IF YOU’VE EVER tried to catch a Piccadilly tube at 5pm, you’ll understand the crush from a crowded mass, the driving heave as the doors fling open, followed by a pressing squeeze as you fight for enough space to enable the doors to close behind you.

NURBURGRING 24HRS IMAGE GALLERY

 I wasn’t in Piccadilly though, nor on a tube. I was packed navel to navel with a horde of bearded Germans in camo gear. The air inside the cabin was clammy and stale, enriched by the dank aroma of braai smoke and Veltin Pilsener belching forth from every belly around me.

Sound like a ride to hell? Well it was – to the Green Hell.

Welcome to Hell

I first visited the Nürburgring’s GP circuit a few years ago, sampling the air horns, efficiency and order of the European F1 race. The massive stands, paddock buildings, baguettes and beer are all an upper class accompaniment to Bernie’s beloved circus.

But one has to venture further into the depths of the Grune Hulle (German for the Green Hell) to really experience the majesty of the ring. You soon realise the VIP passes and champagne pretensions of the F1 event sound great, but in reality are somewhat sterile compared to the track’s legendary 24-hour race, which takes place in May each year.

You see, we weren’t granted access to the Nordschliefe on that first occasion. Like most petrolheads I had longed to go to the iconic track since childhood, but the most I had seen of the old circuit were the spires of the castle which overlooks it.

I was grateful to be back and more importantly for the bus doors to open. I jumped out into what resembled the Pikey’s caravan park from the movie Snatch. But there was no time to gawk as the crack and wail of V8 and V10s beckoned. The noise reverberated through the surrounding trees as we made our way into the forest, with every passing car dragging a host of red-eyed creatures from their tents to witness the track spectacle.

En route I spotted a sign that read ‘Welcome to Hell’. I smiled at the irony, almost kissing the muddy path beneath me as I was filled with expectation and excitement. I was on holy ground, in a sacred place where every performance car is born, tested and often dies.

Finally I saw it: the catchment fences of Brunnchen. Although this was the morning of the main race, some fans had been set up here the whole week, which included partying it up every night. In the wide dirt bowl of the spectator area were all the signs of debauchery – smouldering fires and clearly sore heads, with empty Jagermeister bottles, dented beer kegs, stompies and Warsteiner cans strewn across the barren earth.

Not since the opening scene of the movie The Hangover have I seen such devastation the morning after, only this time we were deep in the Eifel Mountains, surrounded by a forest with Audi R8s, BMW M3s and Porsches thundering by. 

The terror