HELL UNDER HIGH WATER
Ever wondered what it’s like to compete for 24 hours on the old Nordschleife? In the weather for which The Green Hell is famed? Join Octane in the N24 race with the Mercedes-AMG team
Remember the good old days of racing? The thunder of big V8s fighting it out with smallercapacity screamers. Crowds so close to the track they could almost touch it. Races so tough and circuits so dangerous that surviving was a victory in itself. Cars with familiar shapes sent to race around the clock. Track limits defined by Armco; overtakes requiring layers of paint to complete, celebrated rather than punished.
We love to read about these battles and imagine witnessing the wheel-to-wheel action glimpsed through grainy black-andwhite images. We rail against the sanitised feel of top-level motorsport in the here and now. But we needn’t. The good stuff still exists. I know, because I’ve just lived through it. You want old-school blood and thunder? You want drivers laying it all on the line? Welcome to the Nürburgring 24 Hours. Just be careful what you wish for.
CONSIDERING THAT I’M about to go to sleep on a bench in the back of a truck still wearing a sweaty racesuit, I’m feeling on top of the world. I’ve just had one of the greatest driving experiences of my life, hammering into dusk at impossible speed, howling past slower traffic and looking on in awe as the leading pack of GT3 cars muscle by in a shower of sparks, flames and attitude. The Green Hell is at its most heavenly on a dry, balmy evening, and my racecar – a 500bhp AMG GT4 tweaked up to ‘SP8T’ class requirements with extra aero and more boost than it would run in its normal GT4 class – is getting faster and faster in the cool, dense air.
Even better, my team-mates and I have concocted a plan to maximise our night-time running. We’ll double-stint, as conditions
are so good, and save our secret weapon for the morning: the ADAC 24h Rennen Nürburgring has been held annually since 1970, and five-time DTM champion and allround legend Bernd Schneider has won it four times. Rain is forecast and Bernd’s experience and freakish talent will make all the difference. I might have to pootle for a few laps in wet conditions but by then everyone will be running cautiously, mindful that the race is nearly over and one mistake could undo all the previous good work. I sleep as sound as can be for two hours or so.
Waking up under harsh LED lighting is a bit of a shock, my back aches and my leg is numb where it’s rested over a kitbag full of Nomex. But what’s worse is the sound,
shhhhhhh, like aluminium foil being swished around the room. Then it builds to a gentle but insistent drumming. RAIN. I grab my phone and look at the weather radar (you always have a weather app open when you’re at the ’Ring). The rain that was scheduled for 6am has come early. And it isn’t going anywhere until well after the race ends at 3.30pm tomorrow. And my double-stint starts at 2.30am, just when it really kicks off.
I stumble out of the truck and into the garage, and Pim de Wit, our performance engineer (the bloke who looks at the data and tells us how we’re slower than Bernd), says: ‘Monsoon rain, possibly ice rain, is coming fast.’ He means hail but it sounds so much scarier when a German spits out ‘ice rain’. I nod confidently. Then head for the loo.
Of course, rain is a part of racing and in a 24-hour race you have to be prepared. But rain at the ’Ring is different: bigger, wetter, more dangerous. The sheer scale of the track, its hemmed-in narrowness and its total lack of run-off make it hugely intimidating even for the experienced. Me? I’ve done the N24 before but during mercifully dry conditions and in cars slower than our monster AMG. We’re running in the Top 25, too. Falling into the cold clutches of those endless shimmering barriers is the stuff of nightmares.
So I wait in the pitlane. Hopping from foot to foot. Sky flashing great purple streaks of lightning. Christian Gebhardt, another of my team-mates, brings the car in and I rip open the door, pull out his radio and drinks connectors and stand back so he can climb out. Then I fold myself into the seat, set the steering wheel position, Christian straps me in and my earpiece chirps to life. It’s Marius Dietrich, our race engineer, calm as can be. ‘OK Jethro, reset fuel, select driver position 4. You have new wet tyres. We expect more and more rain. 60km/h in the pitlane, watch the white line on pit exit.’ There’s a pause. ‘Take it easy.’ And with that I’m given the signal to light it up and join the mayhem.
At this precise moment I long for a track with endless run-off areas, an over-zealous race director throwing out the red flag at the first hint of drizzle, and a nice, quiet (and slow) car. Modern racing isn’t so bad, I guess. But I’ve got just a few seconds to contemplate what’s ahead. From the moment I cross the
‘HAIL SOUNDS SO MUCH SCARIER WHEN A GERMAN SPITS OUT “ICE RAIN”. I NOD CONFIDENTLY. THEN HEAD FOR THE LOO’
line at the end of the pitlane and press a yellow button with my right thumb to release the 60km/h speed limiter there’s no more thinking time. Good job, as surely I’d pull over, park it and hitch a lift to the hotel bar. We all would. Instead, all I can do is drive.
The N24 combines the modern GP circuit with the craggy old Nordschleife to make a circuit of over 15 miles, and 150 cars start the race. That means for the first minute or so there is space and some margin for error on the smooth F1-spec tarmac. It’s a great chance to get a feel for the car and work some heat into the tyres. Racing ‘wets’ are amazing things and the AMG still has loads of braking capacity and surprisingly good traction. I’m running engine map 1, which saves fuel and reduces torque to make the car easier to manage, yet it still reels in everything except the fearsome GT3s at an alarming pace. Weirdly, it’s not the corners I’m so worried about. I can feel the understeer or oversteer build. Aquaplaning, on the other hand, scares the bejesus out of me. Just how quickly can I go on the faster sections that meander left and right before I start floating and sail into the barriers? Err… who knows?
Turning left for the first time from the expanses of the well-lit GP track and being swallowed up by the darkness of the Nordschleife is unforgettable. I distinctly remember saying ‘Here we go’ aloud to myself. Then, silently, giving myself a set of simple instructions: ‘Don’t be a dick. Keep it out of the barriers. Be brave.’ The latter is key.
Your natural instinct is to creep around as carefully as possible but to do so sends confidence spiralling into the pits of hell. Tyres lose temperature, ABS starts working overtime and upsetting the car into every corner, the front end runs away from you on turn-in as the front tyres skate over the surface, and the rear tries to bite you as soon as you dare think of opening the throttle.
I know this because my first lap plays out like a nightmare. I’m not brave and the car and the track punish me over and over with scary near-misses. Think back to the panic of schooldays when you realised you hadn’t revised enough for an exam. The hot feeling up your neck, the sudden furious heartpumping that shakes your ribcage. Now imagine that half-second reaction to swelling panic coming over and over again, until you can’t feel the join. You’re drowning. That’s a wet lap of the ’Ring in the dead of night.
The second lap is slightly better but still I feel like I’m almost walking the car around the track. When I make it back to the GP circuit and begin lap 3 I’m determined to start actually driving. So I pick up the pace. I keep the throttle wide open on the straights even when speed creeps up to 230 or 240km/h. I brake a little later, turn-in a bit harder and use the wider ‘wet line’ more confidently. That’s not easy because there’s so little room between the outer edge of the track and the steel barriers, but just positioning the car a few feet from the dry apex is worth the risk. There’s so much more grip.
Every lap there’s a new accident, more yellow flags and ‘Code 60s’ (a temporary 60km/h speed limit where cars are being recovered or Armco repaired), and my car feels a little better. I wouldn’t say I’m driving
fast but nothing comes past except the odd super-committed GT3 car and I’m picking off other GT4s pretty easily. Even so, this really is endurance rather than enjoyment. My internal coaching is now interrupted by proper shouting. ‘This is horrible… Why am I doing this? Please STOP RAINING!’ It’s all hopeless, yet somehow the rather pathetic dialogue makes me feel a bit better.
Finally, after 11 laps, my stint is over and the plan for me to do a double is abandoned. It’s too intense. I hand over to Bernd, or ‘Five-time’ as he’s known within the team. The number 190 Mercedes disappears into the gloom and the spray as I stand in the pitlane soaked from sweat, exhausted and so, so relieved. I wasn’t a dick. I kept it out of the barriers. I was brave. Eventually.
AFTER THE OPPRESSIVE dark of the Nordschleife, the pit garage feels floodlit and weirdly disconnected to the mayhem playing out on track. ‘Good job, mate,’ says Pim. ‘You really picked up the pace and nobody around us was going as quickly.’ I glance at the screens and we’re running 22nd. I am utterly elated. Then I realise the race is barely past the halfway mark. Fabian Jung, team manager, right on cue delivers a line that almost floors me. ‘Bernd is in for a double. Then it’s you again. Sorry.’
To feel like you’ve achieved something only to realise the job isn’t even close to being done is actually pretty horrible. Those
‘I KEEP THE THROTTLE OPEN ON THE STRAIGHTS, BRAKE A LITTLE LATER, TURN-IN A BIT HARDER AND USE THE WIDER “WET LINE” MORE CONFIDENTLY’
incredible laps in the dry – sun setting and the 4.0-litre twin-turbo V8 flinging the car along with unstoppable force – feel so long ago. Flying into the Foxhole in sixth and keeping the right pedal pinned to the bulkhead into the compression; jumping over the big rise before the fast left of Schwedenkreuz at well over 150mph then braking, downshifting to fifth, turning-in and trusting the big slick tyres to help you carve a clean line; working through the endless third- and fourth-gear twists and turns towards the end of the lap, and feeling the GT4’s incredible stability. It’s all out of reach.
I won’t feel the euphoria of a fast, dry lap again. That amazing sensation of leaning and leaning on the car and it pushing back, barely shrugging at what it’s being asked to do. Now it’s just rain and survival. I eat a schnitzel from a cardboard box and go back to my bench. Sleep doesn’t come easily. Bernd will be out there for more than 2½ hours.
When I awake the plan has changed. Patrick Simon, who’s experienced and very, very quick, will be in next, so I can relax. It’s still pouring, but at least there’s daylight. Bernd has seen it all before but even he looks a little ruffled by his monster stint. ‘How was it?’ I ask. Bernd’s eyes widen. ‘No grip. Understeer, oversteer… all the time.’ He mimes the car slipping out of his hands. ‘It’s f**king dangerous. Undriveable.’ It’s the first time I’ve heard him swear, yet I take some comfort from hearing a proper legend describe conditions with such devastating accuracy. His thoughts mirror mine exactly.
To be a part of this event is pure magic, however, and even in dire conditions there are moments you just couldn’t buy: rushing into the dark with lightning splitting great chasms in the sky. Powering through smoke from spectators’ barbecues while trying to overtake a slower car. GT3 cars dancing past, front wheels a blur as the drivers catch every mini-slide while the rear sparks over kerbs or into compressions. Every lap is a privilege. But the stakes are high in every sense.
And so it continues. Another fearsomely slippery stint, this time with heavy fog. More near-misses. More unbelievably exciting overtakes and more shouting into my crash helmet. Through it all, the AMG GT4 just keeps going. Picking off the slower cars, hanging on gamely to the GT3s. The race is stopped for fog, then restarted. Fittingly, Bernd takes the chequered flag. We finish 22nd, first in class, with only the GT3 cars ahead of us. It’s over. Thank God. Take me home. Can’t wait until next year.