SEPTEMBER 2004

              A Moveable War - Sport

Our embedded journalist reports from the 240 Hours of Le Mans. Roger that: 240 hours.

We were butt-kicking at last. On the first lap alone, our Champion Racing Audi R8 slashed and burned its way from sixth to third. Starting driver J.J. Lehto was doing what he does best. "The car is slipping and sliding a little at the moment," he commented almost nonchalantly through the headsets, driving at 10/10ths as he spoke. (Try that sometime.) And Brad Kettler, Champion's technical director, just nodded. As more rubber was laid down, the track would come to us. Looking good—

But wait . . . "us"? Whatever happened to journalistic impartiality?

This was war, son, and "we" were Champion Racing of Pompano Beach, Florida, U.S.A.—America's claimant to overall victory at Le Mans. Impartiality be damned.

For the first hour, Lehto held third behind the two purple British Team Veloqx Audi R8s, Jamie Davies in the No. 88 car leading Allan McNish in No. 8. Still 23 hours to go, anything could happen—and did. Rinaldo Capello, fourth in the Japanese Team Goh Audi R8, spun into a gravel trap. He was in the pits for a spell, gravel being bulldozed out of his car. Of 48 entrants, only the four privateer Audis—two from Veloqx, one each from Goh and Champion—had a shot. Does a 24-hour championship bout between four evenly matched R8s sound dull?

It was like watching Ali, Frazier, Foreman, and Holmes, all in the ring at once.

Lapping the 8.46-mile course in 3:37.0, Lehto matched McNish exactly. Davies, unharassed, inched ahead. Lehto reported mild "graining"—the tread compound of his front Michelins was being combed sideways by continuing understeer. But it wasn't serious enough to change tires on his third fuel stop at 5:35 p.m. Saturday. He got 80 liters and roared away, 1.5 seconds behind McNish, when—

"Oooh . . . bad, bad damage."

Lehto's voice was shrill.

The TV monitor in the Champion garage showed our R8 and McNish's, mere feet apart, smashed against the barrier. McNish had hit oil entering the super-fast Porsche curves, slewed across the gravel to the barrier. Before Lehto could react, turning in at 185, he followed. McNish suffered a concussion sufficient to eliminate him from the race.

In the Champion garage, everyone wore an expression of blank shock—which is to say, no expression at all.

"I hit really hard," Lehto agonized. "Sorry, guys—we're done."

In a lesser team, with a lesser race car, he would've been right.

In the beginning, this story was to be about logistics: We would investigate the vast materiel and management needed to mail a front-rank American team to Le Mans. A worthy topic—and Champion Racing made a worthy subject.

Two months earlier, Jerome Freeman, in charge of purchasing at Champion, had sea-freighted two jam-packed semi-trailers to Europe. Two team-owned MAN diesel tractors waited in Germany. Accompanying these jammed-to-bursting trailers across the Atlantic was Champion's exquisite former Arrows F1 luxury coach. Total weight for the three: 55 tons. Add two-and-a-half tons of air freight, plus travel for a crew of just under 50.

There were two ways to compute the cost of this one-car effort to win Le Mans, Champion told us. If you calculate merely the price of preparing for and waging battle—transoceanic shipping; spare engines, transaxles, and bodies; multitudes of equipment, crew, and support functions—the price is $1.2 million. But if you have the stones to face the real cost—preparation, the race, then full restoration of the car to its pre-race perfection—the bill is a tick under $2 million.

But how can that be? Eight hundred large just for refurbishing?

Easy. To begin, running Le Mans will expend three or four carbon-fiber noses and tails. Each nose costs $25,000. The incredibly complex tail and engine cover cost $75,000. We're up to $300,000 to $400,000 just for new skin. And if you write off a chassis—we won't go there.

Transportation costs are so exorbitant that this year Champion didn't even send its own tool kits. It was more economical to duplicate everything in Europe and save round-trip shipping. Okay. But consider the massive logistical effort here, and in Europe, of assembling all the necessary tools. Consider further that the team needs the right tools and spares for absolutely every bad-ass scenario and dark-night cataclysm that seasoned technical director Kettler could fantasize happening in 24 hours of warfare—for instance, a smashed car next to Allan McNish's R8 with 22 hours left to race.

But we're getting ahead of ourselves. We weren't going to write about this logistical wing flapping and crowing without being onsite, verifying every screwdriver, flashlight, and hand wipe. We would be an honorary member of the team.

Like much of the crew, we arrived in France eight days before the start of the race, June 12, and would remain for pack-up day afterward—the full 240 Hours of Le Mans. But already we were latecomers. Kettler, car chief Bobby Green, and wizards Keith Bransford and New Zealander Greg "Kiwi" Martin had arrived at Audi Sport in Ingolstadt, Germany, 10 days earlier to build out the R8—chassis number 605, engine number 507. The latter had 2480 racing miles on it and would be replaced prior to the start. R8 engine prep is strictly Audi's province; four fresh engines would appear at Le Mans, one for each car. At Kettler's request, they'd be drawn by lots, giving everyone an even chance off the line.

The Saturday afternoon we arrived, Champion guys were all over the map. Ralph Bunn, the composite specialist, normally repairing undertrays and splitters 18 hours a day, sat on the pavement of the hot pit filling cracked concrete with lethal, don't-breathe-these-fumes composite goo—the better not to cut down our Michelins when things got going. Jackie Carrie was cleaning and polishing every flat surface from here to Normandy. Marcus Haselgrove, Stefan Huewe, and Andrew Mallion were setting up the data-acquisition systems that would be critical in the race. Phil Long and Josh Lambert, full-time graphics producers, were trimming enormous photo prints, one of each member of the crew, and fitting them to the inner walls of the garage. Esprit de corps is vital. Champion has plenty. While nominally American, its members represent 11 nations—the U.S., Britain, France, Germany, Italy, Austria, Finland, New Zealand, Haiti, Trinidad, and Colombia.

In the paddock, a full crew of first-rate English caterers (not an oxymoron—they were superb) was busily preparing 60-plus delicious breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. A team washing machine and dryer stood ready to clean drivers' sweat-soaked Nomex. The massage table in the coach, a full-time masseur in attendance, awaited the strained necks and backs of the drivers. Two air compressors drive Champion's air wrenches and grinders and can compress 300 psi and 5800 psi, respectively, while the generator set produces enough energy to drive five air-conditioned houses running at "the Full Houston." And in a day or two, Brad Kettler's private Weather Underground—two crack weather-satellite-scanning French military meteorologists—would appear. They are Kettler's secret weapon, able to predict within a minute when and where on the course rain will fall, in what size drops, for how long. They are scary accurate.

Meanwhile, the Champion R8's mechanicals are getting a thorough cleaning. The car's shakedown at Ingolstadt's test track took place in rain, and now Kiwi Martin, Keith Bransford, Sigi Hausberger, soft-spoken Shawn Hurd, and booming Adam Masters, fluent in German after 17 years of F1 and Audi Sport crewing, are "detailing" the car according to the best South Florida tradition. But this is more than idle preening. "Water can get trapped inside the chassis, leading to rust and corrosion," Martin says, smiling cheerfully, as ever. "And getting way down inside to clean everything, you look really close at lines and fittings. If anything is leaking or chafing, you see it now, before it's a problem."

They attach the raw-magnesium wheel rims of the $25,000 F1-style Beissbarth infrared chassis alignment system. Adjusting a little here, a little there, the thrust angle between the front and rear axles is within 0.001 degree of true.

Then Bransford shows us a little plastic throttle block Champion has made. If the throttle cable breaks out on the course—it happens—the driver can insert the block in the throttle linkage. It delivers 4000 rpm from the twin-turbo 3599cc V-8, bringing the car back to the pits for repairs at good speed. The throttle block even has a retaining shoulder, so it cannot fall out. And by Kettler's specification, a backup cable is already in place, ready to be connected in one minute. Think of everything—then think some more.

Jerome Freeman is busy in the nearest trailer setting up 40 VHF headsets, one of which will bring even the most confidential midrace communications to our privileged ears. Freeman is fairly new to this vital command-and-control duty, and radios famously crap out. "Happens all the time," he nods. "This can be a stressful job."

Speaking of messages from the ether, Bosch telemetry monitors over 20 functions full time—including tire-pressure sensors, the unhappy lesson learned from Michele Alboreto's 2001 fatal crash during R8 testing at Lausitz. Telemetry is relayed by four repeaters spaced around the track, each leased from the French government by Bosch and licensed as a radio transmitter. Champion pays $13,000 for telemetry during the race.

And here, as usual, Kettler has an idea. (Think of everything—then think some more.) He will give the driver a real-time, onboard readout of his lap average and fuel mileage. The efficient R8 can deliver about 5.4 mpg and completes 12 laps per fuel stop. (We shouldn't be telling you that—it's secret—but Kettler said, no, it's fine, go ahead.) If the driver is not making the target mileage, it's in his interest to conserve. Losing a lap per fill-up would be crippling.

Conscious of the overwhelming importance of limiting fuel stops, on the Le Mans formation lap in 2003, wily Finn J.J. Lehto ran the Champion R8 up to high speed and then switched off the ignition and coasted down several times, saving enough fuel to add a full lap to his initial tank. Frank Biela in a rival factory Audi Sport R8, thinking if Lehto can do it, so can I, attempted the same extra lap, not realizing Lehto had saved fuel. The car ran dry at the far end of the course, its race destroyed before the first pit stop.

Without question, the Audi R8 qualifies for racing immortality—in 50 races before this Le Mans, it has 44 poles and 41 wins. It is so successful, in fact, that now the regulations are trying to rein it in. What was once a 740-hp engine got restrictor-plated down to 610, then to 540 this year. The span of the rear wing was reduced for all cars from 2.0 meters to 1.8 for 2004. But without a blink, Audi simply transformed its V-8 from the previous 8000-rpm screamer to a torquey monster with a power peak of 6100 rpm. Astonishingly, the 2004 R8 is lapping the Sarthe exactly as fast as a vastly more powerful R8 did a couple of years ago. The only losers are the drivers. Lehto gets a dreamy look talking about it: "With 750 horsepower, this would be a fantastic car, and 900 horsepower would be even better."

The smaller rear wing mandated in 2004 dictated a new R8 aero package. More restrictive sideboards were necessary to reduce airflow over the nose floor, curtailing front downforce and restoring front-to-rear balance with the smaller wing. The new aero package created less drag, and Audi surmised that its customary Le Mans sixth gear was now too low, letting the engine climb past the optimal 6100 rpm. Computer modeling suggested a taller gear would deliver 3 to 4 mph of additional top speed. But racing is an empirical art; Champion tested the taller gear the first night of practice. To Champion driver Emanuelle Pirro, the increased gap between fifth and top gear made the tall gear feel slower. The telemetry said otherwise. Sold.

Another tightened regulation allows only 30 sets of tires for practice and the race. In a dry race lasting perhaps 380 laps (3215 miles), a team could conceivably use a new set every 36 laps. If the setup is poor and the car is not making good grip, tires could grain or blister more quickly. And major changes in temperature can further eliminate large parts of the tire inventory. Finally, tire selection must be made weeks beforehand, and Le Mans can be stinking hot or wet and cold, suiting very different tire selection. Kettler's tire choices, like everyone else's, were a blind gamble, but on the plus side, Michelin's 2004 tires have greatly reduced rolling resistance, for better top speed, and make considerably better grip.

Kettler gambled on a hot race like last year's but didn't go all the way out on the limb, ordering five sets of the soft cold tire, 11 sets of the medium hard, and 12 sets of the hot-weather tire—with two sets of hard qualifiers. The key: Michelin's medium-hard compound is usable down to 62 degrees. Below that, we're in trouble.

As it turned out, we weren't.

Ricky "The Trucker" Clifton is in charge of tires, meticulously inflating set after set with pure nitrogen. Nitrogen has less moisture in it than air, and microscopic impurities in ambient air, subjected to high rotation speeds, are thought to generate friction and heat. At all times, Clifton keeps two sets cooking inside the tire-heating canopy—modified by Kettler to simultaneously heat spare gearsets. If needed, the heated gears' clearances will match surrounding components. (Think of everything—then think some more.) Clifton is an easygoing, Swisher Sweets-smoking Florida trucker who loves nothing more than seeing the entire North American Continent out his windshield. The MAN tractors he drives in Europe have automatic transmissions and a fraction of the power of his 18-gear Kenworth at home. To him, Europe is interesting—kinda—but it doesn't hold a candle to making black smoke across the Texas Panhandle.

Racing is a cruel master, for engineers as well as drivers. In qualifying Wednesday and Thursday, 7 p.m. to midnight, our R8 was in trouble—hardly the fast, cooperative front-row car it had been in April prequalifying. Our three drivers each took their turn. The high-spirited Lehto went first. Next came Pirro, a conscientious, charming Roman given to outbursts of wonderful Italian clownishness. (Roberto Benigni goes racing.) Finally came German Marco Werner, quiet, studious, just a little gloomy, like someone trying—unsuccessfully—to remember a name.

The Audi R8 is extremely sensitive to chassis tuning, and by the end of Wednesday evening, one millimeter of additional ride height and 0.5mm added to the Gurney flap on the trailing edge of the body transformed it from abominable to passable. But it was still not right. And Thursday it was worse—harsh vibration at speed, severe oversteer under braking becoming severe understeer in the corner. It even seemed to track left at speed.

For four hours Thursday night, the team chased the setup while the other R8s went faster and faster. We fell two, three, four seconds behind. Finally, Kettler ordered the front shocks changed. Instantly, the car was cured. The front shocks had been getting worse and worse for two nights. Now, just before midnight, Werner did a superb 3:34.9, sixth fastest, in pitch-black. We'd lost precious time—but why not? It happens to Jeff Gordon.

Car chief Bobby Green gave us a battle-hardened shrug. "Some days you're the bug, Ted, and some days you're the windshield."

In the race-morning warm-up, on full tanks, we were the fastest car on the track.

The first thing we heard in the headsets after Lehto's big Saturday-afternoon crash—that is, after he said, "Sorry, guys, we're done"—was an eerily calm, well-paced voice. "We'll fix it, J.J. Stay with the car. Don't get out. They'll pull you out of the gravel—then no matter what they say, get it back here. We'll fix it."

Brad Kettler's father had counseled him as a teenager that it was all right to be fatherly, even when you're young. The voice in the headset was reassuring, profoundly gentle. We watched the TV. Our R8 was dragged out of the gravel.

"Now start it, J.J."

"I don't know . . ."

"Just get it here. We'll fix it—I promise."

The R8 arrived. Its left front and side were destroyed, an occasion for manic ranting and shouting. Instead, the crew was dead calm, surgical.

Dave Maraj (pronounced "mirage"), Champion's respected owner, known to all as "Mr. Maraj," watched his crew perform operation after operation expeditiously and accurately, as if accomplishing a well-rehearsed checklist. Born in the Punjab, then resettled in Trinidad when he was just three months old, Maraj, 51, purchased a small Pompano Beach Porsche dealership 17 years ago. His eponymous Champion Porsche is now the largest Porsche dealership in the world.

A breathtaking inventory of fundamental R8 components was replaced—the nose, the left side pod, the nose box, the left mirror, the clutch master cylinder, the left-front brake duct, a complete left-front suspension and brake assembly. It couldn't have been done faster, better, more quietly. It was like a drill. In this crisis, the whole crew had thought about everything—then thought some more. After 32 astonishing minutes, the wrecked car was brand-new. The new suspension, having been precalibrated weeks before, was bolted on in perfect alignment.

At Team Veloqx next door, there was all manner of yelling and running and more yelling around McNish's car. Our R8 was racing again by 6:45, in 41st place—running as flawlessly as in the morning warm-up. The Veloqx car remained in the garage another hour and later came back in for additional work. It was never really right from there on.

We had one more six-minute delay Sunday morning to replace the left-front brake rotor. A too-large brake-cooling duct had come unclamped, overheating the brake. Otherwise, the Champion car ran flawlessly for 21 hours, climbing steadily to 24th at 8 p.m., to 11th at 9 p.m., then to 6th at midnight and 4th at 6 a.m. By that time, we were drunk with fatigue, tipsy, unsure where our feet were headed.

Finally, at 10 a.m. Sunday, we passed into third, 10 laps behind the leader—Team Goh's Capello/Ara/Kristensen R8. On the leader's lap, in second, was the Herbert/Davies/Smith Veloqx car, which had lost the lead repairing a bent left-rear suspension arm. We remained precisely 10 laps behind both, as we had been all night. The gap would remain unchanged to the finish. Put another way, we had matched the winning pace for the race's last 20 hours. Without a crash, we would have been fighting for the lead.

But racing is a cold discipline; no degree of 'splainin' replaces results. Dindo Capello, Tom Kristensen, and Seiji Ara won; Johnny Herbert's car was second; and we were third. And this was a vintage year for Americans, with Team Corvette one-two in GTS, the Maassen/Bergmeister/ Long Porsche GT3 winning GT, and Binnie/Field/Sutherland's Lola-Judd winning LM2. But if you like seeing an American team well represented at the peak of world sports-car racing, thank Dave Maraj, Brad Kettler, and Champion Racing. No team was more professional or better prepared. And to have finished third—at the winner's pace—after such catastrophic damage was plain bloody heroic.

If Champion had won, we would've been happier—but we could not have been prouder.

PHOTOGRAPHY BY TIM CRETE AND RICHARD DOLE