 2J Sucker car. We even saw Vic Elford and Al Unser, Sr. walking around the paddock. Seeing Dan’s reaction made me realize how I must have looked on Friday and I could only smile at his childlike wonder. I’m just glad I got it out of my system as quickly as I did. Now that I saw how it looked on someone else, it was actually kind of embarrassing. I mean, they’re just cars after all. It’s not like…OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! IT’S A P3!!! Take my picture, take my picture. Wait. Take my picture touching it! Thanks. Oh, I should have done my “O” face. I did? Oh.

We waited for those groups of cars to leave before finishing our lap around that paddock. Radical SR9, Viper, Turbine car, a pair of Dale, Jr’s stock cars, several ‘unique’ approaches to racing innovation, and a whole row of Bugattis and road racing Ferraris that almost made me faint. Besides the 330 P3 (imho, the most beautiful race car ever created), there was a 250 GTO, 512 BB/LM, 712 Can-Am car, Daytona Comp…it was heaven. Realizing we’d have to leave eventually (after we were told that drooling on the P3 wasn’t acceptable) we headed through the supercar paddock and back to the Royales.

By Royales, I of course mean, the Bugatti Royales. The Bugatti Type 41 Royale was a novel idea. Ettore Bugatti had decided to make an exclusive line of vehicles solely for royalty and heads of state. In total, six of the elephant-adorned behemoths were finished. It’s rare to see one in public. Two is almost unimaginable. But here, under this special tent, sat five of the six. Some prick in the States was the only holdout. If memory serves me (and when it fails I just make stuff up), the last Royale to go up for sale several years ago set all kinds of records. The conservative estimate on this one tent-full was $60 million. After ogling these masterpieces for a few minutes, we noticed the clouds rolling in for their daily spritz, so we headed back to the enclosure just in time for breakfast.

We found Jeremy and Oli already seated and joined them for some grub. Noticing the muffins they were eating, I thought I’d do the British thing and order scones. The lovely young lass who took my order seemed a bit perplexed, but ran the order in anyhow. A few minutes later she returned with the bad news. Silly American, scones are for tea. I felt like the Trix rabbit. OK, a couple of muffins would do for now, but I’d be sure to get some scones in the afternoon. After eating we took our positions to watch some track action.

We alternated between standing by the front of the enclosure and sitting in the grandstand so there would be less repetition of shots from the four shooters. As the morning passed, the sky grew gloomy and the stands started to fill. Watching the cars file by was surreal. The sounds alone were enough to justify the trip. We each shot several hundred frames and still couldn’t capture all of the excitement. The rain continued sporadically, with a couple of us braving it while the others took shelter. Eventually we all moved up to Jeremy’s position at the top of the stands to keep dry. The stands were fairly empty, as many other members had decided to stay indoors to watch the action on the monitors or from behind the enclosure’s windows. In fact, we had the stands to ourselves, almost. It seems that personal space is a uniquely American concept. Rather than giving people room to spread out, the Brits apparently prefer to cluster. So all 50 people in the stands were in our two rows of seats at the top corner of the bleachers. Oh well. As exciting as the track action was, my stomach was beginning to demand attention. As our next mealtime approached, I could practically taste my long-awaited scones. Now that it was 2 o’clock, I’d finally get my first taste of this British institution.

Silly American, tea isn’t until 3. Seriously? Is there some kind of law I’m not aware of that says I can’t get a scone before 3? Can’t you just go in back and grab a couple for me anyhow? Will they march you to the Tower? No matter how much I pleaded, the staff held firm. No scones until 3. So I could wait and have what I really wanted or just get lunch now and hope for another chance tomorrow. I ordered a sandwich instead. It was delicious, but it was no scone. I was tempted to pre-order one for Sunday, but decided that would be a bit much. We spent the rest of the afternoon in the stands as the rain started to fall a little harder.

It might seem like an afterthought in this rambling journal entry, but the track action was incredible. There is virtually no way to explain how exciting it is to see some of your favorite race cars from throughout history, being given the spur and run up the hill at full tilt. Think of your favorite type of racing. Now think of some of the most memorable races, drivers and cars from that class of motorsport. Chances are you would see a good representation of those memories at Goodwood. Auto Union Type C, complete with dual rear wheels, Mercedes SLR, Ferrari 250 GTO, Rod Millen’s Pike’s Peak Tundra, Porsche 917K, 917/30, 956, or 962, Lancia Montecarlo Group 5, Silk Cut Jags, an A1GP car, Arie Luyendyk driving Emerson Fittipaldi's 1990 Penske-Ilmor PC-19, Sir Jackie Stewart driving the 1966 Lola-Ford T90 he drove in the 1967 Indy 500, and Al Unser, Sr. right next to him in a similar car, the Hemi Under Glass wheel-standing drag racer, Richard Burns’ Scubie driven by Colin McRae, Lyn St. James behind the wheel of her land speed T-Bird, Richard Petty's IROC Camaro, Michelle Mouton in her Audi Quattro S1, the resurrected Jaguar XJ13, last week's GT1-winning Aston Martin DBR9 and Audi R10, Jaguar’s low-drag coupe and D-Types, Andy Priaulx's 320Si, a Harrod’s-sponsored McLaren F1, a blue Ferrari F40 LM, the Koenigsegg CCGT, the 1987 Williams-Honda FW11B that Nigel Mansell and Nelson Piquet won the championship with. And this is just a sampling. Like Formula One? Ferrari had cars from 1960, '68, '93, '98, 2000 and 2006. Honda brought their latest car, the Earth-decorated RA107, in which Christien Klien took on the driving duties until Jenson Button showed up. McLaren-Mercedes, Red Bull, Toyota, and Williams-Toyota were also present. And that doesn’t even include the bikes, Wacky Racers or supercars that also made their runs up the Goodwood driveway. Yes, it’s really a driveway. 10-20 feet wide, lined with hay bales or stone walls. Meandering this way and that as it snakes its way to the top. Priceless museum-quality racecars with legendary drivers taking solo runs up this scenic drive. Add some rain into the mix and like I said, amazing.

As cool as the hillclimb is, however, there is lots more to see and do at the Festival of Speed. Most major manufacturers bring full-blown auto show display buildings to show off their latest wares. There are also tons of vendors hawking everything from miracle chamois to t-shirts to supercar club memberships. We even saw a police display that showed off the department’s Exige S pursuit vehicle. While it would catch just about anything else on the road, we joked that it might take a little while for the foot pursuit to get underway at the end of the drive. A bit tight inside. We toured the land speed record car display area before calling it a day. The rain had made the ground a bit boggy, so we had to be careful how we moved. Good thing we were parked so near the gate. In that lovely grassy lot right there in full view of all the shlubs who would have to slog back to their cars well down the hill. Well, that was the theory at least. Turns out grassy fields tend to be situated above dirt in most cases. And dirt tends to turn to mud when it gets wet. We were relieved to see that our car was in a pretty good position, relatively speaking. Some of the other cars weren’t so lucky. Like those parked right along the muddiest part of the way out. It was enough to make us sick seeing all those Ferraris, Astons and Porsches coated with mud that had been flung from passing cars’ tires. Well, we still laughed at them, but it hurt a bit to do so.

The drive home was a bit slow, but dinner made up for any suffering. We went to the Hedgehog Inn for a bit of hearty repast. I quickly learned that all British dining establishments must by law contain the name of an animal and/or a type of vegetation. I also learned that the “B” in “B-roads” stands for Breakneck. Oli is a master of vehicle control. And his Skoda Octavia vRS is one serious bit of kit. Somewhere between a Jetta and Passat in size, it is powerful and agile with a firm but comfortable ride. I had called shotgun and really enjoyed my up close views of the English countryside. All of that rain gets put to good use. The vegetation is so lush you feel like you are in a Romantic painting. The little towns are just as charming as you would hope with thatch roofed homes, and half-timbered buildings everywhere you go. Some of the buildings must be several hundred years old from the looks of them, but have been updated over the centuries so they can still be used in modern ways. So un-American. I can’t believe they don’t just tear them down and build something more modern in their place. Crazy Brits. But back to the drive.

The quaintness of the countryside was getting to me and so I rolled down the window to get some photos. I clicked off a few shots and when I drew my arm in I realized something. There were branches stuck in my hand. Apparently what I had thought to be an optical illusion due to the Skoda’s Eastern European glass, was actually an accurate depiction of just how close to the verge we really were. The measurements would be in inches (or centigrade if you’re one of those metric nutjobs), rather than feet. It also started to dawn on me that the Brits did not, in fact, use the metric system. Especially not for their speedometers. That 100 on the speedo was genuine good ole m-p-h. The pleasant glow of a drive in the country was quickly devolving into a sphincter-puckering ridealong with Colin McRae. Plenty of off-camber blind turns and unexpected crests to keep us on our toes. And just for shits and giggles, every transit van in the country had decided it would be fun to park right around a bend along our path. They also strategically positioned themselves so there would be opposing traffic when we went chicaning past. What laughs we had. After we arrived miraculously intact, and had a few pints.

Dinner was splendid, despite the fact they had no real hedgehog on the menu. But fish ‘n’ chips and a gallon of lager and I was sated. Oh, and dessert. I think we had dessert at every meal but breakfast. Not that I’m complaining. The Hedgehog’s specialty was dessert “and fudge.” I think I had the ale and fudge. It was delicious. Thankfully I passed out on the way back so I missed rally stage two. I plugged in the camera, started the upload and dropped into the flytrap for a few hours of sleep.

Another early wakeup call and another round of showers, with a twist. I had awoken to a strange cry. It sounded like Dan, but a few octaves higher. “Jeremy? Is the hot water working? OK.” A few minutes later it was, “Jeremy? I think you should probably check this out.” The water in the toilets was boiling. Dan’s right hand looked like a lobster. Apparently something had gone awry with the boiler system and all of the water in the house was percolating. The plumber was called and after a few quick wash-ups, we were underway for the final day of the FoS. Thankfully it rained the whole way over, so it would undoubtedly stop by the time we got there and leave us a final day of sunshine to revisit the displays we had sped through on Saturday and watch the cars make their final timed runs under ideal conditions. Yeah, right.

The “grass” lot we had parked in the previous days had been replaced by a small bog. The guys kept telling me otherwise, but this proved in my mind, that faeries and gnomes were real. Rascally, but real. We unsuccessfully negotiated with one of the lot attendants for his umbrella, but the deluge had slowed to a downpour just long enough for us to get stranded halfway through the display grounds before it really started coming down hard. We decided to tough it out and ran all the way to the Kinrara enclosure. It would be the last time we were outside the enclosure until we left. We stayed inside as long as we could, having breakfast and coffee until the other guests started arriving and demanding we excuse ourselves or else be forcibly removed. We discussed several options, but in the end we decided against feigning a medical emergency. We waited for a slight reprieve and then made a dash for the covered stands. Running to avoid getting soaked by the rain was hilariously counteracted by the knee-high splashes of mud. What fun! Good thing we had saved our good clothes for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Just like Saturday, we stayed planted in the stands until lunch. The damp track made the morning session pretty exciting, with several racers learning that a nice puddle had formed at the apex in front of our stands. It made for some fun splash-filled photos, followed by interesting countersteer shots. With so many people weathering the storm for this final day of action, Jeremy decided to stay in the stands and hold our seats while we went in to eat. As it was barely 1:30 this time around, it was becoming apparent that I would have to go sconeless for the whole event. One of our servers must have been privy to my previous scone-free disappointments, though, and pleasantly offered, “I saw the scones in back. I think they are ready.” No way. Could it really be happening? Might I actually get my scone at last? This would at least make one bright spot in an otherwise soggy day. We never had the chance to get back around to the displays. We never made it up the hill to the rally stage. We never got to meet some of the people we had wanted to chat with. But this, this would be something. They ran in back to check and came back quickly with a hopeful look on their face. “Sorry, I was wrong. They were just getting them ready for after 3.”

We went back to the stands for the rest of the afternoon, with hopes that the rain would calm enough to allow us to visit the Winner’s Circle at the end of the day. It was one of the things we had been looking forward to the most. The thought of rubbing shoulders with all of those famous drivers and the Earl of March was quite exciting. Seated across the track from us were Jeremy’s friends whom he had met several years ago at trackside. They have maintained a friendship ever since, that has even weathered Jeremy’s move into the enclosure while they still have to fight the hordes for a prime spot trackside. The day’s rain only served as a reminder of the difference between the privileged and the common folk. But Paul, Kay and Edward are especially hardy folk who didn’t let the constant downpour dampen their enthusiasm as it had undoubtedly dampened their socks. Our own enthusiasm was waning as the afternoon wore on, despite a surprise showing by the British Red Arrow precision flight squad. We had thought the rain would have kept them grounded, but to the delight of the crowd, they still appeared and put on a great show.

We waited and waited, hoping the weather would cooperate, but as each class made its final pass, our hopes were extinguished. The fans were streaming out after every run and we wondered aloud if we should just pack it in and head to dinner. Jeremy’s friends finally waved the surrender flag and started to pack up just as the PA announced that the rest of the racing had been called off. Somewhat relieved we made our way back to the car. After extracting our shoes from the muck several times each, we finally reached the parking lot. Amazingly we spotted Oli’s bright blue car on high ground. After a few moments of mental route mapping, Oli turned off the traction control and steered the blue beast towards the gate. With very little speed despite a free wheeling tach, it was pretty apparent we didn’t have a lot of traction. Wanting to conserve all forward momentum, we regrettably had to splash several unlucky saps who somehow hadn’t realized that they were walking down the only navigable road available for our exit. The cars we had seen the day before looked freshly detailed in comparison to the mud-caked vehicles around us today. And that included the Skoda. After just a few seconds, the mud was covering all of the windows. No time to worry about that now. We had a dinner date with our friends from the other side of the track.

We met up at a nearby Burger King to decide where we’d go for dinner. While there we took advantage of the free water at an adjacent petrol station to wash off the most offending of the mud. Sadly, the water hose had the same pressure as the pump-free spigot at the house. The slow dribble did little to wash away the mud, but it did add some levity when Oli inadvertently turned on the wipers just in time to send a wave of muddy water down my front. Oh that joker. We at least got the windows mostly clear before heading over to a nearby pub. None of our party knew this place, but the GPS had shown it was just up the road and a quick phone call proved they were open for dinner. It ended up being a lovely little place with Heather in the title. Best bit about finding the place though was stopping to ask a couple of locals where it was exactly. After telling us they weren’t from around there either, they pointed across the street. We had apparently stopped about 4 feet short of spotting the building. Dinner was delightful and the conversation was grand. I started to tell Jeremy he had the best friends in the world and then I realized I actually had the best friends.