Off, then, to the British Speedway Grand Prix. Hurrah. A sport that's noisy, unashamedly proletarian and full of Poles. It's hot. Really, really hot, which has all sorts of implications for you know who, who's you know what, but, hey, life is full of implications.
The M25 is at a standstill at the A1 as they've imposed yet more savage 50mph limits. It's a speed slow enough to conform that there are no workers on these roadworks. Great. I take a diversion via Borehamwood and Watford, but that's blocked too.
My back's sticky, even though I'd hit upon the clever rouse of driving to Cardiff wearing shorts and changing into something marginally more dignified just before I arrive. Alas I forget to pack some shoes. For the dignified look, I plump for long trousers and sandals. It's what Jesus would have done. If he'd been covering the speedway.
Everything's a little bit haphazard. The man at the press gate tells me I'm late (I'm an hour early after some catching up after the M25 and that dual carriageway into Wales not being too disastrous, but thanks anyway) and when I stumble into the media area, I'm not on the hacklist.
"How did you get here?" asks another Welshman.
"M4," I trill.
This causes much hilarity, for he had wanted to know how I'd evaded the man at the gate, presumably with a view to shooting someone. I despair. A woman gives me a pass. They're all very nice about it, but not only are there places to spare in the press box, there's an awful lot of people not actually working. This may sound bitchy, but I really don't want someone putting pints of beer next to my laptop and standing up and cheering when the going gets thrilling, as it invariably does. Who are these people? Where are they from? What do they want?
I suspect 21st Century British speedway might have peaked when Chris "Bomber" Harris won in 2007. He hasn't won a Grand Prix since, but he's still the best local hope, since Tai Woffinden is just a kid and so-called wild card Scott Nicholls isn't remotely the contender he once was. Last year they had an endless supply of energy drinks. This year they don't. They don't have milk for the tea/coffee either and the attendance is down since someone moronically arranged British - indeed European - speedway's biggest day on the same weekend as the British Formula 1 Grand Prix.
Call me not understanding things properly, but I'd have switched Cardiff with, say, the Swedish Grand Prix on August 14 in Malilla (no idea I'm afraid) where the capacity is just 15,000 or the 4000-capacity Terenzano circuit, somewhere in Italy, some time in September.
The noise - air horns, vuvuzelas, unsilenced bikes, the Millennium Stadium's ghastly PA and shouty Poles - is overpowering. I wear earplugs. The racing is fantastic. Jason Crump and the Poles Jaroslaw Hampel and Tomasz Gollob seem streets ahead, but when Gollob's bike lets him down in the semi, the Australian Chris Holder surprises even himself by winning his first Grand Prix in his first season after a dramatic Grande Final.
Afterwards, it's a sort of chaos. The riders are jolly enough, but they're asked questions by a speedway official rather than the hacks. Worse, since so many so-called writers use the moment to get stuff signed and take photographs, it's more like a meet'n'greet. Still, you can't imagine, say, Glen Johnson posing with a berk in a baseball cap with the grace displayed by Holder and the more experienced Jason Crump.
I change back into shorts for the night ride home. There's only one traffic jam to negotiate.

Playlist
Sparks - Hello Young Lovers
I've long under-estimated this one. Perhaps it was the awful cover or Perfume, the least interesting Sparks single in decades. I wasn't ;listening properly. It's Lil Beethoven but better.