scorching hot in mid-summer, with no shade along many stretches of the path, so we are sweating and parched after our hike. Fortunately, this is a Chinese community, and the first place we get to, a little cafe overlooking the sea, has an ice chest full of cold Carl-zee-bahgahs (Carlsberg beer).
MACAU
GUIA COURSE
Racing for Glory
October 1992
THE high-octane aviation fuel that powers Grand Prix cars burns with such clear intensity, it is hard to tell if a crashed car, or driver, is in flames. Few drivers likely contemplate this chilling fact as they pop a celebratory cork and pose alongside lithe young Moet & Chandon âHospitality Girlsâ on the winnersâ podium.
Avgas and Champagne are the essential ingredients in lightning-paced, grueling but glamorous Grand Prix racing. Outside of Japan, the sport comes to Asia just once a year. On the last weekend in November, racing drivers and bike riders, pit crews and international press all rendezvous in Macau, the Portuguese enclave across the Pearl River from Hong Kong. The Macau Formula 3 Grand Prix, one of the worldâs oldest continually running races, is the big weekend for the Hong Kong and Macau motoring set, with noise, speed, a dose of danger and a whiff of sex.
This âWorld Cup of F3â is a major international event, with the finest young drivers racing for prize money, glory and the coveted Super License which enables them to move up the ranks of professional racing to Formula 1. Former Grand Prix championsalso return for another fling at fame, before 30,000 spectators and some 200 million TV viewers in 74 countries.
The Macau Grand Prix weekend is more than a race, though. It is an occasion for local auto aficionados to flaunt their high-priced cars and driving skills, and to carouse. November is party time in Macau.
Unlike full-time race tracks, Macauâs Guia course, named for the cityâs trademark lighthouse, is a street circuit. High performance cars and motorcycles reach speeds of up to 160 miles per hour on streets where normally only plodding buses, cars, Mini Mokes and bicycles run. The Guia is a tough 3.8 mile course of tight turns, hairpins, long straight-aways, rises and dips. In the days running up to the big weekend, Macanese live with the angry hornet buzz of cars and bikes doing practice runs and time trials -- vvrroooom, vrrooooom, vrroooom.
Saturday morning, day one of the races, the press center, like a command post with faxes, telephones and typewriters, crackles with tension as the international motoring media sets up shop. Hordes of reporters, press badges dangling round their necks, watch heats on TV monitors while photographers in vivid red âPress on Courseâ bibs cradle lenses like truncated bazookas.
Down in the pits, where the air is sharp with the fumes of racing fuel, mechanics tinker with gleaming Suzukis, Yamahas, Kawasakis, Hondas and Ducatis all standing like rows of steel steeds ready to charge. On the hot tarmac, bikers sweat in full leather suits with thick knee pads like overgrown calluses, protection for legs that are inches from the concrete on high speed banks. Between races, riders peel the suits down to the waist, displaying tattoos and bike accident scars to fans, girlfriends and nubile groupies.
When the starting flag drops, riders on 500 cc and 750 cc monster bikes shoot off like bullets, racing down the Yacht Club Straight at explosive speed. Minutes later, the leaders, hunched low over handlebars, rocket past the stands in a blur, engines screaming. Then the control tower announces an accident, somewhereout of sight, and TV monitors show a shaky rider rising from the ground behind a screen of dust. The race stops, ambulances race out onto the course, bodies and bikes are hauled off, and the contest resumes.
After each race, the three jubilant winners mount the podium with the scantily-clad Moet and Chandon girls. Draped in leafy green victory wreaths, they shake up the bottle,
MACAU
GUIA COURSE
Racing for Glory
October 1992
THE high-octane aviation fuel that powers Grand Prix cars burns with such clear intensity, it is hard to tell if a crashed car, or driver, is in flames. Few drivers likely contemplate this chilling fact as they pop a celebratory cork and pose alongside lithe young Moet & Chandon âHospitality Girlsâ on the winnersâ podium.
Avgas and Champagne are the essential ingredients in lightning-paced, grueling but glamorous Grand Prix racing. Outside of Japan, the sport comes to Asia just once a year. On the last weekend in November, racing drivers and bike riders, pit crews and international press all rendezvous in Macau, the Portuguese enclave across the Pearl River from Hong Kong. The Macau Formula 3 Grand Prix, one of the worldâs oldest continually running races, is the big weekend for the Hong Kong and Macau motoring set, with noise, speed, a dose of danger and a whiff of sex.
This âWorld Cup of F3â is a major international event, with the finest young drivers racing for prize money, glory and the coveted Super License which enables them to move up the ranks of professional racing to Formula 1. Former Grand Prix championsalso return for another fling at fame, before 30,000 spectators and some 200 million TV viewers in 74 countries.
The Macau Grand Prix weekend is more than a race, though. It is an occasion for local auto aficionados to flaunt their high-priced cars and driving skills, and to carouse. November is party time in Macau.
Unlike full-time race tracks, Macauâs Guia course, named for the cityâs trademark lighthouse, is a street circuit. High performance cars and motorcycles reach speeds of up to 160 miles per hour on streets where normally only plodding buses, cars, Mini Mokes and bicycles run. The Guia is a tough 3.8 mile course of tight turns, hairpins, long straight-aways, rises and dips. In the days running up to the big weekend, Macanese live with the angry hornet buzz of cars and bikes doing practice runs and time trials -- vvrroooom, vrrooooom, vrroooom.
Saturday morning, day one of the races, the press center, like a command post with faxes, telephones and typewriters, crackles with tension as the international motoring media sets up shop. Hordes of reporters, press badges dangling round their necks, watch heats on TV monitors while photographers in vivid red âPress on Courseâ bibs cradle lenses like truncated bazookas.
Down in the pits, where the air is sharp with the fumes of racing fuel, mechanics tinker with gleaming Suzukis, Yamahas, Kawasakis, Hondas and Ducatis all standing like rows of steel steeds ready to charge. On the hot tarmac, bikers sweat in full leather suits with thick knee pads like overgrown calluses, protection for legs that are inches from the concrete on high speed banks. Between races, riders peel the suits down to the waist, displaying tattoos and bike accident scars to fans, girlfriends and nubile groupies.
When the starting flag drops, riders on 500 cc and 750 cc monster bikes shoot off like bullets, racing down the Yacht Club Straight at explosive speed. Minutes later, the leaders, hunched low over handlebars, rocket past the stands in a blur, engines screaming. Then the control tower announces an accident, somewhereout of sight, and TV monitors show a shaky rider rising from the ground behind a screen of dust. The race stops, ambulances race out onto the course, bodies and bikes are hauled off, and the contest resumes.
After each race, the three jubilant winners mount the podium with the scantily-clad Moet and Chandon girls. Draped in leafy green victory wreaths, they shake up the bottle,
Similar Books
