Cadwell. We may have mentioned it once or twice, but we like Cadwell a bit. Scene of great joys, some bloody awful races, one of which was the event that caused us to come to the Classic Touring Car Racing Club in the first place, this place also has more carnage than any other place they throw Jaguars at. But beneath it all, there is a simple truth. Driving this place well is harder than most other tracks, and to do it is sinfully rewarding.

At no point in this 2.3ish miles are you bored. You can lap and lap and lap this place, and you will never get it perfectly right, and you will never be satisfied, and you will never stop trying. There is a purity of purpose to this challenge.

Hard to pass, allegedly difficult to thread a big car around, narrow, slow in places, faster than you might like in others, no gravel traps, a gravity-defying hill, and a lot of places to bend metal in a not-very fixable manner. Totally addictive.

I say it's "allegedly" hard to drive a big car, I've only ever driven an XJS here, and I have seen a lot of "proper" racing cars driven slowly here, so it's all in the head if you ask me. The Jag is fine, because I don't know any better. People think we're crazy for even trying. 

What they get you for here are two things; track limits and bollards. God do they love their bollards. Track limits because there are places that, in a wide car, you end up, and they don't have much kerb. A late apex, which the Jag loves, wasn't anticipated when they put the kerbs down. Bollards because they want to protect the precious grass, and they put the things everywhere that you might want to put your car. £18 each, I was told. At the end of the weekend I owed them a couple of hundred quid.

Cadwell is the first race of the season. We sacrificed the opening round at Rockingham as we had invested most of our winter prepping the ex-Jeffery Lister for new owner Tom Butterfield, which left zero time or frankly energy for Helen, and I had a list of jobs to do. They took time, so we sat Rockingham out, to my dismay.

We had the beginnings of a misfire at the end of Snetterton last year, so there had been a David visit to fit in, to address the probable causes. Rear subframe butterflies to swap, as unlike any other "serious" car we retain the rubber mounts, shocks to look at etc. We also reworked the front end to add castor.

Baby steps of development for us, find what works and go a bit further, no magic bullets. We have never gone to a circuit and failed to go faster than last time.

Through the gates on a Thursday evening, and I swear a weight lifts and floats off.

We're home. Nothing here but car and track. No life, no work, just friends and 

competition. Bear wanders about in a giant dayglo coat and is mistaken for a 

security guard, but sadly failed to charge anyone for camping. Very short-sighted.

He was able to liberate beer from Dave Howard, so he hadn’t completely lost his touch.  

Dave was sporting a shiny new 7.3 litre engine, and quite openly nervous about it. 

Which is fair enough, it is exactly twice what’s under my bonnet, and I’m wary of my humble 

machine, 7.3 litres sounds like trying to tame a dragon, and from what I've seen 

on the tele you need to be blonde for that..

So to Friday testing, the morning bright as you suck in the cold, damp air of a Lincolnshire dawn and recall Douglas Adam's reflection that a few trillion tonnes of superheated exploding hydrogen can manage to look small and damp. The bleary eyes of signing on, the awful coffee, all part of the game. Those who fail to test are missing half the weekend, and invite disaster.

As it happened, the disasters were all today. Had there been no test, there would have been zero laps in competition. First couple of laps out of the box were instantly on 2014 pace. That tells you you're faster this time out, because the first sighter laps are nothing like full chat. But three laps in, and the kangaroo petrol strikes. The misfire is back. Bollocks. To base. Investigation suggests a throttle position sensor. An arriving David does not.

Trial and error diagnosis absorbed the first session, then the second, and then the lunch break.   

Difficult laps. She'd be fine, raw power would send you hurtling past, say, the 

M3 of Bellamy on his outlap as my impatience struck, but the moment you 

hit the brakes it all vanished again, and wee coughed and hopped back to the

pits, hoping it would get there without blocking the exit.

By early afternoon it was clear we needed a part, but mercifully, unexpectedly,

it's Friday. Not the weekend. We can get to a factor and buy one.

A rollercoaster ride in the back of a Honda driven by a madman was barely 

more relaxing than the same rollercoaster in a large lorry driven by the furry

 one last night, but nobody died, and that seems to be the test they apply in

 Lincolnshire. They do seem to like their casualty stats, and it is nice to see 

that we were doing better than last year in terms of corpses per month. 

Twelve quid later, and some drilling to make it fit, Helen is back to life. She 

doesn't run properly without electricity getting to all the places it should. 

Pacing about impatiently, waiting for the last session of the day. It’s fixed, I want

to go. And go we do, fifteen laps in the final session. Consistent 1.42s, a healthy

improvement on 2014. The TSL timing gives sector times, and they tell me that

combining the best of each gives us a 1.41. That’s getting close to my sad but long-

standing goal of a 1.40 here in this car. But it was all a bit ragged, a flash of that

well-buried inner fury gives pace, but not control, smoothing this out will give us

something more manageable for the race.

Brakes are good, balance is there. You can back it in if you trail brake, but it’s not a

vice any longer. Moreover, they are lasting. Not overheating, not glazing up, not

sticking on or holding off. At last. Understeer is better too, once again we’ve dialled

 another chunk of that out. I like the rear end planted and to get on the power

early, pushing against a good front end. I’m not sure that’s a style so much as a

description of how cars work. But a lot of our speed is how we come off a corner.

That need to preserve momentum learned back in those days actually did us a

lot of favours, because you don’t unlearn it, trying to scavenge any ounce of

apex speed. Dropping 160kg, adding 100bhp and putting it on 888 rubber has

changed the nature of the beast though. We’re still running, oddly, the same

size tyre we used to, the 225/50/16, but the difference between T1R and R888

 is night and day. The extra grip out of Barn means higher exit speeds, the

immensely improved power to weight means far higher approach speeds for

 the corner. The extra grip on the 888 is not enough to make up for the new

velocity. You have to brake, and to pick your speed.

The Jag is better in faster corners. In the slow you can’t do much about sheer

bulk, we will never be able to turn and accelerate like the lighter cars, but give

 us a bend that’s above 70mph, and we are faster through it.

When the David was tinkering, he wired the heads-up speedo back in.

Really only there for road use, it did give some interesting data to ponder as

we tried to find the optimum way through that mighty first corner. This corner is just amazing. When Helen was a 1510kg 230bhp tank back in the JEC days, this bend was flat out on road tyres, you couldn’t get out of Barn fast enough or gather enough speed to need to brake here at all, you just turned in flat out to keep the speed up going up the steep hill for turn 2 in a great wail of tyre, and up it went.

The trick to turn one is that you can actually go up it too fast, and survive, but if you do, you ruin turn two. You have to be able to pull the car back over from the right hand side to the left in order to carry any speed through the right hander. Simply put, too fast through the left ruins the right. Just because it’s up a really steep hill doesn’t change that.

For shits and giggles, I had a peek at the speedo mid-corner, to see what the difference is in speed between what worked, and what didn’t. You might say I had better things to do, but turn one is an old friend. 104mph on the apex is easy. Not fast enough. 107 was about right. At 108 you knew it wasn’t 107 before you looked, and no hope of making turn 2 on the proper line. Anything beyond that causes brown stains. I saw 111, once. Never again, thank you.

The speeds are probably wrong, GPS isn’t the fastest to react, but it’s all relative, the important thing was the difference between so slow it’s boring and holy shit I am going to crash is 7mph.

Day over, new personal best. That matters to me, if we don’t improve year on year then why come back at all?

Qualifying was busy. I got there early, but I was beaten to it by three cars, 

we’re merged with the pre-66 boys and they know a trick or two. 

Not a problem, Mini does not beat Jag in a straight line, and they’re so small 

as not to count, you can get round them. It does mean compromising lap 1 

though, as I remind people constantly, Cadwell quali is unusual because you 

start a timed lap twenty seconds after you leave assembly, so do not wait. 

It’s a long lap, you don’t get many. The other problem though is that it’s 

near impossible to pass in places, catch a slow car at Hall Bends and you have

 to follow it. The XJS is 20 seconds faster than the slower 66 car. On a hot one

 from the outset and you catch the dawdlers slow to leave assembly late on 

lap 2. 3 if you’re lucky.

Traffic everywhere ought not to be the case, but it always is here. There are

 sections of this track you don’t simply flow past them, and at a place that 

one corner can lose you seconds of time it is very hard to find a gap that 

doesn’t disappear faster than you think. Battering down towards Park and 

seeing a Cortina heading into the Gooseneck, you think that’s a lot of space. 

You’ll be on him in the hairpin, lap ruined. Where and how you catch them is 

vital.

Fastest lap in 2014 was the Escort on a mad one, a high 1.42. So we're on pace, we can have a straight fight. That's all we ask.The barbeque was therefore a relieved affair. Windy, actually pretty damned cold if we’re honest. There’s nothing like building a windbreak out of bins and huddling round a ten quid crash-tested barbie with a broken leg to make you feel the glamour of motorsport. It’s exactly how the F1 paddock behave. But the car is fixed, it works.

I have long said that without adversity we have no success. It has to go wrong before we get it right. Well then, this had better go very right, because that was very wrong.

Frankly we’re expecting a 2-horse race here. Me and Primett. Osborne in the dancing Dolomite that did so well last season did the sensible thing and totally changed all the suspension so the car no longer works at all, he was off the pace at Rockingham where Primett made them all look very, very foolish. He was over half a minute clear in both races. Our job is to try not to let that happen here, give the people a show.

One single clear lap is all I felt I got in, and that was not a good one. P2, half a second behind the Escort. But as I was eager to point out, I knew where that half second was, and more. Primett is going to have company, unless he too was baulked from his true pace. For the first time, ever, I am starting to believe.

The blustery, cold Cadwell had given way to its other self, baking, glorious Cadwell. The place is so damned green. If a horde of children wearing curtains came dancing by with a singing nun, it would not be out of place, we’ve got green coming out of our ears. Not in the medical emergency sense. Adding to the green, a visiting Roger Webster splashed with the lime of his race livery.

Helen is behaving. It’s me that needs to get on with it, the car is lovely. If you really press, we have understeer, but it’s muted. Aggressive on power and she will slide, but you really have to abuse it. Brakes are well balanced but a hint to the rear in the end of the braking phase. Not worth losing the overall balance to tease that out, this is how she is. When you get down to this level of quibble, you are getting nicely sorted. Only taken 9 years.

Other than fuelling the beast – and she drinks a little more heavily here than most places – we’re good to go. To the race. Assembly brings that familiar position of examining Steve’s Escort and finding nothing in it. The sills are like something you would pull out of a daub and wattle wall. 

He’s riding this tin can with no HANS device, car too old to need it, and he’s going to throw this car at this place mostly sideways for the next 20 min. Brave pills needed. The bit that really annoys is it looks so good that end up watching him half the time, and the driver himself doesn’t seem to think anything of his antics, he’s as cool as the other side of the pillow.

The repairs from yesterday have left us one downside. The rev counter is now fried. I have to guess the launch rpm by ear. I got it right on the green flag, but as the engines roar around me for the race start and the reds come on, I am guessing this one. Got it wrong. Too much rev, bit of wheelspin in the first phase, and by the time I reach second gear I already know the Escort is going to take turn one first. 

Up the hill we go, through Charlies, he is always faster going in, I tend to get the power on better coming out. So it is here, but I think he’s just a bit wide, takes a split second to settle, and Helen is running at his inside. He’s too late to move and block as he did so bloody well two years ago, and Helen romps down the white line to pass. Fuck me, I’m leading at Cadwell. Been here once before. Tossed it up that time, but we’re better now.

We’re now back to front, I’m running, he’s trying to pass. The only way to stop his attack is to mess up his apex and then power away far enough not to get outbraked. Works in theory. He really does stop late, and on any line, and he will still make the corner. Guessing his plan each corner causes grey hairs. 

It’s working, by and large, the first laps tick by, but I’m weak into the Mountain by comparison, because he’ll come right round you and going wide to stop that puts me slow up that short, sharp leap of faith. As we do, he comes alongside. Not a problem, the entry to Hall Bends is a right but then an immediate left, the natural straightening of the road will scrape him off.

Weighed, and as usual nearly 130kg over the limit, nobody’s going to suggest we’re underweight. It’s the same scrutineer at each meeting, and he tries not to laugh every time.

To camp, and I am damned if I’m not having a brew.

The evening club barbie and trophy giving is a bit less formal than many. Losts of jokes about black sausage, and having to actually prove via TSL my entitlement to the trophy, because our dear Sonia hasn't watched the race and refuses to accept that anyone beats Steve Primett at Cadwell. I'd agree, had it not happened. A peek at the lap charts while they're open, and it's not a fluke, we took fastest lap, we're actually the faster car. Well, hello. That I did not expect.

As we get there, he hasn’t agreed to this plan. He’s going to use the kerb and a bit of grass and go in alongside. Got to give him a little room for this, I can’t just put him in the wall. I recall looking out of the side window and thinking that I hoped he was right about this, because there’s a coat of paint between us and we’re heading into a unique set of sharp bends at over 70mph. The Jag will, if I get this wrong, open the Escort like a can opener.

We make the right and go through the left together. I can see the rise with the right hander, and I know if I keep going like this we won’t come out of it, he’ll get shoved through the forest of markers and there will be two bent cars at the hairpin. Let him have it. I have just been overtaken going through the Hall Bends. 

Until this moment I have never seen anyone go through here faster than Helen does. I’ve caught race-spec 911s in this bit. And now an Eskie has just done me. What. The. Hell. The crowd at the cafe had held their breath, waiting for the crunch. Not one person watching that believed it when two intact cars roared out of Barn.

Primo’s getting wider each lap through turn one, falling victim to that phenomenon of high apex speed ruining turn two, and now he finally puts a wheel too far, recovers it, but slow through Charlies, and on the exit two wheels on the grass, a wobble, a lift, and the Escort settles itself, sees Helen charging on the far right hand side, moves over and there’s my gap down the left. Helen screams by, then moves to block the braking zone, back ahead.

Head down and running, he’s not quite as close as before, settle down and put some pace on, we could do this. Then he’s missing from the mirror. Where the hell is he? I’m looking all around, because usually when he vanishes he appears in front of you from somewhere, but I can’t see him. I grab the jiggling mirror, can’t find him. Where is he? Traffic ahead, a stream of cars, and I can’t find Primett. Bugger.

Into this crowd of Moggies and sundry ancient tinware, but yellows on the main straight, a Mini parked on the left. Cannot pass, and he’s here somewhere. We pass the Mini, I can see a green flag, good enough for me, floor it. 

Weaving through the traffic, turn 2 is almost stationary, round a Moggie, then inside an Alfa, then going to go left past a Mini who goes left and makes me go right, I swear I felt the tail think about oversteer. 

A flicker of white in the mirror – Primett, but he’s still getting past them. I have my break. A calming breath, and just methodically drive this. Don’t even dream of winning it, just drive. Backmarkers come and go, the Star Wars effect of phenomenal straight line speed difference flinging them at you as obstacles, but the gap expands, we are actually out-pacing Primett. 

The last lap board, and we’ve a couple of seconds to play with, what a luxury. So much so that as I get to the foot of the Mountain, there is a Mini in front, car 5. I used to be car 5. I should pass him along the top, and put a lap on him. But I have a cushion, and he’s paid his money, I don’t have to pass him. If I don’t, he gets another lap. Everyone deserves as many laps of Cadwell as they can get. 

So, in a move I never thought I’d pull, I sat behind him. I was glued to the mirror, and I was in a gear that would allow me to fire past like I was on a steam catapult in case my timings were off here, but I sat behind him all the way to the line to take the chequered flag, and my first ever win. 

9 years I’ve been coming here, been second several times, but this is a win. An outright bloody win. Cadwell baby.

A dribbling interview in which you slobber on the microphone and tell everyone what they’ve just seen is mandatory. Nowhere else do you get to cross the start-finish line again after you finish the race, and then drive on the track again to get back to the paddock. I may have waved at everyone, everywhere.

Parc ferme, and a chance to be adored by the throng. Both of them.The Primett move at Hall Bends was popular. Not bloody surprising! The massive blue car that won, also popular. People and their children want to sit in it. Only now do I learn where Primo went when he vanished. Off the road at turn one, is the answer. Because that excursion and another floppy bit the dust after the black and white, he has to go and get his wrist slapped. Being a smug tart, I didn’t nudge another marker after the flag, so I don’t. Bit unfair, we were equally misbehaved, but it’s all about when you do it, I suppose.

To day two then, and the first time I've ever started from pole here. Unlike yesterday, today was simpler, and harder. Lights out and go, much better start, turn one in the lead, go. This is a straight duel, we know from yesterday it's him or me, p3 doesn't matter. 

But he's in range, you can't get the break to put in clear lines and laptimes. It's not like racing another Jag, when you know to within a percentage point or two when he can brake, it's a totally different species. He can stop so late, and take such a different line, that you have to defend against a move that's impossible, something I learned last time we raced each other here. 

That makes my lines tight, defensive, and slow. You can breathe as you exit Barn, safe now until the Gooseneck, but he's so much better through the second half of the lap that you cannot guarantee that Mansfield is safe, or that the Mountain will not once again be my downfall.

Under serious pressure here, lap after lap, he looks inside, he looks outside, so I'm going in tight and trying to cover out wide, and that makes you slow up the hill, and after yesterday I'm guarding that outside line there too. Trying to brake late here is bringing that tiny rear end imbalance into play as I accidentally try trail braking, and she's getting out of shape, to the point that a wild wag on the exit sees the little white devil take partially to the grass in his quest for space. 

The trick, at times like these, is to calm down, to consciously relax. Breathe normally, stop gulping air, get rid of the hot prickles, and drive the damned car. Calm is fast. It is, Helen gets a move on and a small gap starts to appear. Enough to stop defending, and that makes the gap bigger, Helen is on the move and we're extending on pace. We are actually faster. I just needed to realise it.

I have lost race leads before, too easily, simply by telling myself that I have won. You do have to actually win before you do that. Something about chickens.

The solution is the one lap at a time thing, just plug them in until they tell you it's the last one, a metronomic routine of apexes, braking, instrument checks, mirror checks, and mental review of how it feels, sounds, and even smells. The tyres were a bit tricky on lap one, but they settled and have not gone into the old meltdown mode we used to suffer, it all feels good, so what is wrong that I've not noticed? Forget it, just turn and twiddle the controls, and enjoy being here. Having given myself that advice, realisation dawns, this is actually bloody good fun.

Gentle and tidy on this last tour, no markers to murder, not using all the kerb, smooth and easy on the brakes, and nurse her to the flag, victory. Only later will the lap charts tell the tale, that last lap was the fastest of the weekend, my quickest ever recorded here, 1.42.2. And it happened when I knew I had this won, and cruised it home. What does that tell you! 

Neither Steve nor I can quite get our heads round it, but we have just simply out-run him here on laptime, and we never thought that was on the cards. The old Jag has done me proud. 

A moment of slight embarrassment as, revving the engine for a small child as I returned to the paddock, I drove clean past parc ferme, and had to turn it into a cooldown lap of the paddock before joining the throng in parc ferme. Which gets you a trip to the clerk of the course and a large boot in the testicles, for the record. Hat and grand national winner costume, shiny pots, time for home. 

Victory at Cadwell after 9 years, and it's a clean pair of wins. Even the Bear looks pleased. He pretends he doesn't, but we see him taking photos, and he wants a lap chart. There might be only one car out at the minute, but we race together. Cadwell baby.

For those who kept scrolling this far, here's the post-credits scene so popular in films these days - this is me singing the Righteous Brothers' "Unchained Melody" to the crowd at post-race karaoke. This might be a lie.

The start of any test day is always the same. Full of home and optimism....

But soon there are tools, and swearing. A unique shot catches our wayward pilot actually wearing a coat.

I brought bouncers.

Wish I'd never joined Weight Watchers.

Serious face, time for business. Cadwell bites if you let it.

Assembly before the race takes 4 or 5 days.

I gave Bear twenty quid to break his feet, but he just took the cash.

Too much rpm, wheelspin, and buggeration.

There he goes, the little white devil. Already I'm expecting an afternoon inspecting his rain light.

Unexpectedly, we stole the lead. First marker of the afternoon is about to go for a burton.

Now if we could just get him to get lost... This was intense.

An amazing, unexpected, audacious move at Hall Bends gave him the position back, and my flabber was gasted.

The Escort is exactly this much faster through the Hall Bends/Hairpin sequence.

Back ahead, running like food poinsoning, and a yeehah yomp over the kerbs to dive past a Moggie at the hairpin.

Clear, leading, and happy as a clam. 

The Mountain. What more is there than the eternal quest to defy gravity?

The Hairpin is an awkward corner. The car just about fits, but it's a fiddly, 30mph job.

Being merciful to a Mini, eyes on the mirror. Everyone deserves to get a full race if they can.

Victor's privilege at Cadwell, the sole car to take the pitlane and dribble on the mike.

People like the big blue shopping cart. This lady had one. Roger appears a bit scared.

Slapped round the face, the Eskie took the brunt of the bollard damage.

No apologies for this. First win at Cadwell. 

Magic talking pictures.

Cadwell baby!

Race 2 was harder, but less eventful. Primett puffs a tyre at Park in his quest to close down the Jag's top end advantage.

Helen is under some compression at the foot of the Mountain. The white devil just won't go away.

Another floppy takes a little journey.

Please go away. Please go away. Please go away...

At the wheel, you don't realise just how much elevation change there is. And this is not the steep bit.

Flying to the double. What a weekend.

What your grandma would call "the talkies." 

Race 2.

CADWELL PARK 2016