A motoring journalist on the fastest lap of his life

For 15 years, I was The Observer’s motoring correspondent and the inevitable question I was asked when I met someone new was: “What’s the best car you’ve ever driven?” It’s an impossible one to answer. Each car I test-drove brought with it a fresh motoring experience, whether that was steering a battered Mazda MX5 roadster bought on eBay for £2,000 or piloting an ultra-luxe, bespoke two-door Rolls-Royce Phantom Coupé priced at £400,000. Curiously, the one question I never faced was: “What’s the fastest you’ve ever driven?” Which is odd, looking back, especially because it would have been such an easy one to answer – 150mph, more than double the national speed limit. But don’t panic – I was a passenger and it didn’t happen on one of our congested, pot-holed roads but on the glossy tarmac of Le Mans.

Les 24 Heures du Mans is the world’s foremost endurance sports-car race. It’s held annually near the city of Le Mans in France and was first run in 1923. Since then the most technically advanced cars, paired with deliriously competitive and sleep-deprived drivers, have battled it out for 24 hours, spinning around the 8.5-mile circuit and reaching speeds of at least 225mph. Meanwhile, hordes of equally delirious and sleep-deprived superfans gather at every bend to drink beer at ferocious speed for 24 hours while they cheer on their motorsport heroes.

Twenty years ago this summer, I found myself a guest at the race. The Jaguar press office was busy getting ready to launch its latest model – a caddishly charming soft-top XK coupé – and was keen to channel some of the marque’s heritage and racing pedigree. Someone did their research and worked out that it was exactly half a century since a pair of the XK’s ancestors had placed fourth and sixth at Le Mans, which was how I now found myself driving through the French countryside with a member of the Jaguar Daimler Heritage Trust in an incredibly rare £1.8m long-nosed Jaguar D-Type.

As we joined a cavalcade of glistening historic cars to parade around the circuit before the sleek modern racers got down to the serious business of racing later in the day, the Jag’s colossal 3.4-litre straight-six engine grunted and throbbed with life, despite its advancing years. The D-Type I was travelling in had originally been driven back in its pomp by the fearlessly charismatic Mike Hawthorn, who often raced wearing a dicky bow. He was known as the “Farnham Flyer” and went on to become Britain’s first world champion, in 1958, before his tragic death at just 29 in a road accident on the infamous Hogs Back near Guildford.

After a couple of memorable laps, I swapped cars and ended up in a bright yellow Coombs Jag, which had come fourth in that same race. At the helm this time was Michael Quinn, the grandson of Jaguar’s iconic founder William Lyons. As Michael made himself comfortable at the wheel, I was shown to my seat – a hard shelf in a circular hole that left me propped up like a tank commander, or maybe a Whac-a-Mole. There was no seat belt, no roll cage, no helmet, no headrest. The windscreen was a paltry 6in high. I’d forgotten my sunglasses, too, so was offered a pair of old-fashioned leather-and-glass aviator goggles, as if I were Biggles.

Michael briefly shook hands, smiled broadly, and then, turning to the car, said something along the lines of “Let’s see what you’ve got.” To him, this wonderful motor wasn’t a piece of dry taxidermy, it was a living, breathing racing machine. We’d been told we were clear to do three laps. He gunned the massive engine and we headed out on to the famous track with dozens of other unique and priceless motors.

As we spun eagerly around the circuit the car stuck remorselessly to its purpose, thundering down the legendary Mulsanne Straight, clinging tight as it hurtled around Arnage Corner and through Porsche Curves. As we surged past fans, they waved their Union Jacks, delighted to see a piece of racing history brought so vibrantly to life.

It was breathless stuff. So breathless, in fact, that I was delighted to make it back to the pit lane alive and just about in one piece. The Jaguar could be rebuilt after a wipe-out, but I wasn’t so sure about Michael and me.

“How fast were we going?” I asked, my lips still flapping from all the wind. “No idea,” laughed Michael casually, “but it must have been about 150mph.” I stumbled back to the track café on wobbly legs and sat down very slowly. When it comes to pure speed, it seems age really isn’t an issue…