Part 1: Flat out towards Poznań
This racing licence thing wasn’t one of those “I fancy a new hobby” ideas.
I had to do it. Because the autumn before, I’d made yet another one of my highly promising decisions — the kind that doesn’t fit into the brain at all, only straight into the gut.
I’d seen an ad online: a Fiat 126p. Not a cute Sunday cruiser, not a “let’s pop out for an ice cream” classic. A proper little track-built gremlin. The kind that doesn’t sit freshly polished under a premium car-pyjama in a garage — it had already fought a few seasons on tarmac. A warrior in Ritter Sport format: small, square, sporty, pocket-sized… but with the attitude of: “Go on then. Have a go.”
It was ready. More than ready — proven. Basically a specialist, if a tiny Fiat can be a specialist. Maluch Trophy. A Polish one-make racing series for the 126p — small, loud, honest… and exactly my level of “good idea.” Small cars, big egos, even bigger noises.
And, well… you know how I am: I didn’t spend hours thinking, calculating, comparing, or — worst of all — discussing it.
I just went for it.
First I bought it. Then I did everything else. And only right at the end did it sink in that “driving on a racetrack” doesn’t just require a helmet — it also requires this minor detail called a licence.
So the plan was set: a course in Poznań. Get the licence. Then the little Fiat can finally go where it belongs.
And me? I only had to get there — and somehow make it all work.
In my head I already had the movie playing: track, instructor, proper race cars. And right in the middle of it all, the 126p — like a terrier on caffeine: small, loud, determined, completely shameless.
Only one detail was missing from my head cinema: the journey there.
And that’s exactly where it starts.
Reality took one look at my plan, laughed, and decided to give me a full dress rehearsal of “What if everything goes wrong?” before I even reached the track.
Thursday afternoon. Departure. I threw a few clothes into the car, laptop, phones, camera — all vaguely sensible. Most important: my brand-new racing helmet. It sat in the boot like a quiet insurance policy that this would all become professional at some point. And then, almost by instinct, I added the toolbox. That wasn’t planned. That was a reflex. Other people don’t leave the house without keys — I don’t leave without tools. At that moment I didn’t yet know it would be the only truly clever decision of the whole trip.
The first 400 kilometres went so smoothly I actually started believing in myself for a second. I floated with the traffic towards the border and felt, for a few minutes, like someone who had his stupid ideas under control.
And yes — I even found myself in the far left lane. A Polonez, on the left, on a German motorway, without holding anyone up. That’s roughly like joining a downhill ski slalom with a shopping trolley — technically possible, but wildly inappropriate.
The speed needle was twitching nervously somewhere beyond 180, as if it wanted to prove it was still alive. There was still space between the accelerator and the floor — psychologically important, because it lets you tell yourself: there’s more in it. Quick glance at the satnav: 150 km/h. I thought: “Right… that’s quite an ‘interpretation’.” But whatever. For 75 horsepower from 1981, it was still grand. Without speedo and satnav, I would have sworn I was doing 270 — not because that was true, but because the vibration and noise made it feel like a jet about to take off.
Ölvis — already stuck to the windscreen back then like a faithful little grease-stained mascot — said absolutely nothing. Total radio silence in the middle of this motorway circus.
First stop in Poland: petrol station. For me: hot dog and coffee, because at the end of the day I’m still human. For the Polonez: fill up and check the oil, because you can also pretend you’re responsible.
Bonnet up — and boom, good mood gone.
Not “a bit of oil.” Not “a little here and there.” No. The entire engine bay looked like someone had tried to marinate a pig. And the pig was still alive.
I stared into it and thought: Where is all this sauce coming from? And instantly it made sense why I’d been smelling that stink and seeing that haze for the last few kilometres — the kind you ignore… until you can’t ignore it anymore.
The cause was easy to find: the hose connecting the valve cover to the air filter housing — gone. And gone means gone. Not loose. Not torn. Simply not there anymore. As if someone had collected it in passing during the night. Crankcase fumes and oil were now happily spreading under the bonnet, and because the Polonez is a very social car, it shared the experience with the interior as well. Eyes watering, lungs offended, mood underground.
I needed a solution. Immediately. I found a piece of rubber hose — not a perfect fit, but right then it was the only thing standing between me and a full-on oil-breathing incident. It was enough to see properly again and breathe properly again. Bonnet down. On we go.
If it had been up to me, that would have been it.
But the Polonez had other plans.
It played dead. Just like that. As if it had decided the agenda item “travel” had been cancelled for today. I sat there staring at the steering wheel and thought: if I were the Hulk, I’d have thrown the car at a wall. But I’m not the Hulk. I’m a human with a helmet in the boot and zero time.
The starter — of course it was the starter — decided to be a diva. Ignition on, off, on again, like I was trying to persuade a moody animal to walk another few metres. Eventually it took pity, the engine fired, and I thought the sentence you always regret later:
“You absolute drama queen. Next time I’m feeding you a Snickers.”
For anyone now squinting: Diva, Mars, Snickers — there used to be that ad: give a Snickers to people who are acting up. In hindsight, I can tell you: the amount of Snickers required over the next few days would have bankrupted me. And worse: this was my fault too. The starter had been warning me for years. Italy, Finland, Norway, Hungary — again and again. And me? Nothing. Successfully ignored.
And then someone says a car isn’t like a woman… If you don’t take care of it and you don’t listen properly then… well… eventually the bill arrives. With interest. And a late fee.
Case closed. I can blame myself. The trip continues.
Not for long.
About 30 kilometres later we stopped again. Evening. Darkness. Somewhere in the Polish wilderness. This time a fuse blew — for whatever reason — and the engine went completely silent. I was this close to laughing out loud, but that would’ve been that moment where you realise you’re nearer to madness than to your destination.
Luckily I had a torch with me. A real one. With batteries. One that makes light because it actually has batteries in it — which, as everyone knows, isn’t guaranteed. Today it did. Today, once.
Still, I muttered: how stupid do you have to be to travel without spare fuses? I rummaged around, found nothing, and vaguely remembered that I’d “put them away properly” at some point. “Properly” is a concept that doesn’t live here.
So I did what you do in these situations: I improvised. I pulled the fuse for the windscreen wipers. I didn’t urgently need those right now. Hopefully it would stay dry. Ten minutes of cranking — and the engine ran again. Not happy. But running.
Poznań, I’m coming.
Not always under my own power — I had to push a few times — but I was getting closer.
Until 00:30.
That’s when the alternator said good night.
At first I just noticed it getting darker. Then I thought: are my eyes tired? Is that oil film? Am I imagining this? And then it clicked: no. It’s the Polonez again.
Instrument lights almost gone. The engine stuttered and coughed as if it had decided to operate on half motivation from now on. And the headlights? They no longer deserved the name. They weren’t headlights — they were darkness-throwers. Two round “eyes” producing less useful light than a tea candle.
And of course this doesn’t happen somewhere convenient, like near a garage or a fuel station. No. It happens in the middle of a forest.
I crept along, more noise than movement, and I’m sure the wild boar I crawled past were thinking: “Which idiot is driving through the woods at night without lights?” And to this day I don’t know whether the hare by the roadside had been hit… or simply collapsed laughing.
The satnav eventually said: “Turn left.”
Reality said: field.
And because life is brutal, it added a bonus: the destination it wanted to lead me to was, apparently, in the middle of a clearing. I drove for minutes down a farm track into Polish nothingness, staring at this little black box stuck to my windscreen and seriously questioning the navigation skills of a device that was currently steering me into a horror film.
Rubbish. There was nothing.
I’d had enough. I turned around as fast as I could and just wanted out of that forest. Because if the car died right there, the farmers wouldn’t find me until autumn — at harvest festival. That’s not even a joke. That’s a realistic scenario.
How many times have I sworn to carry a proper road atlas? I even have one. At the office. Where it’s very safe. Fantastic.
Tired, dirty, hungry — no starter, no lights — I ended up stopped on the road, letting a very nice woman on the phone explain how to get to the hotel. And at the exact moment I thought I might actually make it… the engine finally quit completely. No spark, no mercy.
That’s it.
I threw my phone into the footwell and tried to rip the steering wheel off in pure rage — and the Polonez didn’t care in the slightest. It just stood there like a monument. Unfortunately in the middle of the road.
I jumped out and slammed the door — and of course the door trim came off as well. Why wouldn’t it.
I took a breath because I had to. The anger slowly faded. Maybe because it was cold. Maybe because the body eventually goes: “More adrenaline isn’t exactly healthy.” And then I could think again. Options: sleep in the car? walk to the hotel? call a taxi?
No.
I pushed.
Of course I pushed. Why do something easy when you can do it the stupid way?
A few hundred metres later the road went downhill. My high-precision master plan: keep the engine warm, then it’ll work. And unbelievably — once in these 24 hours — I got lucky. Sometime after two in the morning, I checked into the hotel.
Normally that’s the moment you collapse into bed and don’t wake up for three days.
Not me.
I was so exhausted and so wired at the same time that sleep didn’t even show up as an idea. Laptop open. Search for spare parts. I’m in Poland, land of the Polonez — surely this can’t be difficult, right?
Wrong again.
Within a 15 km radius, the selection was… modest. At least: a starter and an alternator were available somewhere. I set the wake-up call for 6:30 and eventually fell asleep — laptop in bed, full room lights on — like a teenager, just without hope and with an eau de engine bay.
After what felt like 15 minutes, the phone rang.
6:30.
Friday — Polish reality meets German habit.
I jumped out of bed, showered, got dressed, had breakfast, and went to check the Polish patient as if I genuinely believed it had all been a dream. The smell on my clothes confirmed it: no. It was real. Hours of oil fumes. But fine — that’s what you smell like when you’ve got petrol in your blood. That’s what real racing drivers smell like.
My wife would use a different word: stink. But she wasn’t there. And that was probably for the best.
I didn’t need to be at the track until nine, so a quick check: starter dead. Battery dead. And because life loves stacking problems: the driver’s door lock also failed. Now you could, in principle, open the car with a fingernail. The fingernail just needs to be long enough. At that moment I didn’t yet know this would later turn out to be… helpful.
In the car park I found someone with jump leads. Fresh 12-volt juice. While the engine was cold, the starter at least behaved as if it remembered its job description. On the third attempt — let’s call it “works” — the engine ran. Rough, not smooth, but running.
First test: alternator.
Disconnect the positive terminal — engine off.
So: alternator dead.
If it had a neck, I would have twisted it. For one simple reason: I hadn’t replaced it ages ago. I’d rebuilt it not long before. Everything new. Brushes, regulator, armature, bearings. What does this cursed thing have against me? We’ve been at war for years. Since Scotland.
The clock said 8:30. I ordered a taxi to Poznań race track.
And that, honestly, is a sight for the gods: everyone was already there. Race cars, sports cars, clean gear, polished paint. And me? I arrived by taxi.
Question marks everywhere.
So many question marks it briefly looked like a solar eclipse. A whole cloud of them hovering over part of the pit lane.
What can I say? I’ve always been different. And I’ve always been good for a surprise.
Luckily, the first day was theory only. The car would be needed tomorrow.
That fact gave me a bit of air.
To be continued… (Part 2)
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