The difference between good and great is just a matter of detail - Donington didn’t have it, Silverstone does. I liked Donington, that world-class sweep down through the Craners, the random Spitfire parked on the hill, the icon Dunlop Bridge. It had super fast sweepers, the priceless Grand Prix Collection (if you like a racing car, that is), an incredible lineage (Nuvolari won here, and they come no greater than him) and the horrible little bus stop bit on the end (less said about that, the better), and for a good few years, I reckoned that was about as good as motor racing venues needed to be - all of Bernie’s years of bullying the BRDC over Silverstone’s slipshod facilities for the F1 fraternity, I thought, was a pointless exercise. We go to the races to watch the races, right? Right. Well - kind of.
Like a politician spin doctor, I’ve now reversed my position. Racing’s the whole point of the day, sure, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the two years since MotoGP moved south to Northamptonshire, it’s that all those other bits and bobs don’t half make a difference. Even driving through the gates at Silverstone, you get the feeling that everything has been planned and rehearsed to the Nth degree - signage was clear and easy to follow heading into the circuit on Thursday evening, the massive field I was efficiently shepherded into already looking pretty full. The campsite was bordered by a crushed gravel track, with another series of tracks crossing the field horizontally to give you clearly defined all-weather roadways that ran between nice grassy strips, so all the tents and campers were well ordered and it was easy to get about the site, especially in comparison to Donington, where it looked like the tents had been fired out of a cannon from some considerable distance. What’s more, Silverstone has big permanent toilet blocks with decent showers - purchase your shower tokens from the camp shop. At Donington, asking for the directions to a camp shop would have them scratching their heads for the nearest Alan Carr boutique, and by the end of the day, Donnie’s plastic portaloos were a hygiene disaster area. It was also good to see the very strong and visible presence of stewards and police, patrolling the campsite at all hours, all weekend at Silverstone, in comparison to Donington where there could sometimes be more bike action going on in campsite in the evening than there was on track during the day. Being old and feeble, we headed for the Family Camping zone and were very pleasantly surprised to find ourselves in a grassy sward that was incredibly quiet and peaceful - I’m sure there will be sections of the crowd who were disappointed not to find people jumping scooters through flaming hoops, or seeing how long you can hold a C90 wide open before it goes bang, or having a vomit shootout to see how many tents they could hit, but I was quite happy being able to get a good night’s kip. I don’t mind seeking out a bit of wanton destruction when the mood takes me, but it was blissful not to have it happening right outside my tent.
Heading to the track come Friday morning gave us more of the same - great organisation, and a lot of planning and forethought. How about free ear plugs and a free guide that gave you the full rundown on everything that happened over the course of a weekend as well as a track map that showed you where everything was? You can buy a programme, of course, that gives you more in depth info and interviews and the like, but if you want the basics, it’s all there free. How about six information points dotted around the circuit where you could take your tricky questions? How about a shuttle bus service - all three days, all free - that ran around the perimeter to ferry you around? Silverstone feels massive compared to Donington, and spending a full day hoofing it about rather robs your energy for the next day - the bus service is a stroke of genius. How about big, numerous and well-serviced toilet blocks dotted about the place? As Eurosport’s Julian Ryder gleefully proclaimed, here you don’t have to hold your breath when you take a piss.
There’s more. The programme of events at Silverstone was rammed, absolutely jam-packed rammed from start to finish - I didn‘t get to see everything I was hoping to see by a long shot. As well as the three Grand Prix classes, there were two races each for the Red Bull Rookies and the Triumph Triple Challenge, as well as supermoto events, a flat track event, trials demonstrations, an off-road tryout section, a truly hairy-looking wheelie simulator with real bikes, a parachute display by the Red Devils and the inevitable energy drink promo in the form of an air display by the Red Bull Matadors. Add to that the massive presence of the GoRide team, working to scoop up any non-riding members of the crowd and put them on bikes, a huge stage in the centre of the circuit that featured quizzes, charity auctions, live music and rider interviews, and a truly gigantic Big Top with live entertainment in the campsite to keep the punters entertained, and if you get bored with that lot, you’re in the wrong place.
A word or three about the rider interviews on the main stage on Saturday afternoon - they are great. Eurosport’s irrepressible duo of Toby Moody and Julian Ryder hosted them last year with the majority of the MotoGP class riders and a host of British 125 hopefuls joining them on stage, much to popular acclaim. The same event occurred again this year, to very little promotional blurb, but the arena was once more pretty much filled with fans who this year saw the entire MotoGP field except the injured Cal Crutchlow and Tony Elias take to the stage, this time to be quizzed by Ryder and the BBC’s Matt Roberts - highlights were Valentino Rossi cheerfully advising the crowd at the prompting of a gleeful Roberts that Smurfs in Italy are known as Puffi Puffi (in direct response to the large and unexpected Smurf presence in the crowd), Marco Simoncelli blaming with some disgust his “facking hand!” for his poor start in Barcelona the week before, and the inimitable Colin Edwards - on qualifying eighth a week after shattering his collarbone, the Texan stated “I‘m thinking ninth through sixteenth are a bunch of pussies. Did I say that out loud…?” to much popular approval. If no-one else ever turned up, you have to go and see Colin Edwards given free reign and a microphone - the man is a born entertainer, funny, smart, and absolutely fearless when it comes to speaking his mind. I know Matt mentioned in his blog on the BBC website about the mindless booing that greeted Casey Stoner and Jorge Lorenzo, but it was, I think, pretty good natured, fairly well received and they both left with more respect and to a notably more positive appreciation than they arrived.
If there is a criticism of Silverstone, however, it’s that it lacks that one killer viewing point that Donington had with the Craner Curves; at Donington there’s an acre of space that thousands of people can sit in where pretty much everyone will have a great view, of those sweeping curves from Hollywood, down the hill to the Old Hairpin before they roar under the bridge and back up again to the Schwantz Curves and out of sight, for what must be approaching a third of the circuit’s two and a half mile length. By it’s very nature, former WWII airfield Silverstone has little in the way of elevation change in comparison, and there’s no one spot that particularly stands out. On the flip side of that, whilst there’s no one place that’s great, there are a lot of places that are pretty good - pick one that has one of the eleven big screens in view, so you can see what’s going on elsewhere on the circuit, take a radio so you can tune in to Radio Silverstone and hear the commentary, and you will be set fair for a fine weekend’s racing.
I mean no disrespect to Donington, you understand, I have a great respect for the place. The legendary Silver Arrows, the German pre-war powerhouses of Mercedes and Auto Union raced here in the Thirties - know the bridge at the exit of the Old Hairpin? They used to race those 600hp behemoths, with tyres thinner than your bike‘s front boot, through the narrow arch that pedestrians walk through now. I appreciate the heritage, I was there the day Senna drove maybe the greatest single lap of wet-weather racing the world has ever seen (Bradley Smith’s first lap at Silverstone notwithstanding), and I loved every one of the events I ever went to there, whether it be club races, historic races, F1, MotoGP, even motocross in the last few years. But I’ve a great love for Silverstone too, and it seems to me that the Northamptonshire circuit, the home of British Motor Racing, has, under the guiding hands of the BRDC, made the transition into the 21st century far more successfully than Donington. There’s an irony to that, almost - not so long ago, it seemed, Silverstone was being run by ageing fuddy-duddys in flat caps driving old blower Bentleys from the country estate to their clubs in London for the weekend, whilst Donington was in the hands of a fast young entrepreneur who was going to take F1 to the next level. Not so very far down the line, it seems like the old boys knew what they were doing, with their track refurbished, F1 returned and MotoGP and World Supers rounds captured, and it’s the entrepreneur who ended up out of his depth, hopes for F1 lost along with all the other jewels in Donington’s crown. But whilst I’m saddened for the plight of Donington, especially after all the time, money and effort the late, lamented Tom Wheatcroft put in to the venture, I have not a shadow of a doubt that it will return in maybe a less grandiose form, and we the public are far, far better off heading to Silverstone for our racing fix.
Oh Yeah - The Racing.
There was some racing going on whilst I was there, did I mention? It was looking great for the Brits right up until qualifying started, then the big screens showed a shot of a Tech 3 Yamaha rider on their back and I didn’t know what to fear more, that Crutchlow had taken a header or that Colin had suffered another crash with his jigsaw of a collarbone - I badly wanted Cal to have a trouble-free and successful qualifying session, but the thought of how much it would hurt Edwards to take even a minor spill so soon after surgery made my brain itch. Scott Redding had landed an excellent second for Moto2, but the nation’s other bright hope, Bradley Smith, had endured an absolute nightmare, an electrical fault limiting him to just two flying laps and a dismal 28th on the grid. Come race day, with the rain falling steadily all day, Scotty came out swinging, passing series leader Stefan Bradl a lap into the race, only for the German to fall in behind, take a couple of laps to get comfortable with the pace and then pounce, retaking the lead before slowly, inexorably extending the gap away from Redding. But as Bradl (memorably described by Jules Ryder as having no chance in the wet - it’s not often he’s wrong, but goodness, did he ever Murray Walker this one up!) began to edge away, Redding began to fall back into the clutches of first Mattia Pasini and then Kenan Sofuoglu. Behind the desperate battle at the front, however, Bradley Smith was simply swatting the opposition to one side, in no mood to take prisoners, and crossing the line at the end of lap one an astonishing thirteenth, having made fifteen passes in the preceding 3.667 miles. His jaw set, the Tech 3 youngster just kept charging through the field, sure-footed where Pasini and Sofuoglu fell, making his way past Redding and working his way into second, and for a few glorious moments it felt like the miracle could happen and he might actually win the damned thing. But Bradl’s team got busy on the pit board, gave their man the hurry up, and Bradders just ran out of time to hunt him down for the win - it was, however, a truly astonishing ride, and his genuine, almost frenzied joy after crossing the line let you know that he was just as ecstatic about the result as the 72 000 spectators lining the circuit to applaud him.
The main MotoGP race, by comparison, lacked sparkle - with Cal gone, it was down to Valentino to provide the magic, and he simply wasn’t in the game. Up front, Casey just rode like he has all year, within his limits but just outside everyone else’s, edging away from the pack as the faithful Dovizioso kept watch behind. Jorge was the first to blink, his Yamaha getting away from him through Abbey and throwing a tantrum, destroying itself on its way into the kitty litter. Marco was next, the lanky hair-bear aquaplaning his way into the gravel pit Lorenzo had just vacated after his Honda’s front end sped out from under him with no warning at all in the monsoon conditions. That left Casey playing all on his own out front, with Dovi holding a safe second - and Colin Edwards, the Texan Tornado himself, in an unexpected and massively popular third, although it has to be said that the warmest reception of the day was reserved for a downbeat Rossi back in sixth. Those fans who hung around in the driving rains were then treated to an epic two-way fist fight in the 125 class, as Johann Zarco and Jonas Folger went at it hammer and tongs all race long, rubbing plastic and banging elbows despite the treacherous conditions. When it came down to the final stretch, however, it was Folger who was able to pull that little something extra out of the bag, taking the win ahead of Zarco and a distant Hector Faubel - Danny Kent, Danny Webb, Taylor Mackenzie and wild-card entrant John McPhee gave the bedraggled fans something to cheer about, four Brits in points scoring positions.
I’d planned on hanging around on Sunday evening, maybe have a few beers, catch a few bands, watch the F1 GP on one of the big screens, but it had rained all day long and the prospect of spending another night under soaking wet canvas held little appeal. A little sadly, I broke camp and headed home a day early - but there’s not a shadow of a doubt that I’ll be back next year. I can’t wait already.
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