Chimay (a bit long)

As the last of the Chimay Rouge in front of me is being consumed (best
described, at 7%, as Beer Espresso) a gentle reflection of the company,
food and racing.

precis:
Fucking Bonkers.

full version:
Meet Fr. Jack and Lesley (SP) at Folkestone. This was not by design so a
bit of a surprise. Turned out that they are actually quite nice, but
hey, isn't that always the case when you form an opinion and it's cruelly
dashed.

They went on the earlier train. Platty was late - again. We went on the
later train - Eurotunnel types very accommodating - again.

Met up with Statto; Zymurgy joined later over Hoegardens. It gets a
touch blurry but it was jolly fun. Fr. Jack took some pleasure from
photographing a French car. All very Nova Boi - but in French.

Following morning Lesley couldn't get up; charitably because she works a
constant late shift; uncharitably because she's a lazy cow who can't get
up.

Zymurgy; Statto and me set sail and arrived quickly and easily; if very,
very hot.

Random tank bag causing (for me) a rethink on luggage arrangements.
Mainly because said tank bag had a rethink on staying put. Jolly scary.

On arrival picture the track: a closed off 60's style armco clad road
circuit. The campsite seriously overlooking the start finish straight.
Chanson music over the PA. Full on open megas 4 stroke Brit GP bikes
practising.

Right up my street. Especially the Chanson music.

Only one thing for it - to the bar. Then a Chimay fuelled slow motion
trip round the supermarket. Lunch with fresh (fresh as in too hot to
carry) bageuttes, cheese and pate; washed down with red wine. Then a
snooze.

More beer; Niall very pissed; got a bit blurry; went to bed early; was
woken at 2am /and/ 3am by a certain drifter showing off its rev limiter.

The racing was something else. The track is armco lined and the
spectators stand behind the armco. On certain apexes the racers heads
run just above the armco. You could touch them as they past. A far cry
from the safety fences and isolation of modern circuits.

Your chest rattles in TB way because of the passing, at full chat,
machines.

The bikes themselves are of a wide variety but predominately British
iron; some BMWs; Laverdas; Ducatis and the like. The majority of which
were having the tits wrung off them. One or two fallers and failures.

Sunday morning, whilst waiting for the supermarket to open a couple of
English types were struggling with the automated pumps with the painful
cry of "no fuel, no racing".

One of whom dropped something. I called out but didn't attract his
attention. So I picked up what turned out to be a pair of socks and took
them over and handed them over to the chap who'd dropped them. "Blimey
you're Phil Read" says I. "How the ****** do you get fuel in this
*fucking* country on a Sunday" says he. I just shrugged.

The Sunday "Grande Parade" is open to all, including visitors so had we
realised they'd have been a Guzzi and a Drifter on the parade round the
circuit and town.

The others left Sunday Lunch; Platty and I took a tour of the circuit
whilst the racing was running and inspected the beer tents at the
chicanes.

Took a good long look at the methods used by the 'pilote' to get through
them. Interesting on a number levels. Enhanced by the knowledge of the
old English racers/crews stood next to us explaining the personalities
behind most of the teams.

Bit shaky; me and Platty go for a meal and then end up drinking with the
only people, a French family, left on the campsite until 1am or so.

We then wobble round the circuit at 9am and set on our way across Belgium
and France. Dear God, I'm soo glad I didn't crash.

Sunburnt and, just me, bitten (my arm is still swollen) a good time was
had.

Utterly recommended and many thanks to Statto for sorting out the hotel.
It really was worth camping and can be done in a few hours from Calais.

oh yes...I've got my eyes out for an imp engined kneeler outfit. We will
be wearing green armbands next year.

 

ROFL. I bet he didn't find any chicory, either.

You bastard. I am so, so, so pissed off at not being able to make it
this year. Next year, my precious, next year.

Chimay rocks, utterly. A better way of spending a biking weekend is hard
to imagine.

Last year was the Great Heatwave, and racing was actually halted for a
while as the road/track surface was melting! We arrived about midday,
and I necked five ice-cold Chimay beers in quick succession as I was
parched. I remember virtually *nothing* of the afternoon, and the
hangove rkicked in at 7pm.

 

How were the chocs received?

Succinctness and accuracy in equal measure.

Never knowingly punctual.

Fr Jack and I waited for Sleeping Beauty, then had a leisurely trundle down
involving a wonderful
lunch in Maroilles

http://uk.f2.pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/ukrmplatypus/detail?.dir=/f202&.dnm=b454.jpg

and a spot of willy-waving:

http://uk.f2.pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/ukrmplatypus/detail?.dir=/f202&.dnm=7b93.jpg

Obligatory aftermath to a booze-crazed evening in the beer tent. The band
was actually not bad, and I enjoyed exchanging drunken Franglais ranting and
phone numbers with a French sidecar pilote named Alain, who may be showing
up on my doorstep sometime next year. Also acquired a few bottletops for
Elly.

aaaaaaaAAAA*FOOOM*rgrgrgrgrgrgrg and off down to the chicane. The ones who
were serious were literally inches off the armco, and I could feel my
pants-legs being blown backwards as they passed. Hard to photograph with
the delay in my camera, but a) look at the blur in the bottom right of this
picture:

http://uk.f2.pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/ukrmplatypus/detail?.dir=/c1df&.dnm=1a5b.jpg

and b) these guys weren't the closest. The serious guys were on this side
of the dotted line...

"...vey, vey drunk."

Disco inferno. Sweller presses his phone number on 14-year-old French girl.
We return to our tents, two-up on the Drifter, wobbling across the wet grass
of the deserted campsite. We had, at this point, been drinking pretty well
continuously for better than 14 hours...

The chicanes were still open: I realised at the last split second that
blatting back out onto the main drag might be poor technique now that the
roads were open...

Mileage from chunnel to Chimay and back was about 300 for me. Chunnel was
fifty quid special offer. Campsite admission was 13,50 euro per head IIRC.
Extraordinarily cheap for what it was.

Looney. Wanna monkey?

 

sweller says...

<snip>

Loverly stuff. I am now feeling mostly jealous.

 

I had sort of assumed that you were going to be the passenger.

 

imposters!

 

I have visions of something like this happening:

http://uk.f2.pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/ukrmstatto/detail?.dir=/d2f2&.dnm=bfa8.jpg

 

*lovely*

I've probably told before the story of my mates Shane and Mad Alex,
who decided that it would be cheaper for the two of them to go sidecar
racing rather than each run a solo. However, they couldn't decide who
would 'drive' and who would passenger, so decided to alternate. At
each practise session/race, they could be seen weaving down the pit
lane, squabbling over whose turn it was at the controls.

 

On Tue, 20 Jul 2004 22:13:35 +0100, sweller wrote:

Ah, sorry it didn't work out. Just sling it in the bin, if you haven't
already.

 

AOL