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lost an arm.’
    ‘I was just ducking …’
    He shot me an incredulous look.
    ‘I’ve just had to buy that car you trashed. If they can’t bend it straight, your season’s over.’
    It was my much needed wake-up cal . It seemed I had an answer for every catastrophe, but no sense to avoid one. I had to preserve the car, only risking it in measured bursts when absolutely necessary.
    A part-time job in a warehouse packing cheddar cheeses the size of breeze-blocks provided plenty of opportunity to analyse past events. I spent the rest of my time hanging out with my newly acquired girlfriend and practising essential driving skil s in her Ford Fiesta. Georgie was a bit special in more ways than one. She could do a handbrake turn and spin the wheels at the same time. It was love at first sight.
    I figured out that even if I was the best driver on a given day, I would never win every race because there were too many circumstances beyond my control. My problem was, I’d been forcing it. Every race had a natural order, a structure I had to respect and learn to predict. Once I accepted that, the frequency of my visits to the podium exceeded those to the infirmary.
    I was total y focused on learning the craft. My body began reacting like an alarm clock, ‘going off’
    weeks in advance of a big race. I prepared my logistics ahead of time, drove the track a mil ion times in my head.
    My naïve concept of sportsmanship took a hammering at Castle Combe. I learnt the ropes the hard way from my ‘team-mate’, a Formula First veteran who led the championship. He had a nose like a beak that found its way into my side of the garage whenever anything worthwhile was going on. Then it was al smiles, which front rol bar was I running, what tyre pressure worked best and so pleased to meet you, Mr Potential Sponsor, here’s my card.
    Later the same day I was leading him through a very fast corner on the last lap. He poked his nose up my inside but I held strong on the outside. He couldn’t get through, and it felt like he steered into me and punted me off.
    I slid across the grass like a demented lawnmower and rejoined to finish fifth, just behind him. A crimson haze descended over me, but I managed to resist the temptation to T-bone him on the way into the pit lane, drag him from the car and use my helmet on him as a basebal bat.
    The next race was at Cadwel Park, the best track in Britain, with more pitch and fal in its curves than Pamela Anderson. I had terminal understeer in qualifying and ended up running behind my ‘mate’ in third place, but I had my evil eye on him. I drove the wheels off my machine and discovered the power of control ed aggression. The car bent to my wil and unleashed a furious pace. The closer I got to my old pal, the more mistakes he made. We approached a section cal ed ‘The Mountain’ where an S bend climbed a steep gorge and before I had the pleasure of dispatching his ass personal y, he spun off the circuit. Good karma.
    Motor sport was dog eat dog, which went against the grain after five years making friends for life in the process of surviving boarding school. Popularity in racing lasted as long as you were competitive, and people were prepared to go to any lengths to remain so. I found one driver stealing my engine one night; another team sabotaged my suspension. But there were always a few rays of sunshine.
    The final race of the year was at Snetterton in Norfolk, which had been a Flying Fortress base in the Second World War. Two giant straights connected two lurid high-speed corners and a couple of slow ones. I managed to get the team’s senior mechanic on to my car. Colin was a grey-haired Lancastrian who’d won the championship with my team-mate. He had eyes like Master Yoda and talked me through what to do if and when I was in a position to actual y win.
    ‘Around this track the last thing you want to do is lead the final lap. Whoever is in second wil draft past the leader on the back straight