Between 117,000 and 130,000, that’s the number of paid admissions to the Moto GP at Valencia’s Ricardo Tormo Cheste stadium on Sunday, October 26th. That was a day of great thrills and spills for the spectators and racers, but even more so for the organisers.
The event is an annual one at this same time of the year, but this year presented some very special problems brought about by heavy rains that had persisted for more than two weeks. The country had been experiencing the Gota Fria with all the usual floods and destruction. As an organiser that must have brought on many sleepless nights as to cater for so many people for an event of this magnitude must surely have been the ultimate nightmare. Even if the weather was cooperating perfectly there are so very many things that can go wrong.
The town of Cheste is usually a very quiet place. People go about their business, that is primarily agriculture and generally keep themselves to their own. But once or twice a year the racetrack draws half the world and their cousins and the town becomes overrun with the enthusiasm of racing fever. For the Grand Moto GP this is even further exaggerated as young people on their magnificent bikes come rolling into town like the thunder of the gods seeking fun. It seems to be an accepted thing that somebody has to die during the period.
This year, on the first of three days of racing and celebration, two people lost their lives. I’m not speaking of official racers, but spectators in attendance. The temptation to attract attention to one’s self during this time is very strong, so there is no shortage of guys showing off their shiny pride and joy. Unfortunately, sometimes things get out of hand and go horribly wrong. It’s hard to imagine how parents feel when told that they have lost their son or daughter at a time when they were only seeking to have fun.
To make matters worse for the organisers, this year the approach to the circuit was in the midst of hard major works as the new high-speed train from Madrid is in the process of being developed. Consequently, with temporary access of a very confusing nature the ability to cater to so much traffic was daunting. But even this was further complicated by the fact that the non-paved parking lots around the circuit were under water, so parking could not be allowed anyway.
Someone came up with the brilliant idea of having motor homes and cars to park about 20 minutes away and the occupants shifted by bus. Even under the best of circumstances this would not have worked very well, but that was before they knew that so many people would eventually show up.
Saturday it was still raining and the forecast was for more rain on Sunday. A disaster!
Sunday dawned dry and bright and it quickly became apparent that the day was going to be absolutely fabulous. So people who otherwise thought they might not bother got up early and headed for Cheste. The organisers panicked, but in a good way. They wisely concluded that the area around the stadium had to be made park-able, and they only had about an hour to get it done. Yes, it was impossible, but made even more so by arguing about it.
The trucks rolled and the heavy machinery scooped and smoothed and in one hour it was done. A calamity of superior proportions was avoided, and the young people arrived in just about everything that moved. 117,000 of them paid admission to the circuit producing several million in income for the track. That was 5,000 more than paid to see Formula One on the streets of Valencia. To say that this was unexpected is a great understatement.
In spite of all the excitement and the unabated testosterone the crowd behaved itself and all went off without any major hitches. Certainly you needed patience because of so many people just to get anything at all. The trains and buses did a roaring trade as a great many people heeded advice to leave their vehicles in Valencia.
I did not attend the races myself as I have been nursing a healing foot, but mid-afternoon I made my way over to Cheste, which is the next town to mine, to see how things were progressing. I arrived just as the races had ended and all those people were leaving. Now try to imagine that you are the only person going the wrong way.
Cheste survived another invasion, everyone had a great time it seems, and the papers and tv reports were glowing in their praise for the event. Young people arrived and camped out in the weather and did their fun thing which reminds me that young people are pretty wonderful. Is youth wasted on the young as someone once said? I think not, but would I like to be young again? Sounds like a lot of hard work to me.
Copyright (c) 2008 Eugene Carmichael
