A very helpful marshal stepped back from the car, looked at it and shook his head.
“Mmm, you might struggle.”
Chalk Lane: just outside Goodwood, just outside Lavant, just outside Chichester. In all honesty, you probably don’t know it. Why would you? It’s nothing but an overgrown bike track that’s used for folk walking their dogs and running up. And down.
It’s not made for a Porsche Cayenne GTS. Certainly not one on gorgeous 21-inch wheels, super low-profile tyres and a sheep-worrying lime-green paint job. But a horrible road accident on the way into Goodwood left me with two choices, re-routing back into Chichester and waiting in line for the next two hours.
Or Chalk Lane.
My wife wasn’t convinced.
“Are you mad?”
I promised we’d take it steady. Not far in, with the road still resembling a road, we passed an Audi S3 coming towards us.
“Good luck,” said the driver as our windows passed, “it’s not for us…”
Round a slight corner and the road went mental. Mrs E followed.
The rain had carved a deep channel into the middle of the track. I raised the Cayenne into WRC-spec and tip-toed across. With just three of our four wheels in touch with West Sussex for much of the time, we continued our ascent.
It was about now that I was starting to question our decision (the rougher it got, the more I shared responsibility for our current, precarious position).
Then we saw the top of the hill and tarmac. Gorgeous, glorious tarmac.