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Ten to nine, Friday morning. The trackside kiosks selling mayonnaise-lashed chips are a) open for business and b) elegantly framed by a ripple of lightning. In the adjacent forests, thousands of German campers are marinated in equal quantities of beer and rainwater.
Even at times like this, it's impossible not to adore Spa-Francorchamps.
Like Monza one week beforehand, it inspires a sense of wonder whether or not there are cars going around. Some complain that namby-pamby asphalt run-off areas have diluted its edge (even if they don't appear to offer much retardation in the wet), but the on-board camera offers a different perspective - especially when it's raining. Is that a ball of spray ahead or could there be a spinning hunk of carbon fibre within? There's no way of telling - and that's when this sport exercises its full capacity to chill.
But the "ooh-it's-a-bit-wet-we-can't-possibly-race-if-it-stays-like-this" reaction of some drivers was inexcusably lame.
