The 'Ring
By: Kevin Turner

Having ridden through a monsoon for the best part of two hours, I finally arrived at the ‘Ring in a state best described as sodden. In fact, I doubt anything on land had ever been wetter. Cold, tired and irritable, I decided to dump my luggage and get out on track ASAP in a bid to cheer myself up and dry off a little (it had of course stopped raining the moment I turned off my engine). The Nurburgring is one of those strange places whereby the powers that be simply decide to stand back and let people get on with killing themselves if that is what they want to do. Any fool with a blind faith in their own ability can don a crash helmet and take to the track without so much as a five minute safety briefing and scare themselves senseless in the pursuit of something that has long since been outlawed in places where life is something other people do on television.

Like bare knuckle boxing or diving alone at night in shark infested waters, the ‘Ring is a wonderful anachronism. You buy the ticket and you ride the ride, and if things get a little hairy don’t expect any sympathy from the assembled masses. There are no safety nets at the ‘Ring; no second chances and no pity when things go wrong, and they will. Put your balls on the line one too many times and some speed-crazed geek in a GT3 will come right up out of the mist and squash them flat to the tarmac. And that probably explains why, to this day, the beautiful, serpentine giant continues to gobble up both machines and riders at a rate unheard of anywhere outside of the Isle of Man.

So it was with more than a hint of trepidation that I pulled up to the barriers that govern access to the track and fumbled around for my ticket. Whilst doing so, a friendly marshal ambled over and helpfully mentioned that, on account of a number of accidents that had occurred throughout the day, certain parts of the track (he did not choose to specify where) were covered in oil and were, therefore, somewhat precarious. Those were his words: what I actually heard was: “Well old boy, you are about to die. Make no mistake. It has been a long ride, and a fun one on many occasions, but it is almost at an end. Now, off you go and enjoy what is left of your life.” It soon became apparent that that marshal was not a man prone to exaggeration. If anything, understatement was his forte. It was like trying to ride on tires made of soap.

My one lap of the Nurburgring was undoubtedly the slowest anyone has ever ridden round that track, but even so, I never once felt I was more than a moment’s notice away from disaster. Every attempt to slow for a corner saw one end of the bike break traction; every twist of the throttle caused the back wheel to slew violently left or right. At times I felt completely helpless as I bore down on a tightening left-hander acutely aware that any attempt to brake would undoubtedly result in a nasty spill, but equally confident that if I didn’t slow somehow the authorities would be picking bits of me out of the barriers for the next few months. I have no idea how long it took me to complete my one and only circuit, it seemed like hours (it may have been) and all the while Porsches, Ferrari’s, Lamborghini’s and other such desirables would emerge like little spots of oil on my mirrors, only to come screaming past me an instant later, those wide Michellins and Bridgestones affording a level of grip and deceleration I could only dream of.

Not once during that lap did I come close to really pushing the bike, but similarly, there wasn’t a single moment when my concentration dropped below 101 per cent. Every corner, every lean and correction felt like some strange and exotic drug. There are parts of that track that make Eau Rouge look like a speed bump, and other parts where the line is obvious but keeping to it a Herculean feat. ‘Learning it’, in the traditional sense, could only come with months of practice, and even then there will always be someone faster, always someone ready to push the envelope that little bit further and creep that little bit closer to the edge of the chasm. And then WAMMO! Out come the flags. In truth, I’d never had any aspirations of “conquering the ‘Ring”. Like a classic painting or a rare animal, I just wanted to see it in the flesh; to savor that strange and brutal sensation one gets when actually tasting history.

The great Jackie Stewart, a man whose reputation has been built as much on his desire to stay alive as his undoubted driving prowess, had this to say about the Nordschleife: "Nothing gave me more satisfaction than to win at the Nurburgring and yet, I was always afraid. When I left home for the German Grand Prix I always used to pause at the end of the driveway and take a long look back. "I was never sure I'd come home again."

I was in no doubt that I’d pushed my luck as far as it was going to go that day. Another lap, with the adrenalin pumping and a desire to ride harder, would have been suicide. However, I did make a promise to myself there and then that I would return to the Nurburgring and that I would attempt to ride it at something above a snail’s pace. But never again would I try a lap of that place in anything other than ideal conditions.