By Betty Jo Turner

This is a travel tale, about racing — European style. It will involve plenty of Porsches, of course. And a track, nestled in the wooded hills of the Ardennes in the southeast corner of Belgium, which old motorsport hands routinely name as the most beautiful — and frightening — track in the world. And the journey to get there. Via Porsche.

A friendly coincidence of timing made the whole thing possible. The weekend after the press launch of the Boxster near Stuttgart, the BPR Organization was holding their GT round at Spa. The 911 GT1 would be there. It was substantially easier to watch the Boxsters being loaded onto the car carrier and taken away that Thursday evening, knowing that a 993 and a Belgian adventure waited on the morrow.

Friday morning we loaded the Riviera blue 911 Carrera, passed through the Engleberg tunnel and headed toward Belgium and unknown lodging that had been selected by the expedient of throwing darts at a Michelin red guide and judicious use of a fax machine. A dozen or so faxes produced three positive responses in English, one of which seemed close enough to both Spa and fiscal sanity. We were driving toward the Hotel des Bains in a lake village called Robertville. With no idea what to expect.

Which is the best way to travel anyway. The weather was shifting like light flickering through leaves, sunny for 50 kilometers, then spitting that patented German variety of liquid precip I call rainmist, and back to autumn sunlight. From Stuttgart to Spa is a comfortable four hours, almost entirely autobahn, skirting Karlsruhe, Kaiserslautern, Trier and Bitburg.

This latest incarnation of the 911 is the perfect instrument for such a trip - civilized, comfortable but with immense reserves of raw power lurking and ready. At lunchtime we were approaching the German/Belgian border and dived off the autobahn at Prüm. We had a fine meal in a roadside gashaus where a wedding celebration was in progress in the next room. We'd expected to spend our last 50 marks there, but a credit card was acceptable and those 50 DM would serve a higher purpose on Sunday night.

On to Belgium. In these days of European unity, there was not much to mark the border crossing. No gate, no guard, no money-changing station. "God's country" is how British journalist Michael Cotton describes this part of Belgium. It is a softly beautiful land of gentle farms and tiny villages, and a certain green-ness that no doubt is a esult of the abundant rain that can making driving at Spa a nightmare.

Our map was not quite up to the challenge of locating the Hotel des Bains. We searched villages to the left and right of the main road, finding Lac de Robertville as the sky filled up with clouds that began to look serious. No hotel. Maybe the Michelin guide/fax machine approach to reservations wasn't so smart after all. We crossed a one-way-at-a-time brick dam and there, nestled in a grove of trees, was our hotel - all 14 rooms of it - a gray stone inn, with a long, narrow dining room giving onto a wide garden facing the lake. We were home.

Alone. Apparently all the other guests were out hiking or fishing or whatever they do in Belgium and we had to bang on the bell for a while before anyone came to the desk. Sign language and my primitive French got us checked in. We'd reserved the minimum — une chambre avec salle de bain — we were shown to a cozy room under the eaves at the front. Traffic could have made it noisy but traffic didn't seem to be much of an issue on this country road. The salle was modern and perfectly equipped. A menu on the bedside table suggested they might be serious about haut cuisine here. The Michelin guide was back in grace.

We unloaded the luggage and headed for the track, hoping to make the last practice session of the day. On the ten kilometer drive to Francorchamps, I thought about Brian Redman and the indelible impression of Spa he wrote for PANORAMA some years back. We were about to finally see the place and fully appreciate the horror of the day in May 1969 when, in pouring rain, he was expected to drive the brand new, but already famously vicious-handling 917 - with no windshield wiper! "Go slowly" Helmuth Bott had admonished the reluctant Redman.

According to Brian, Spa-Francorchamps is "one of the most scenically beautiful, gastronomically superb and most thoroughly terrifying circuits in the world." His love-hate relationship with the track includes five major wins there with Ferrari, Porsche, Ford GT-40, and Chevron, including one with a 917. "It's a circuit where the greatest problem was mental - forcing yourself to keep your right foot hard on the accelerator through 180-mph-plus turns, when the mind knew that the car could do it, but the foot refused to believe," he says.

A hard acute turn to the right and we were suddenly in Francorchamps, at the gate and being ushered onto a one-lane road into the forest. Down a hill, past acres of grass parking spaces, and suddenly the circuit was before us. Three huge grandstands ("tribunes") on the outside, pits and paddock across the track and a ribbon of tarmac appearing from the hairpin at La Source, flowing from left to right down a steep hill and rollercoastering up a heart-stopping right/left-hander they call Le Raidillon.

Spa has been a race venue since 1924 when a triangular circuit was carved out of public roads connecting the villages of Francorchamps, Malmédy and Stavelot. When Redman won with the 917 the course was more than eight miles long. The present circuit consists of about 4.5 miles, part permanent track and part public road. It remains spectacularly beautiful, extremely fast and intimidating. Weather is the joker in the deck at Spa where it can rain at one corner and be bone dry at the next, making no tire choice the right one.

This day in September, it was cloudy bright but not wet, yet. The gentleman who checked us in and issued credentials was not optimistic. "Spa is the chamber pot of Europe," he said. "We get all the rain, it filters down and comes back up in the springs we're famous for."

Down to an umbrella and one scarf (the other was trashed when it was sucked into the engine fan of a 908 spyder during a run around the skid pad at Weissach earlier in the week, but that's a story for another time), we headed for the pits as the last practice session began.

In three short years, the BPR Organization has virtually reinvented GT sports car racing in Europe. Conceived in 1994 as the FIA's World Sports Car Championship was gasping its last Group C breath, the series is the work of three men: Porsche's customer sport chief Jürgen Barth; Patrick Peter, the organizer of such historic races as Le Tour de France Auto; and Stephane Ratel of Venturi. From a start at Paul Ricard in 1994, with 18 cars on the grid, the BPR has grown to include more than 70 teams and 250 drivers with a schedule that encompasses a core of nine European races augmented by trips to Suzuka (Japan), Zhuhai (China) and in 1996 ending with two December races in South America.

It's a dazzling success story, particularly in the context of the present chaos surrounding sports car racing in the United States, and the reason for it was apparent at Spa. The paddock was full of a glorious variety of vehicles: the single Porsche 911 GT1, fresh from its victory at the Brands Hatch BPR round and causing plenty of grumbling amongst its competitors, three McLaren F1s and an equal number of Ferrari F40s. There were Lotus Esprits, Viper GTS-RS, a Lister Storm, Marcos LM 600 and, most amazing of all, a bright blue Morgan Plus. Driven by the current Mr. Morgan, the retrolooking car is powered by an engine bearing more than a passing resemblance to a Formula One unit - an exotic conundrum. The GT2 class was nearly all Porsche - there were more than 20 colorful 911 variants, including one driven by Harm Lagaay, chief of Porsche's design studio. Drivers familiar to Americans included Hans Stuck and Thierry Boutsen in the 911 GT1, James Weaver and Ralph Bellm in a McLaren, Jan Lammers, Andy Wallace, John Nielsen, Lilian Bryner and her teammates Enzo Calderari and Ulrich Richter.

After the last free practice session, rain began in earnest, but did nothing to dampen the spirits of "the big endurance family," as they call themselves, at their traditional Friday night party. Drivers, team owners, organizers and workers enjoyed lavish hot and cold buffets, generously flowing wine and entertainment that ranged from a roving magician to a whole room devoted to slot car racing, with do-it-yourself fireworks on the patio.

"The party is a big part of the atmosphere of the BPR," said Barth. "We're committed to keeping the family flavor that joins competitors, teams and organizers. All can relax together here on the Friday before qualifying and racing begin." With little time to relax himself, Barth sat for a moment and talked about his dreams for the series. He'd like to bring "the family" to the United States, perhaps Miami, but it will require a daunting amount of sponsorship money. Not one to think small, he's also working on the idea of a BPR race in Moscow.

Saturday was devoted to morning (wet) and afternoon (dry) qualifying sessions for the GT Endurance Four Hours of Spa-Francorchamps and several support races, including one for Lamborghini drivers only. The 911 GT1 dominated both sessions to secure the pole position some three seconds faster than the runner-up Ferrari F40, followed by McLaren, Ferrari, Lotus Esprit and again McLaren. Characteristic of BPR racing, seven different makes were in the top ten grid positions with a Viper GTS-R, the Marcos and a Lister Storm adding to the variety.

The Porsche's clear superiority was the source of considerable discontent. Norbert Singer, the Porsche race engineer who is the project manager on the GT1, reacted. "We're a little bit sensitive to these complaints, but we're told that the Ferrari F50 is already two and a half to three seconds faster than the present car, so ......" he shrugged expressively.

The 911 GT1's appearances in the latter part of the BPR season were provisional and non-points gathering. While the McLaren teams were agitated about the prospect of facing the new twin turbo 911 for real in 1997, Gordon Murray, the designer of the McLaren Fl, seemed less disturbed. "We'd prefer to retain the V12 engine, and we wouldn't like to see turbos become dominant in the series, but either way is okay - our own turbo engine is well along now, so we can go either way."

As interesting as the racing was, however, Saturday evening at the Hotel des Bains was perhaps the highlight of the day. We were about to discover the third element of Brian Redman's assessment of the Spa experience - the gastronomically superb part. We got back from the track just in time to change and walked into the dining room now bedecked in rose-colored linens. Madame Josée Solheid, the owner of the hotel, a graceful lady mercifully fluent in English, helped us make the right choices.

The meal was a leisurely procession that took us from duck liver terrine to tiny grilled lobsters with fennil, an amazing herb bouillon, clear and green, served over a custard of mushrooms, followed by baby venison and ending with local cheese and whole-grain bread - enjoyed first with a glass of crisp white Sancerre and then with a bottle of ruby Chinon. A memorable experience - with a memorable number of utensils to the right and left of the standard knife and fork that all found service before the end of the evening.

On Sunday, under mostly clear skies, 22,000 fans of GT racing had gathered at Spa by the time the four-hour enduro began. From the first lap, Stuck and Boutsen built an ever increasing margin on the field and it was clear that the 911 GTl is next year's technology while everybody else was operating in real time. Sling-shotting around the hairpin at La Source, diving down the start-finish straight and charging up the steep rise to Le Raidillon, the mid-engined Porsche's passage literally made the air scream.

Stuck and Boutsen made three stops, changed tires once and finished a full lap ahead of the James Weaver/Ray Bellm McLaren Fl which claimed winner's points for the race. A pair of Ferrari F40s kept the points issue in question for more than three hours, however, running alternately in front of and behind the McLaren and keeping enthusiastic fans riveted to the track. Even in the GT2 category, where the Porsche 911 hammerlock was broken only by the Marcos LM 600, a Dodge Viper and the Morgan Plus, there was close racing ending in a duel between the Marcos and a Roock Racing 911 which eventually resolved in favor of the Porsche.

Boutsen, driving on his home track, was enormously pleased. "The last time I won on this circuit was ten years ago, so the victory is very important to me." Though he scored the points win for the championship, Bellm was less sanguine. "It seemed that the 911 GT1 drivers had time to watch the start of the F1 race on TV, go shopping at the Stavelot supermarket and still finish a lap ahead. It made us look rather silly," he said without a smile.

(Six weeks later, Porsche would send two 911 GT1s to the race at Zhuhai for the inaugural international race on the first permanent Chinese race track. Some 120,000 spectators came to see the BPR circus there and while the 911 GT1 won again, it wasn't a one-two finish. Emmanuel Collard and Ralf Kelleners, who earned their seats in the super Porsche by winning the Pirelli Supercar and German Carrera Cup championships respectively, scored the victory, but teammates Bob Wollek and Yannick Dalmas in the second 911 GT1 had to settle for fifth behind a Ferrari and two McLarens - proving that the 911 GT1 can be beaten.)

We left Spa with the solid impression that the BPR folks have got the formula right. The cars are varied and exotic, crowd-pleasers every one. The competition is tight, rules are fair, though Barth and company must carefully manage the appearance of ever more sophisticated cars like the 911 GT1. Already announced for 1997 are limitations on the prices of cars and spare parts and the banning of ABS, traction control and other electronic assistance to driving.

The race behind us, we turned the 993 back toward Germany, choosing backroads for the return trip. We came upon the luminous Mosel valley at nightfall as the lights of Cochem winked on like tiny jewels. Turning upriver, we trolled for a gasthaus, finally settling on a spartan room in Treis. It was late, off-season on the river and a Sunday night - none of which bode well for our last dinner. We finally found a place with lights on, full of locals and good aromas, but with no credit card decals on the door.

The 50 marks we saved on Friday were just enough to buy two trout and a bottle of wine.

This article originally appeared in the January 1997 issue of Panorama magazine. Reprinted with permission.