Carnage is a hackneyed word these days – almost default in a millennial’s vocabulary – but there’s no other way of describing the Weston Beach Race. Nothing can prepare for this shit; three hours of digging sandcastles with a cacophony of racing engines and a bouquet of sweet two-stroke, mixed with a healthy dose of testosterone-based competition is one of life’s treasures.
I’d always wanted to give it a go, although tarmac racing commitments always interfered, so this year was a must. After queuing for hours on Friday to get my bike (okay, KTM’s EXC250 TPi) and kit scrutineered, I leant the orange beastie against a wooden stick in parc ferme and that was the last I’d see of her until Sunday morning.
As you’ll soon fathom, the starting procedure was one of my favoured moments. Standing in a pigpen, with nearly 1200 other guys (and a few girls), high on performance-enhancing drugs to offset my pathetic fitness levels, waiting nervously for the fence to be pulled open – or stampeded down – was just the start of said carnage.