It feels like déjà vue. That recognizable, highly addictive blend of supercharged adrenaline and healthy caution. The blur of unfamiliar asphalt sweeping beneath heated Bridgestones, rising, falling and rippling against a backdrop of scenery so stunning I’m begging my eyes to steal a glimpse, just a peek. But they’re focused in refusal. Glued to the view ahead, cartoon-wide and desperately trying to absorb the information that’s been sprayed across my vision like bullets from a machine gun. It’s relentless.
I have experienced this once before though, at the Isle of Man. Sure, Spa Franchorchamps is mind bendingly fast and equally impressive. And it provokes its fair share of cranial “what ifs” that are about as welcome as a stripper at a wedding. But even when flying up Raidillon like a human cannonball, I was content, compelled even, to keep the throttle pinned in absolute faith of what lay beyond. No, this is more like the Isle of Man’s Snaefell Mountain.
A public road with no speed limit, open to all manner of vehicles and their invariably dubious occupants. The addition of cars and vans, albeit all travelling in the same direction, means you need something that’s utterly redundant on a track. Your mirrors.
It’s this division of attention, from what’s ahead and behind, and encompassing the eclectic mix of other Ring users, that twists an otherwise predictable riding experience into something almost perverse. It’s like adding extra fuel to a fire to make it burn with the maximum intensity. The Nurburgring is the closest you’ll get to ‘racing’ on the road without actually doing it. And by ‘racing’, I mean enjoying your bike’s potential without the fear of committing an illegal offence, and within the confines of a 20.832km ribbon with far fewer hazards than a normal road. Anyway, if it’s not really a race, you can always choose to go steady.
So I do. No way on God’s green earth am I about to nail my kawa flat stick on my first lap. Not when I have fellow Brit, Martin from the Burgplatz Hotel to guide me. “Nervous yet?” His eyes twinkle expectedly. I have every right to be nervous, and to be honest, I can’t understand why I’m not. Perhaps it’s the two months I’ve just spent on the sofa recovering from my collarbone-crash. Perhaps I’m just so damn keen to get out there, I’ve no space left in my head for nerves. But his question alone keeps my enthusiasm in check, that and the testosterone billowing heavily from nearby Porsche’s window like smoke from a Cheech and Chong movie. The car park is full of roll cages, five-point seat harnesses and flame retardant balaclavas visible beneath crash helmets. Like I said, it’s not supposed to be a race. Not when Mrs BMW has just returned from a sedate lap, perched happily behind her hubby on their 1150 GS, her flip-top lid open, displaying a satisfied ear-to-ear grin. There is in fact nothing to say an entire family, spanning several generations can’t cram into a minivan and go for an outing, and tour coaches and ‘ring taxis’ are apparently a frequent sight. I continue to survey the mob that have gathered together for one common purpose. To run what they’ve brung. Polished Ducati red gleams expensively against a fluorescent nineties Gixxer. There are thin, used knee sliders, fat virgin ones, and numberplates from all over Europe on all kinds of vehicles. Is this for real? Are we seriously all sharing the same stretch of road, all at once? Are there no groups or lanes to choose from depending on how many wheels or passengers or experience you have? The nerves finally begin to surface . . .
I tuck in behind Sarah, who is tucked in behind Martin and his 1991 GSXR1100 and we obediently followed his lead like two uniformed ducklings on their first swimming lesson. (Although mistaking us all for gene-sharing siblings would be a serious stretch of anyone’s imagination.) Martin had already briefed us of the rules. Ride within our individual limits, keep to his line, watch for his flickering back break light, ( to warn us of an oncoming tricky section) and most importantly, to indicate and keep to the right whenever faster vehicles approached. Overtaking on the right can lead to an instant ban from the circuit’s officials, that’s not to say it never happens, but generally speaking, the system works well and there appears to be a sensible amount of courtesy displayed for each other. However, while I watch my back like a paranoid schizophrenic and Martin protects us from the numerous hidden pitfalls lying ahead, a RS250 swells from a microscopic dot in my mirrors into a life-sized wing man. Our trio politely indicate and slide to our right in unison as he flies past. I’ll admit I’m jealous, envious of his speed, skill and obvious circuit experience . . . . for about a nano second. Within moments we’re trailing towards a far less inspiring performance as he completely misses the turn and promptly disappears into a puff of gravel. As the dust cloud disperses, it’s relieving to see he’s kept it upright and is undeterred. But it also reiterates the need for a guide, or at the very least, the same healthy degree of respect you’d show any other unfamiliar road, especially a rollercoaster like this that rises and falls over the course of one lap by around 300 meters. That’s the height of the Eiffel Tower. And like any national monument, the Ring is steeped in history.
In 1927, Konrad Adenaur and Dr Otto Creuz convinced the German government to invest in a specially dedicated race track in the economically deprived area, an investment that’s worth the equivalent of fifteen million Euros in today’s currency. Every part of the circuit was specifically designed to challenge even the most technically advanced vehicles, with 172 corners of almost equal lefts and rights, and combining every kind of gradient, camber and radius imaginable. The start-finish stretch expanded to a broad 20 meters, before funnelling back to the constant 6.7 m width that continued for over 20 km. Dale, a fellow English journalist who now lives, works and breathes for the Ring declares his favourite section is from “the start to the finish.” There is nowhere to rest and regroup bar the start-finish straight, it’s a constant barrage of turns and elevation changes, of surface conditions and cambers. One lap is almost three times as long as one at Spa Franchorchamps, so according to Martin, it takes around sixty laps before you really know where you are and can push for a good time. (Not that it’s officially a race circuit I’ll remind you. It’s a public road and most normal rules apply.) Sixty laps is about the same distance as Brussels to the Nurburgring itself. I’d be prepared to cover that kind of ground to get it right when it matters. However, track experience doesn’t come cheap at roughly a Euro per km unless you buy in bulk. Do the math and it’s actually comparable to a day at the Bikers School. So, like I said, it doesn’t come cheap. But then neither does Champagne. And these aren’t fizzy pop tracks, these are the real deal. Andy, another UK ex-pat living and working at the Ring describes it as “everyone’s favourite piece of road. Condensed.” Most first outings apparently take almost a quarter of an hour. He’s whittled that down to 7.17 minutes on a ‘very special’ GSX-R600, while Stefan Bellof holds the official record of 6.11 minutes in a 1983 Porsche 956.
After round one, Martin pulls back into the car park and dismounts from his red old boat of a bike. He grins at us expectantly, proud of the playground in his back yard that’s accessible as often as he likes for a flat fee of 1075 Euros per year. He even knows a local who sneaks in two laps on his RSV every day on his way home from work. My earlier query of why he’d left
England seems quite ridiculous now, as we stand in the sunshine amongst the sounds of squealing rubber and scent of hot brakes. Moments later, Sarah grows an impressive set of steel balls and abandons her Gladius for a Renaud Amand style pillion lap (complete with the obligatory wheelies) on the SMT, Droes is still wringing the Monster’s neck like a man possessed, which means I’m left with Martin all to myself. Joy.
Keen to learn and even keener to obey my master, I follow once more, away from the departing crowd and off into biking nirvana. While my knees dig into the track’s surface and the Kawa flicks easily on its ear, I’m conscious of Martin’s body language. He’s either adopted a very economic riding style and just doesn’t hang off, or the man’s simply not trying. My brain is desperately trying to compete with my throttle hand for authority, don’t stare at his back wheel, look past him, look in your mirrors, look. . . at his totally relaxed thumb’s up, “you ok?” gesture. Don’t I look ok? Can’t you see the size of the grin that’s squeezing my eyes so ridiculously tight, all I can see are my own brown cheeks. This is way too much fun. We slice through an elongated chicane with a surface covered in graffiti. Seconds later, I ride over painted phallic symbol and find an even bigger one in a BMW M3 up my rear. I signal right and move aside as he roars past me. A pale bare arm flings from a window and twirls an invisible lasso in the air. This is all too bizarre. Flat to the tank now and we’re heading along an endless straight, the Ninja feels like it’s skipping beneath me like an excited toddler, I grip the tank with my knees for extra contact and burry my head behind the screen, popping up momentarily like a Meer cat, checking the mirrors for signs of imminent danger. A silver Opal Corsa is pottering round a right hand bend, they signal and we swoop to their left. As my knee skims the surface, I can’t help but wonder if the driver feels as naughty as I do. I’ve got some serious lean and there’s a bloke in a car a bike’s length away from me, probably wishing he has two wheels not four. I think I’ll ‘forget’ to tell my mum about this day trip.
A bridge flashes past as I begin a downwards charge. Ah yes, the Foxhole (or Fuchsrohre.) I remember just a fraction too late as the bike hits the belly of the drop and fires seemingly vertically towards Adenaur Forst, leaving all my internal organs pressed against the base of my spine and my brain momentarily dazed. At the top there’s another surprise waiting for impatient Ringers, a sharp left called Metzgesfeld. Martin takes a wide swing at it before we launch ourselves on another long descent deep into the woodland. Two bikers spot us in their mirrors and react like someone’s just poked them with an electric cattle prod. Head’s pop up, backs stiffen and indicators flash as they stagger to the right like drunken sailors on dry land. Martin slices past but I’m not so sure. A mishap here could be expensive, here you pay for your mistakes. So I wait until I’m quite sure I could drive a bus through the gap and chase the disappearing Brit to the half way mark. Yep, only half way. Just as I’m wondering what on earth comes next, a long strip of chequered concrete lining the inside of a left bend launches itself at me. Not only that, it’s banked by 270 degrees. Originally, the Karussell was designed solely for drainage, but using it actually enables you to carry more speed through the turn. I don’t like it. So my speed would be better described as ‘dragged’.
Further on, I recognise the right handed Brunnchen or Little Well by the flank of spectators gathered behind fencing on a gravel bank. It’s where we’d parked up earlier that morning to watch a herd of BMW cars screech towards us, asking everything of the suspension, rubber, driver and then some. Now it’s my turn and I’m aware of something Martin had said. People flock to any viewing spot that covers notorious crash sites. So there must be a reason they’re here. I scan for clues. My tyres ride over more splattered paint, of words, symbols and messages staining the ground beneath as it in turn rolls to switch camber. Not so concerning for my nimble Ninja, but it could lead to a world of pain for a top heavy, badly sprung minivan. I round the last bend and dive quite literally into the shadows. From here on in I have no idea where I am. It’s my second lap out and I’m completely lost. The sequence of familiar markers had started to tail off a kilometre ago and now they’ve all but abandoned me. It’s as if I’ve used up all my memory on the first half of the circuit and until I’ve processed that lot, there’s no room left for more information. I continue on, flying blind.
Squares of red and white curbing, of dented guard rails and dislodged turf fly past in my peripheral vision. My Kawa’s screaming for another gear like a hungry baby, but I can’t bring myself to slide up though the seamless box. What if I need to scrub speed in a hurry? What if I’m banked over and don’t want to touch the brakes? Engine breaking becomes my best friend as I constantly temper my speed to match my thought processes. Another belt of banked banding wraps me into its left turn. Martin takes the slither of black asphalt lining the base of the Kleines Karussell and I follow, with less conviction but complete understanding as he exits on the perfect line. How long would it have taken for me to work that out, along with everything else this world encompasses? It’s like some fabulous dream that a ten year old petrol head dreamt up, only someone actually made it happen. And it’s not been banned yet. And it costs little more than a track day ( assuming you stay upright.) A set of 250 Euro BT002 Pro Race tyres should last anywhere between fifty and eighty laps and brake pads will bite forever due to the fast and flowing nature of the land. For four wheels, it can be a different story though, with a GT3 Porsche needing up to one hundred Euros to feed a one lap habit. While we’re talking about the green stuff, I mentioned earlier that you pay for your mistakes at the Ring. That can come in the form of several hefty bills, covering anything from repairs to the safety barriers, damage to the track surface, to the time and fuel the marshals use in cleaning up your mess. So it’s worth leaving egos at home.
We finally hit the straight that yawns to become the widest past of the track. A car sling shots past us as my left foot flicks like it’s got Turrets Syndrome. Another gear, I need more speed. Then it’s over. Instantly, I suffer withdrawal symptoms in the form of a mini panic attack. How long before the track closes? How many laps have we got left? Shall I try it alone? There’s time for one lone lap. I feel like the kid who’s just taken the stabilizers off her bike, or left the swimming bands beside the pool. Martin’s almost out of petrol so I’ve little choice but to go it alone. I queue up and sidle through the coned entry lane, clipping the final one with my knee and sending it toppling as I enter the track. Great start.
So far so good, I’ve had my chest flat to the tank and some knee down action, made some safe passes and remembered to check my mirrors. And I know where I am. But as the seconds tick by, I’m becoming acutely aware that the engine note has dipped an octave since my last lap. I’m slower. I’d been relying on Martin’s guidance far more than I’d realised. Rather than take any unnecessary risks, I respect my gut feeling and back off. A local sweeps past me on a twin and I refuse his invitation to play. Some other time perhaps. I divert my attention and instantly notice the patchwork of safety barriers, all a different shade of grey. New pieces butted against old, perfect against pitted. Reminders.
Is it the Nurburgring the ultimate biking Mecca? I wouldn’t want to ride it with as much conviction as I would a real race track. There are just too many variables. But I’m just not so sure I could stop myself. It combines the excitement of a road, with the speed and technical challenges of a circuit. The Nurburgring is a middle ground between the two disciplines and to that end, it is truly magnificent
I want to go faster, I want to go faster..
