Gordy takes it slow

Gordon Spice was one of the people who made the lunacy of Dunlop bearable; a thoroughly nice and entertaining man who was also seriously bloody quick on track. Some time around 1978, he entered a 24-hour club event at the Nurburgring. Here in Britain, we think of club racing events in terms of lovingly tuned cars that will probably be driven home after the race. In Germany it's somewhat more serious. The field comprised several ex-works Porsches and BMWs, and the live-in trailers on which they arrived wouldn't have disgraced a Spinal Tap gig. Alongside these beasts, Gordon's Capri looked distinctly humble.

But looks can be deceptive, and the other cars were unlikely to have a similar level of experience and talent working the knobs and levers. Gordon was warned to keep the revs down in practice. This was to be no more than a pre-season shakedown before the start of the Tricentrol British Touring Car season. He didn't need to win,place or even show. All was going well until someone cut through Gordy's line with a little too much enthusiasm. From the pit wall we were treated to the sight of a Ford Capri slicing through the Porsches like a panic-buyer going for the last bog roll. He secured pole position by an embarrassing margin and was immediately disqualified.

But I'm getting ahead of myself...

On the Friday before practice, Gordy asked me if I fancied a run round the track. "I won't be going quickly; just want to remind myself where the corners are." He darted his thumb at his road car, a rather special 911.

"Hell yeah."

We set off and I quickly came to understand that "Not going quickly" is a relative term. This was the old Nurburgring; nearly eighteen miles of hills bumps, bends, and opportunities to experience German emergency medical aid. The road was still open to normal traffic and - and this is an important point - tourists. By the first corner we were already into near-relativistic speed. Porsches have excellent brakes, but this was largely irrelevant as the Spice right foot was having more fun on another pedal. Gordon steered with two fingers casually hooked around the bottom of the steering wheel. His left hand was used to indicate points of interest with a fragrantly smouldering cigar. My waist and hindquarters were somehat more space efficient in those days, and slid ever further up each seat bolster like a suicidal wall-of-death rider.

The earthlings in their Beetles and NSUs seemed to accept our passing without protest and I began to enjoy the ride... right up until we saw the coach.

It was parked in the middle of the road, and a crowd of Japanese photographers milled happily around, taking shots of the fairytale castle that sits alongside the track. They scattered in various directions - most of which brought them into contact with someone running the other way. Meanwhile, the Porsche demonstrated the physics that become much more noticeable when a (very) rear-engined car brakes hard on the exit of a corner.

My memory of the next few seconds is confused. It largely consists of terrified faces, mostly bespectacled, fleetingly staring in at me through the side window. So far there'd been no collisions or, I think, screams. I looked over at Gordon. He was as relaxed as before, still holding the wheel with the same two fingers, though they were now twirling fast enough to blur. He glanced back and, slowly and with infinite calmness, gestured with his cigar.

"You should see that castle at night. It looks beautiful when it's all floodlit."

He missed them all. I'll never know how. There was only ever one Gordon Spice, and now there are none. The world is a poorer place.

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