The plan survives contact with reality (mostly)

Race day

The words that make every other day of the year feel like a rehearsal.

I had, as is my custom, a plan. A proper one. Not the kind scribbled on a napkin at midnight and forgotten by morning, but a real plan — timestamped, sequenced, mentally rehearsed. Years of Le Mans have taught me that the race itself is chaos, so everything leading up to it must be controlled with military precision. The goal: depart by 9:30. The result: departure at 9:30. Some things in this world still work.

The route took us along the B road to Écommoy, which is where the plan encountered its first minor amendment. Three of my companions had, the day prior, purchased Le Mans shirts with the sort of optimism that ignores the fundamental rule of souvenir shopping: check the size. None of the three pairs were correct. A detour to the Super U was therefore not a detour — it was a logistical necessity. The exchange was handled with impressive Gallic efficiency, a few additional items found their way into the basket (as they always do), and we were back on the road without any meaningful damage to the schedule.

From there, the motorway north, the cross-town manoeuvre to avoid the predictable carnage around the official car parks, and then — the secret parking spot. A few hundred yards from a track entrance. My track entrance. I have been protecting this location with the same discretion one reserves for offshore accounts and good tailors. It worked, as it has before. My reputation among the group, carefully cultivated over many years of “trust me on this,” remained intact.

We walked in, crossed the Dunlop Bridge — which Goodyear now insists on calling the Goodyear Bridge, an act of corporate optimism I refuse to dignify — and made our way through the Village, that cheerful labyrinth of merchandise, beer, and overpriced sandwiches that guards the approach to the real business. Our first stop was my preferred establishment, patronised loyally for the past three years. Standards maintained. Beers acceptable. The kind of place that rewards return custom.

Time moves at its own pace on race day. There was the obligatory diversion into the official ACO shop — I am not made of stone — where I acquired the latest LM24 polo shirt, because some traditions must be honoured. Then the long walk south to T29, our grandstand at the Porsche Curves, drink in hand, the crowds thickening with every step.

By 3pm we were in our seats. One hour to the start. On the large screen opposite, the grid was already assembled — 60-odd cars, mechanics making their final calculations, TV crews searching for faces to point cameras at, the whole magnificent circus on its marks.

The plan had delivered us here, on time, in good spirits, with appropriate refreshments.

Everything else was now up to the cars.

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