The morning after the night before

There are mornings when you spring out of bed refreshed and ready to conquer the world. This was not one of them. Emerging sometime around 9am, I felt less like a seasoned motorsport veteran and more like something the Cadillac had dragged in. Whether it was the excitement of the previous day keeping my brain in perpetual fifth gear, or simply the universe’s cruel sense of humour, sleep had been in very short supply. Coffee was not optional.

The plan, hatched with the strategic brilliance of a WEC pit crew, was elegantly simple: return to the track late morning, soak up three hours of racing glory, and make a dignified early exit before 300,000 fans simultaneously decided they all needed to be somewhere else. As it turned out, this was an excellent plan — particularly given that we later learned this year’s attendance had smashed records with over 350,000 spectators. One does like to be ahead of the crowd, quite literally.

Our route back to the circuit took us once again through the thriving metropolis of Ecommoy, where a brief tactical stop at the supermarket allowed us to replenish supplies with the quiet efficiency of a team topping up a fuel tank. From there, on through Mulsanne, Ruaudin and the southern outskirts of Le Mans — a road that would have been an automotive car park the previous day, but which today flowed beautifully. Our trusty “secret” parking spot received us like an old friend, and moments later we were back inside the circuit, taking up position just behind the Goodyear Bridge — formerly the Dunlop Bridge, for those of us old enough to remember — where the cars hurtle downhill toward the Esses and the beginning of the legendary Hunaudières straight.

And what a time to arrive. With just three hours left on the clock, seven Hypercars were still on the same lap after 21 hours of racing. Seven. The lead was swapping between the Cadillac and the Toyota with the kind of frequency that makes pit walls simultaneously exciting and ulcer-inducing. At moments like this, strategy is everything — one mistimed stop, one extra splash of fuel, one overly optimistic tyre call, and a race can be won or lost in the pit lane rather than on the track.

Watching such drama unfold in blazing midday sunshine is, it must be said, thirsty and hungry work. The food stands were helpfully located just a few metres away, and unhelpfully patronised by several thousand people with exactly the same idea. The queues were long but not unconquerable, and eventually we emerged victorious, dishes and drinks in hand, in search of a table.

We found ourselves sitting next to a charming local French family, and conversation struck up with the ease that only Le Mans seems to produce between total strangers. The father, it emerged, had a friend who regularly rents out his house in Arnage during race week. My ears pricked up with the speed of a naturally aspirated V8 at full chat. Cards were exchanged. Promises were made. One lives in hope.

By just after 2pm, the strategic withdrawal was initiated. We hit the road back toward the gîte, pausing — naturally — at a rather lovely auberge that simply could not be ignored. Some decisions make themselves. Back at base, Radio Le Mans kept us faithfully updated, and the news, when it came, was bittersweet: Toyota took the victory, followed by BMW and the second Toyota. The Cadillac, which had led and thrilled and given Charlie so much hope, was nudged off the podium entirely. Somewhere, Charlie was staring into his drink with the thousand-yard stare of a man who had dared to believe.

As for the rest of us, the evening assembled itself in the most agreeable fashion possible. Some lingered outside in the warmth. I, exercising the hard-won wisdom of a man in his post-Le Mans condition, opted for a pre-aperitif nap of entirely non-negotiable necessity. I regret nothing.

Then aperitifs, pizzas from the oven, crisp salads, and another easy, happy evening outside — trading stories, reliving moments, and collectively pretending we weren’t all a little bit sad it was over. When the first stars appeared, I took it as my cue. A long drive awaited the next day, our legs had covered what felt like a small continent over the past few days, and the 24 Hours — that magnificent, exhausting, glorious, unmissable 24 Hours — was done.

Until next year, Le Mans. We’ll be back. We always come back.

Back to the menu