(2003)

There are three GPs held in Spain, but the first on the calendar, down south in Jerez, is the Spanish GP. Later in the year we go to Barcelona for the GP of Catalunya, and end the year at Valencia, respectively Spain's second and third cities. But to experience Spain as you've always thought it should be you need to get to Jerez.

The track is relatively new but despite the fact that the F1 cars have also used it, it is a fairly exciting trace of tarmac. What makes the event, though, is the atmosphere and the location. Jerez de la Frontera is in the province of Andalucia, the deep south of Spain where the influence of centuries of Moorish (North African) rule can be seen in the architecture and the people themselves - you've seen El Cid, haven't you?

This is the Spain of bullrings, of sherry, of the gothic splendours of Seville cathedral - which contains the tomb of Christopher Columbus, of the phantasmagorical Alhambra palace overlooking Granada; it is the concentrated essence of what a foreigner thinks Spain should be. The average northern European can feel perfectly at home in Madrid or Barcelona, but here you know you are in a foreign country. Come to think of it, quite a few Madrilenos and Catalans regard it as a foreign country, too.

This is the first European GP on the calendar, what Wayne Rainey used to refer to as the 'start of the ground war'. Saturday night in town and at the track can seem the same way. Last year the official race-day crowd was 127,000, a great many of them packed on the hillsides that form a natural amphitheatre just over half way round the lap. Great waves of noise, firecrackers that would be illegal in most European countries, and passionate support for local riders roll down from them. (BTW, Rossi is now regarded as a local rider at every track he races at).

Hundreds of Spanish flags mingle with the green-and-white of Andalucia, and the riot police watch nervously. This being southern Spain, the main avenue of the town is coned off on Saturday night for wheelie displays and trick riding. Last year some local kid on a scooter was doing things I thought were impossible on a motocrosser. Meanwhile his mate on the lights-free, unsilenced motocrosser was pulling humongous wheelies at improbable speeds with a very frightened looking girl riding pillion. The police stand and watch, it's safer that way.



Partying goes on through the night and when dawn breaks at the circuit it reveals what looks like a reconstruction of a First World War battlefield. Most punters have been up all night so they crawl into their grandstand seats and go to sleep until the 125s wake them up for the first GP. The size of the crowd forces press and other paddock people to turn up about this time.

I like to grab the local speciality of chocolate and churros at one of the catering marquees at the heart of the refugee camp outside the circuit gate. This is the traditional breakfast of deep-fried dough sticks a bit like long thin donuts and drinking chocolate so thick you can stand a spoon up in it. A guy in a grubby vest who is smoking a cigarette usually pours this from a kettle that looks as if it's done duty on a thousand campfires.

Local advertising sights are totally given over to GP sponsors. Giant telecoms company Telefonica's ads are usually the best way of gauging the mood of the Spanish fans.

At Jerez last year, Sete Gibernau stared down from posters hung from every lamp post. By the end of the year at Valencia it was 250 guns Elias and Nieto who you saw everywhere. You have to realize that in Spain, bike racing is second only to football (that's soccer) as the most popular sport and the media is voracious and bloodthirsty. The copy lines on the ads give you a flavour. My favourite appeared under Fonsi Nieto's visage last year, the strapline read 'Cold blood is blue' - blue being Telefonica's livery. I say this because I couldn't translate the one under Elias's picture but the word 'rabies' was definitely in there. Bike racing is a serious sport in Spain.

The abiding memory from last year came after Fonis Nieto had won his first ever 250 GP. A long TV lens picked him up on his victory lap, standing on the rests, arms aloft, the flag of Spain in his left hand as he coasted down a short straight directly towards a hillside literally and metaphorically exploding with delight. He was approaching a right-hander named after his Uncle Angel, with a statue of the great man on the inside. Back in the pits the man himself, one of Spain's most celebrated sportsmen in any field (just the 13 world titles) waited to congratulate him with team manager Aspar Martinez (only four world titles), after he'd finished embracing them there was his supermodel girlfriend to get reacquainted with.

There must be better feelings in the world, but I'm not quite sure what they would be.