If motoring is all about cars, people and location then Le Mans is the epicentre of all things Motoring. Mecca to thousands of kindred travellers who flock in their hoards annually, seeking out the addictive drug that motor racing provides. It’s easy to get locked into the race antics but Le Mans is more than that. Think of it as a ‘mad max’ meets music festival meets motorsport in a three-way of consensual chaos. Hordes of British fans with their a short hop and dash across the channel meet the masses of French and European counterparts and madmen like myself who have ventured from other corners of the globe.

The train ride in the town of Le Mans is French countryside at its best. The type of scene your mom read about in a romantic novel. Situated 200 KM’s west of Paris, the town folk are just as aligned to the motorsport lifestyle as the lunatic crowds that attend. Retro posters adorn the station and the town has this kinetic energy that is the conduit to something great. From the main station, it’s a short dash onto a tram that gently skates over the greenest grass I’ve ever seen. ‘’Metro Rail eat your heart out’’ I whisper to myself. I get off the tram and make my way, armed with two backpacks and a one-man tent. More on that tent later.

"I had heard about an incident in the previous year, a bloke in a 911 was doing donuts on the grass and had driven over someones tent.”

Now there is one thing to be said about a crowd that is prepared to watch a 24-hour race and that is: "no one is sane". The streets are littered with fans welcoming other equally mad fans who have arrived in cars from all corners of Europe. Do a burnout! You are immediately swallowed into a wild scene of cars being egged on to do burnouts. I see adult men with an extremely large catapult system launching water balloons 100 meters down the road into a mass of people. I see occupants of a Range Rover, armed with a water cannon, return 'friendly fire' into the crowd. Much to my horror when two members of the crowd, armed with a black bucket of water, hurl the contents through the open passenger window of this new Range Rover. F%$K ME! You think this is where things kicked off in a street fight. No. The occupants just laugh it off and carry on. “Must be a rental?” I mumble to myself, feeling perplexed.

It didn’t take me long to get settled in. Tent up and bags ‘locked’ away I head off on a chance to walk the main straight and up into the Dunlop Chicane. I’m not one to take selfies but I couldn’t think of a better place for one. Act cool, Brent...hold your composure. The pit lane is a hive of final prep work, pit stop practice and car body panels laying all over the place like Lego for adults.

The next moment and in the true French tradition, the rain starts pelting down. I seek shelter under a shell sponsored tent where I meet a guy named Michael who informs me that he is the translator, from shell oil, for the top LMP1 teams. Impressed that I made the journey alone, he hands me a 24 hour Le Mans peak cap. I’m more impressed that here is a guy who has a day job, speaks three different languages fluently and gets flown around the world for a passion-driven endeavour. Merci, Michael.

The vibe is electric as I make my way through the campsite. Mud everywhere. There are groovy checkered dance floors on some campsites with laser lights ala Ibiza, sound systems that pump cheesy Euro beats and ‘80s classics into the night including massive TV’s on every site, except mine. But isn’t this a race? Based on good advice I retire early, find refuge in my cove, content with life and partying fades into the night. There is a weird mood in the air as I go to sleep...like a kid on the eve of a birthday. The race hasn’t started yet.

I wake up on my newly acquired accommodation. It's a 40 sqm piece of the green French countryside and a view of a London Bus. God knows how that got there. I keep telling myself that this is Le Mans...anything goes. I wipe the sleep out of my eyes and hear a noise reverberate, echoing out of the distance. It’s the first GT cars headed out for the Le Mans Cup, a race that runs before the 24 hours. I shudder at my first taste of international motorsport. I’m awake.

Now I’m no mathematician but I do have a degree in accounting and at 9 Euro a beer I’d quickly exhaust my budget. Insteps the advice dished to me on the previous evening. “Get a tram back into the town and head to the shopping centre” (Basically a massive Macro) For 80 Euro I was able to kit out everything I’d need. Feeling aligned to French culture, after just 5 days in Paris, I dare leave that shop without a Baguette (a national dish of the French) along with other delicacies consisting of fine cheeses, fine wine and a 6 pack of '86' Beer which kicks harder than a French countryside mule. I’m now more than adequately prepared and ready for 24 hours of mayhem. Well, another 24 hours only this time involving the race.The track itself is long and sparse with hives of activity in between. 13.67 km long in fact and covering an enormous area, including sections of the town itself. Mulsanne is a public road 53 weeks of the year. I leave too little time to get to the grandstand seat I paid for and instead settle for a quick jump onto a set of runoff tires behind the catch fence gripping it to get as close to the action. Remember that part where I said that motoring is all about cars, people and location. Well, in steps another ‘people’ moment.

Before the start of the race, I meet a British guy called Ben, who’s Mom had been very sick for the past two weeks. His attendance was questionable but it was his mother who urged him to continue the tradition. He has been making the journey for 14 years. There’s a lump in his throat as tells me this story. I’m left speechless. We swig back at the hip flask of Whiskey I brought along and we toast to motorsport that gives us the distraction we need. The race starts. Thank god it is raining. The tears are real.

The next 24 hours goes by in a blur of fading natural light, bright headlights approaching, tail lights fading into the distance, trackside braais and all the accompanying sounds of the best endurance motor racing the world has to offer. Things happen so fast. I try to follow radio broadcasts but there is way too much action happening. Day turns into night and this place switches gears effortlessly. Le Mans has a pulse. It is a living organism. The parties emerge under darkness and lasers light up the sky. There is a race going on here...somewhere.

Remember what I mentioned about the three-way earlier between Mad Max, Music and motorsport? It rings true and is relentless but only with fewer drugs and the music is a cacophony of exhaust notes. Ok, this isn’t entirely true. There’s music on the night of the race and the French know a thing or two about electronic music which comes out at night. Everyone is friendly. It’s a vibe. Aren’t we at a car race?Thinking that I could make it the entire 24 hours awake is wishful thinking. I’m all for the power of positive thinking but this is a tall task. I try to commit to 3 hours of sleep so that I get up and catch the sunrise. Le Mans during the night and sunrise is a beautiful mixture of noise and quiet time.

The last six hours of the race and I’m desperately trying to fight time, rooted trackside on the grass embankments at Tetra Rouge to make the moment last, in vain. 2016 provided the best racing that Le Mans has seen in a long time. The last of the LMP1 battle between Porsche, Toyota and Audi and Toyota’s agonising ending which was, in my opinion, their best-fought race, winning the hearts of many fans. There was also Ford’s return to GT racing winning the GT Pro class but this isn’t what Le Mans is about. It’s about the people, the location and the cars. It’s about the experience. If you’re on the fence going, get off, close your eyes and book the ticket. You won’t be sorry.

Remember that tent I mentioned earlier? Well, I had to leave it behind. Together with a baguette, a bottle cabernet sauvignon and some cheese. I firmly believe that due to undying love for motorsport it will remain intact and I will return to it. Fast forward six hours and I'm battered and bruised, staring up at my hotel ceiling, layered in a cake dirt, rubber and fuel scents after missing my flight to Barcelona thinking "What just happened?"

...all thanks to Le Mans.