Barking mad or what?

So those namby-pamby F1 people were worried about a bit of mud on their shoes at Silverstone? They should try climbing a slag heap in Resolfen or taking a two-mile hike into Hafren. Then, after all that effort, watch the leaders rush past in a matter of minutes before trudging back to the car and heading through the mist and rain towards another Welsh hamlet with name you can't pronounce, never mind spell.

Lunch? Do me a favour. Not even the greasiest hamburger van in Cardiff would dare venture into some of these places. Yet we do it year after year, standing around, stamping our feet and cheerfully agreeing that we must be bonkers.

It has become a sporting ritual which makes sleeping overnight on the Wimbledon pavements seem like child's play. I mean, there is no comparison between a cheerful June dawn in SW19 and the damp, penetrating chill of November as you stumble through the darkness on Rhigos in the company of fellow addicts.

That's the secret, of course. If you were a lone figure, you would doubt your sanity as smiling men in white coats came to take you away. 'Gawd, it's him again. Poor bugger. His wife says he went out to but a newspaper on Friday morning and didn't come back. He had wellies, a wooly hat and an OS map of Brecon. She began to get suspicious because they live in the middle of Guildford.'

There you are, marching onward in a steady stream of determined devotees. If presented with the option of a luxury minibus ride to a centrally heated Paddock Club in the middle of Margam, most of them would be offended. Where's the fun in that? And what could you cheerfully complain about at the other end: the crap champagne they're serving in Rheola these days?

No, much better to choose a corner and walk a 100 metres or so in each direction, literally checking the lie of the land, picturing how it will look to the drivers and trying to imagine what the co-drivers' notes might say.

That one corner may appear simple enough when you have both feet on the ground. But when it is one of more than a hundred being hurled at the windscreen like a video on fast forward, then the men will stand out from the boys as you asses the speed and listen to the commitment.

It's true that your heroes will perhaps only be at close range for a fleeting second but anticipation is a vital part of the spectating process. You have risen early and travelled far. Now you are here, standing beside a piece of road which, for 363 days of the year, is an innocuous gravel track, just like thousands of others in Britain's forests.

But at the moment, it's a special stage on a round of the World Rally Championship, a place where some of the best drivers in the universe are going to demonstrate their skills. Right here. Any minute. Just for you. If your pulse doesn't quicken at the thought, then you wouldn't be here in the first place. The buzz of conversation in the bracken goes up a couple of notches at the first distant bark of a competition engine. And that's just the '00' car, its passage acting as a mild taster for what's to come.