Continued....

Down and Out

Five hours into the race and Robin Liddell was early into his second double-stint when the first signs of trouble began to rise - along with the oil and water temperature displays on his dashboard. A first pitstop failed to reveal the source of the problem, and Robin was sent out again after a straightforward top-up of fluids. He was back in again twenty minutes later for another replenishment. The initial impression each time he headed back out was that things might have been sorted, but with each successive lap that temperature gauge revealed the truth. His lap times were still good, and four-eighteens were typical for Robin, but the problem was clearly still there.

With 75 laps completed Robin came back to the PK pits for the mechanics to attempt something more major. The car was backed into the garage and the crew started probing about through the steam and scalding water to see if there was anything as obvious as a split hose or loose sensor. Everything was double-checked and reconnected, coolant replaced, and Robin was sent out once more. True to form, he promptly did a 4:18.254, followed by a 4:18.712.

At this stage of the evening Robin was still able to run for several laps before the signs returned to confirm that all was not well with the Porsche's flat six. More worrying, perhaps, was the fact that the intervals between going out and being forced back again were growing progressively shorter. Whatever it was, the problem was getting more acute.

At twenty past ten Robin pitted for one of his shorter unscheduled stops. "He came in again to flush the cooling system and get the air out of it," explained Mike Pickup. "Hopefully that's cured it." There was optimism in his words, but they weren't supported by the tone of his voice.

Once again, Robin's first flying lap was a good one - one of his better ones in fact at 4:17.439, but his next showed on the screens as a 4:25.297. Those kind of times from Robin Liddell could only mean one thing - he was back through the pitlane. The car headed straight into the garage, and was up on its jacks within seconds. Liddell stayed strapped into the car while the mechanics swarmed around the back of the car, their black and yellow overalls making them look even more like busy bees. Ten minutes later they were still at work, with fluids collecting in the drip-tray and steam still occasionally clouding their workspace. One of the mechanics started wafting the passenger door back and forth to create a flow of air past a sweltering Liddell, who waited patiently, his head slumped forwards.

Mechanics were crawling under the car from every direction, and there was a sense of time running out. A full set of new tyres; scrubbed for the back, shiny new for the front, were rolled in, and then rolled out again. Then the rears were recalled, and fitted. Was it going out again? A loud hiss from the airjacks heralded the car's descent to the floor - it was evident even in situations like this, team discipline and good practice insisted that the car could not be seen dirty in public. Polishing cloths in hand, the crew eased #78 out onto the apron once more. It was a brief curtain-call. An animated discussion over the radio between Mike Pickup and Robin Liddell had the car straight back in again. The jacks wheezed back into action, but this time Robin Liddell's belts were unbuckled and he was already clambering out of the car.

We can only watch from a distance as the drama is enacted in front of us. I'm reluctant to take any photos. I can sense rather than see that the prognosis is not good. Mike Pickup takes a drink from Caroline. He hasn't announced anything, but his body language speaks volumes. From the back of the garage David Warnock walks through, suited and ready for another stint. He joins the group clustered around the rear wing of the car and, as if on cue, one or two start hugging each other. Nothing's been said that we can hear, but the message is clear. It's all over.

"I'm gutted, mate, you know I am," says Mike Pickup as he walks towards me. It's an emotional moment, and there'd be no point in denying that several grown men were close to tears. As we walked back through to the rear of the garage I asked Mike if there was nothing they could do, reminding him that the team lost almost three hours last year, yet still finished sixth. "We could strip it down and try again, I suppose," he shrugged, sitting down to rest his head on his arms. Then his head lifted. "I think we should, I think we should. I'm game if they are. We're strong, you know we are."

Mike walked back through to the car and called the crew together. They stood in a huddle like a group of rugby players about to begin an important match, red eyed but determined, heads together and arms stretched around adjacent shoulders to form a single unit. We weren't party to what was said, but it must have been stirring stuff, because they broke apart with the look of men refreshed. With well sprung steps, they headed for the back of the car. "OK," said Pickup, "we're going to give it a go. Now, everyone out, and let them get on with it."

A bewildered French ACO observer shuffled forwards, holding out a pad of paperwork. Scrawled across the front was one word, bold capitals making it stand out clearly: ABANDON, underlined above and below. All it required was Mike's signature. "No," he said, "We carry on." There was a look of confusion - even consternation - on the man's face, and then realisation dawned. He smiled, nodded, and allowed Mike to ruffle his hair. "Ce n'est pas finis."

It's amazing the sense of elation that the clutching of hope from the jaws of defeat can create. Being the nearest media person present, I was despatched to the Radio Le Mans studio to ensure they knew that reports of the car's death were somewhat premature. I arrived, breathless, only to be ushered straight into the studio and asked to broadcast my news live. I can't remember what I said, but something along the lines of "We're not giving up yet" seems to hit the mark. The scene back at the PK garage was one of hectic activity and I returned to the Media Centre to spread the news.

For half an hour I wrote about hope, bulldog spirit, grit and determination. I wanted to believe what I was reading on the screen in front of me. Then David Lister, who has been taking many of the photographs for PK this year, walked in. He made a slicing gesture across his throat. I shook my head, but no, he nodded. Suddenly I wished I could oblige him, but why blame the messenger?

I was met near the truck by David Warnock and his wife Dawn, heading back to their hotel and children. He confirmed the news. They had, after all, been forced to retire the car. "Next year, next year," said David, forcing a smile. "Shit, I've got unfinished business here!" Approaching the back of the garage Piers Masarati came up and we clasped arms. "We're going over to the fairground to get drunk," he said. "Give my regards to the guys at dailysportscar, in case we don't come back tomorrow."

Mike Pickup was standing by the car, the only sound in the garage coming from the cars still passing on the track beyond. "We found a cracked liner in the third cylinder," he said. "It's not what you expect from an engine that's only done five hours. That we'd have problems with engine or gearbox simply never entered my head, but like any component, they can fail." Realisation hadn't fully sunk in yet. "The guys have worked immensely hard and they deserve better than this," he said, as the rattle of a chain came from the corner. We both looked up at the noise. Kieran, one of those PK guys who'd worked so hard, had begun to lower the shutters. Two foot from the floor he paused. "What about the sign?" he asked. The panels over the garages invariably get stolen if they're left up for even a minute after the end of the race, yet they have great meaning to the teams who have worked beneath them. "No," said Pickup. "We'll come back at three tomorrow and take it down then." Kieren nodded, and those last two feet of pit apron disappeared from view.

Mike Pickup moved to the front of the car and rested his elbows on the bonnet. His head came down, passing his fingers through his hair, and he gazed unseeing at the wall beyond. When that shutter comes down, it's so final........