The Empty Passenger Seat

I almost never went to Le Mans.

Four Sunbeam Tigers, one trip to Le Mans — and an adventure I almost said no to.

Looking back, I came remarkably close to missing one of the best adventures of my life. Not because of the motor racing, but because of everything that came with it.

The opportunity arrived out of nowhere. A colleague at work had a classic Sunbeam Tiger and had arranged to drive down to the famous 24-hour race with two fellow owners. He was taking a friend who had agreed to split the fuel, the ferry, and the running costs.

But just two weeks before we were due to depart, the friend had to pull out.

I was offered the empty seat.

At the time, I was a cash-strapped trainee. I spent several evenings with a calculator, a bank statement, and a growing sense of disappointment. I kept trying to find money that simply wasn't there. However much I wanted to go, I couldn't justify the cost. The fuel alone for a classic English V8 sports car crossing France was intimidating, let alone the ferry and the ticket.

Reluctantly, I told my colleague I couldn't make it. I simply couldn't afford it.

I'd already convinced myself I wasn't going. But a few days later, he still hadn't found anyone to fill the seat, and the clock was ticking.

"Look," he said. "I’ve got to drive the car down anyway. I’d rather have the company."

He'd cover the petrol and the ferry. All I had to pay for was the entrance ticket and my share of the hotel room.

That, I could just about manage. I said yes before he could change his mind.

What followed was an epic, sun-drenched blur of a weekend.

I was picked up in the freezing, pitch-black hours of a Thursday morning to drive down to the ferry port, roaring along in a four-car convoy of classic Tigers. We spent the weekend eating, drinking cold French lager, and listening to the relentless scream of racing engines.

Being the youngest member of the group by some margin, I was also the first to succumb. I managed to get sunstroke from the drive down to Le Mans with the car's roof down, combined with too much French lager. While the veteran road-trippers carried on into the night, the youngest member of the convoy was forced to retire to bed early, utterly defeated.

But the absolute highlight was the Sunday drive back through the French countryside.

This was the very infancy of satellite navigation. My "co-pilot" setup consisted of a chunky, black external GPS receiver paired via Bluetooth to a primitive smartphone. As we wound our way through quiet, sunlit villages toward a harbourside hotel, I sat in the passenger seat, shouting directions over the wind and the engine roar like a proper rally navigator:

“Straight ahead… sharp right… soft left…”

We caught the ferry home the next morning, exhausted and happy.

Looking back, I don't remember who won the race that year.

I remember the convoy.

I remember the noise.

I remember laughing.

I remember shouting directions through rural France.

I remember getting spectacular sunstroke.

Most of all, I remember one colleague quietly deciding that an empty passenger seat mattered less than sharing the adventure.

I've tried to remember that lesson ever since.

Because some of the happiest memories in my life exist only because somebody else made room for me.

I'm no longer the cash-strapped trainee who couldn't afford the petrol. So when I get the chance, I try to leave an empty seat for somebody else.

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