BRM contributor Duncan Coutts was at the recent Le Mans MotoGP. You know, the one where a Frenchman won his home GP and a crowd of 120,000 fans went ballistic. Here’s his account of the madness as witnessed by a travelling Kiwi…
A blind guy is driving a camper, with no brakes, down a 13 per cent grade through a pass in the Pyrenees Mountains, and he comes to a narrow bridge with a white van coming the other way. Could be the beginnings of a joke…
Except I was the blind guy behind the wheel of the camper. To be honest, I shouldn’t have been driving right then as I had had a migraine only a couple of hours earlier, and my eyesight, although it had mostly returned, still had some blank spots in it.
I also had a small issue with no brake pads on the left rear of the camper, and the sound of metal-on-metal was horrific. So, I was trying not to brake. I had been trying not to brake pretty much for the length of Spain and was hoping to do the same in France all the way to Cherbourg (at the top) where I had a ferry booked to Ireland (I had a mechanic friend in Ireland).
The metallic, horrifying screeching of the left rear brake could be appeased somewhat by wearing noise-cancelling headphones. However, you know what happens with metal-on-metal, bone-on-bone. Then it’s arthritis, night aches and eventually total immobility.
I took the mirror clean off this white van on the bridge. Properly out as in it was left lying on the road. I broke mine too, but it could be taped up for the moment.
Discussing insurance was interesting in this situation as the van driver spoke French and I only spoke Kiwi. Google Translate was useful, but insurance policies were unhelpful, especially as the camper was insured in Ireland and was not technically mine. It’s complicated. I reassured them I would pay for their mirror: just send me the bill.
They were dubious but nice enough and soon realised they were screwed as how were they going to get a guarantee from this Kiwi who was driving an Irish registered van and there was no evidence of ownership?
At this point I won’t bore you with my opinion of French driving – save to say, the French drive with a certain amount of flair (their hands are often not attached to the steering wheel but instead waving all about). And while it’s good to have passion, flair is maybe only good when you’re painting a picture. Not so good when you’re driving a vehicle.
French driving instructor to student: ‘Well, aside from running over the old lady and her poodle, you certainly drive with a level of panache.’
Le Mans is not a town you would go to for a romantic weekend or even a getaway. Not when you have the French Riviera or Southern Spain so close. The building style is kind of like the NZ style of the 70s. Let’s call it Fibrelite Style where flat planes and ugliness is most important. Medium-rise tenement buildings fill most streets in Le Mans, and if loitering is your gig, this could be the place for you.
There is an old quarter with curious half-timbered houses and a Gallo-Roman wall built between the 3rd and 4th centuries; however, this doesn’t make up for the ugliness of the rest of the town/city: there are only 150,000 people in the central area of Le Mans.
Get out into the surrounding countryside – which only takes five minutes – and it’s all farming. Quaint villagettes (my word) can be found regularly and the housing is typically charming French country style. Steep gabled roofs, some still with the original slate shingles. Stone and plastered cladding in earthy oxides.
There appeared to be about four levels of campground for the Le Mans MotoGP. The least rowdy level was just outside Le Mans, where I was, and populated by mostly older people. Bikes were still prolific, but the older rider knew how to operate a bike just above idle in the early morning.
There was a campground for motorhomes closer to the circuit. Closer still were a couple of campgrounds with pre-erected tents for rent, in rows of Boy Scout orderliness.
Then there’s the campground, adjacent to the circuit and the one you choose if you’re training for an event which involves sleep deprivation. Good for people training for ultra-marathons, or wanting to replicate that jetlag feeling, or just for people who hate themselves.
There’s a strong feral ambience here and it wasn’t surprising to see a large Viking sign with fellas in animal skins beneath it. They had bikes with oversized mufflers and many of them sporting trumpet-like openings. This was the rev-limiter crew, and many of them didn’t actually attend the races but instead spent the days and nights blasting the airwaves (or should that be earwaves). Sadly, I didn’t have a ticket into this campground but from what I could observe, there were two ways of playing the instrument called the rev-limiter. The first method was to hold the throttle on full and flick the key on and off. The second way was more sophisticated and involved a container of a fluid strapped to the handlebars and a palming motion of the hand onto some sort of button. I’m guessing nitromethane was the liquid.
A few years back the lunatic fringe had been going into town and causing havoc. The organisers of the French GP were given an ultimatum. Either control this element or the GP will be shut down.
Hence, this massive paddock area was made available with amenities, bands and huge stacks of firewood for bonfires. It’s been well adopted and, of course, taken to its extremes. The burning of useless motorbikes (no, not Harleys) on the bonfires became a trend until the authorities stopped folk bringing these clapped-out burners to the event.
However, this year some enterprising party animals got to the paddock a couple of months in advance and buried several retired bikes. They then dug them up on the Saturday of race weekend and onto the inferno they went. Voila.
The Spanish are passionate about their bike racing, but the French take the rage to an even higher level. 311,000 fans over the weekend attended the Le Mans MotoGP.
French motorcycle racers may have attended the same riding academies as other nationalities, but you will find none of the replicated robotic answers to questions we have become used to hearing. Fabio Quartararo and Zarco have their own penchants and it’s worth listening to their interviews.
Quartararo, nicknamed El Diablo, is of Sicilian origin. He was born in France, and his father was a French Grand Prix racer and was awarded a Knight of the Legion. He had tricolour leathers, especially for race day, and his bike was blinged.
Johann Zarco often looks like a cloud of monsoon proportions is hovering over him. You could also say he lives in El Diablo’s shadow as the younger man gets the most attention. However, Zarco can crack the most wickedly beautiful smile and he is multi-talented, playing both the piano and guitar and singing.
The fable El Zarco, tells the story of an honourable and courageous Indian blacksmith who falls in love with a haughty village girl, only to have her elope with the cold-blooded bandit, ‘Zarco Blue Eyes.’
Race day and the traffic was already building by 5am. Motorcyclists ran in channels, and cars banked in orderly files. Fans solidly packed footpaths and available roadways. But everyone was moving and had direction. The gendarmes had little to do – this fan army was moving irrepressibly forward to battle: the battle of MotoGP. Napoleon would have been proud.
The 2025 French Grand Prix will go down as one of the most memorable, if not the busiest. Riders changed from wet to dry bikes and back to wet bikes. Falling off, getting back on, serving double long-lap penalties de rigueur.
Quartararo got the holeshot which caused the crowd to erupt in colour and sound. He then fell off and in so doing sucked the wind out of the masses. Non! Non! Non! The stands emptied of noise and the flags drooped in despondency; no one does despondency like the French.
But mon ami, wait, a sound began moving around the circuit. There was a dawning realisation, which soon spread like wildfire and became a rumble around the stands: a Frenchman was leading the race – but not El Diablo.
It was the forgotten man, El Zarco Blue Eyes. Somehow, despite being punted off the track and into the gravel at the start, and having his switch gear damaged on his left bar, he was now leading the Marquez boys. Roars of vocal thunder boosted the number 5 as El Zarco circled and circled Le Mans. And won.
120,000 fans waving red, white and blue flags and belting out La Marseillaise.
Surely the coolest national anthem on the planet. It’s an anthem written by the people and about the people. The very essence of being French. Je ne sais quoi.
