AN ENCHANTING TASTE OF RACING GREATNESS
TOUR AUTO 2022
Tour Auto is a massive historic race, changing its itinerary every year, tapping into the endless treasure trove of incredible driving roads that is France. The caravan left the seductive lights of Paris a week before my encounter with them.
By now, on the last day of the rally, more than a few cars threw in the towel, proof that this is no walk in the park, but a gruelling challenge, at times. Times such as today, when tourists surely choose faire la grasse matinee, complete with breakfast in bed, rather than venturing outside. It’s a testament to the charm of these cars and the burning passion of their drivers that they strapped themselves in the noisy, damp, gasoline smelling vintage drives and went out to take on the mountains. After the red salvo of modern day prancing horses poured away in the distance, flanked by a fleet of angry big nose Bavarians, it was time for the main act to commence.
Then, just as I am circling a Lusso that stopped for refreshments at the local cafe, the first Alfa shows up. And it’s nothing but my coup d'coeur. The inimitable Sprint Speciale. In white. A dove barely touching the ground on its delicate narrow tires. The sole bright spot in a coffee coloured village, a spoonful of freshly whipped cream that turned the lights on at full blast inside my heart and mind. Miraculously, given the level of emotion, I got the shot. The sun is out inside me. I am truly and fully in Alfa paradise right now. A blue TZ flashes by. Bertone Coupes, then a Giulia Super. Surrounded by all sorts of Italian delicacies. Such cars may never ever drive on this street again. Never. This is such a unique moment. A Dino passes by a Lusso. A 279 GTB closely (too closely for a shot) follows a Stratos. A Fanalone overtakes a slower car. A racing Daytona growls by. And a majestic Flaminia Zagato Super Sport takes the level of grace of the village’s market to dizzying heights. German cars also get into the act, as well as some cult French machinery, from the fragile looking Panhard to the small fleet of Djets and the de rigueur Alpines, most of them in that most iconic racing blue. It’s a splendid world, wildly enchanting in its ephemeral nature.
At this time, I want to stay in this feeling at least for the rest of the day, but I need to leave Campan and try to take a faster route, so I can meet up with the cars once more, this time at the final destination, in Andorra.
And then, just when I thought the Tour was over, the cherry on the cake. The capital city of the Principality has a distinct charm of its own, with the steep streets and its tiara of luxury shops lining them, but, on this day, you would have to rub your eyes to not believe you were in yet another Principality. There is a strong air of Monaco this evening, with the sort of mechanical wonders more usually seen around the moored yachts than in front of the apres skis of Andorra la Vella. The light: perfect. The mood: unbelievable. Every local classic car enthusiast seems to be out enjoying his pride and joy. What a feast for the senses.
The Tour means so much more than I managed to experience this year. It feels like I dipped a naughty finger into a way too tempting mille feuille, had the first taste of it and promptly realised I could get used to that on my daily menu. Unfortunately, the next edition is a full year away and the wait will be long. Very long.
