Fiesta time at Le Mans

As a motorsport-hungry teenager, a 1.1L Ford Fiesta was never going to fully satisfy the urge to heel-and-toe and create tail-happy oversteer. But, for a student, it was frugal and sensible and it kept my parents happy knowing I had a vehicle which shuddered at the thought of 75mph plus. At least it featured a workable handbrake, so there was a little bit of fun to be had.

There was no question of not taking my Fiesta to Le Mans, though. This was my first shot at a foreign adventure, and I wasn't going to miss it. To my mind, after years of being taken to the French endurance classic by my dad, making my way to the circuit on my own was the kind of passing-out ceremony which marked the transition from boyhood to adulthood. Thrilled with the independence it offered (if not its lack of performance against my mate's Mini), I thought I could trump them all by taking the A-registered, skinny-tyred snail to La Sarthe.

No-one would be able to laugh at me again.

Talking of laughing, it started when we pulled up in the ferry terminal at Portsmouth. I'd figured that the less laborious way of travelling to the circuit would be to cut the Route Nationale mileage once we'd got to the continent so we headed for Cherbourg.

What I hadn't figured was that because we'd left at primetime Tuesday morning, I was lined up in the departure car port next to an E-Type, a Sunbeam Tiger and a Ferrari 328. We were all obviously headed in the same direction, but our efforts came in for a great deal of mocking - even though I had bought my bright red car already equipped with the Eighties stigma of a 'go faster' stripe and some truly rubbish plastic wheel trims. Apparently that didn't cut the mustard. I was pleased that once we'd serenely accelerated out of first gear when we got to France I didn't see those mickey-takers again.

I should have realised what a mistake this was, but my pal (called Swaff, don't ask why) decided that - as passenger and navigator - he would require refreshment for the entire journey. We found the first available hypermarket and loaded up with crates of beer. Swaff, not known for his 'everything in moderation' outlook on life, decided that 12 crates would be enough. A baguette and a lump of cheese were also purchased. We were set. The only problem was the weight of the 288 bottles of booze in the back meant the suspension was so loaded that the front wheels only just touched the road...

We made the circuit on the same day as we'd set off (an achievement in my book) and settled down in Camping Houx for a weekend of baby-sized beer bottles, chargilled chicken from 'Mr Poulet's' stall by the pedestrian tunnel and exploring the seedier side of the funfair which, strangely enough, my dad had never told me about.

The budget was limited. Saturday jobs aren't the best funding for a trip on this scale (particularly with Swaff's thirst) but we were going to enjoy ourselves nonetheless. The fact we'd overestimated our ability to drink and had to sell three crates to get enough money for petrol home just added to the excitement.

The race? I can't remember much about it, but that's not the point. I'd done 'my' first Le Mans.