Becoming a race car driver...

"t_s" (t_s) 05/12/2014 at 11:33 • Filed to: Mini, Racecar, Racing, Historic, Hillclimb

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In 1997 my dad took me to see a historic car hillclimb outside Siena, my home town. We'd just moved back to Italy from Australia and this was my first taste of European motorsport and good grief did I like it.

Fast forward to the morning of Saturday May 10th 2014 and I feel sick, as I have done for the past four days when I wake up. Crap, this must be what pregnant women feel like. Why am I sick? Because today's the day when I strap in to the driver's seat of an Innocenti Mini Cooper 1300, get out from behind the camera lens, cross over the guard rail and become a race car driver in the Scarperia – Giogo hillclimb. Nervous? Me? Very! Why am I so bloody nervous? When I started racing in motorcycle hillclimbs back in 2007 I fell asleep before the start for God's sake! Well a lot has changed in those seven years, no longer am I a mere stripling of 21 with little fear, a non-paying internship and a recently ended course of anti-depressants after a breakup. I'm now you're average, slightly rotund 28 year-old with an impending marriage, work stress and a slightly worried fiancée who's not terribly keen on this whole racing bollocks. Plus the car I'm going to be racing isn't exactly mine, it's my dad's spare, which he bought last year when his wasn't ready in time for the season opener. Yes it's still in the family, but if I bend it, I'm dead.

Yesterday the car went through technical checks without a hitch and now the time has come, today is practice and tomorrow the bullshit stops, it's race day. Dad's not looking too happy, his 1000cc Mini Cooper isn't running terribly well and not making nearly as much power as the recent mega-Euro rebuild should have it making. Me? I'm quietly shitting myself, but my car, by virtue of its status as a non-modified class car, is running wonderfully and shouldn't give any problems.

After a morning of sitting around trying not to look desperately concerned, the time comes to get dressed in a mountain of fire-retardant clothing and prepare for the start of practice. Our paddock is in behind the pits of the Mugello race circuit and there's a five minute drive to the starting area. I take the time to bed in the brakes, weave the car about a bit and try to calm the fuck down. My dad's in front of me with his car and our mechanic on board, he too is weaving and braking. We get to the starting area and I park on the side of the road and walk up to the start, my Dad's Mini is older than mine, so he starts before me. I tighten his belts, give his car a quick check and then watch him start, he gets away cleanly, very little wheelspin and he's off. I start walking back to my car when I hear a marshal's radio crackle, 'car 12 stopped on course.' Shit, fuck, that's Dad's number! Is he ok? Is it an accident? It's a mechanical problem. I'm relieved, but at the same time disappointed, I was looking forward to seeing him at the top.

Time to put this out of my mind and worry about my own race. Time to strap in, warm the car up and get my race face on. When that's done I fire up my phone and take a picture of myself. My race face consists of an expression similar to that one I had when I got caught telling that dirty joke and was sent to the headmaster.

Ok, forget about this phone bollocks, concentrate. The car's warming up, shit, there are still seven cars which have to start ahead of me, will it get too hot? Am I tight enough in the seat? Are the windows open the right amount? Will I make a fool of myself? How can this be my dream if I'm so fucking nervous?

Questions, all these questions, then the little yellow light goes out, changes to green and all fades into silence. All I can hear is the engine, all I can see is the next corner, all I can feel is the steering wheel and the shifter. Nothing else registers. Well, nothing except those waved yellows and the marshal standing in the road frantically signalling me to slow down. Shit. I round the next corner at walking pace and there's an E-type Jag off to the side, the driver is out, standing next to it, so he's ok. Foot back on, this part's tricky, these corners all look alike! Shit, I knew I should have spent more time looking at onboard videos on youtube instead of watching reruns of Big Bang Theory! No, wait, I know this bit, this is the last hairpin, I'm ok, I've made it to the top. Holy shit that was amazing, how fast did I go? Do I even care at this point? No, I'm at the top. I've made it through, the car still has a full complement of wheels, functioning cylinders and forward and reverse gears, that's enough for today. There will be time to get better, today was about making it to the top.

On the drive back down to the start people wave, clap, cheer, this feels amazing. Unfortunately I see my dad standing next to his car and he's not looking so chipper. It's terminal, something quite serious has gone pop. No racing for him this weekend. I'm bitterly disappointed about not being able to race him.

Sunday, May 11 th , guess what? Yes, I feel sick again. Then I open the curtains and it gets worse. Clouds, big, ugly thick grey bastards which don't really look inviting at all. Turns out it's rained half way up the road and it looks to be heading further into the track. Oh joy. Still, I've come this far. Time to re-don the fire-retardant gimp suit and sort this racing thing out. Yesterday went well, but I've got to get better, this is race day. Back off to the start, this time there's no mechanic, dad rides with me. We watch the first few cars set off and then it's time to get strapped in.

"Warm the car up."

"Bit early isn't it? Still got ages until I start."

"It's colder, warm it up."

Ten cars to go, the temperature needle moves from the 50°C mark.

Eight cars to go, it's up to about 70°C, from here on I can't shut it off.

Five cars to go, it jumps to just above 90°C into the worrying half of the gauge.

Three cars to go, 110°C, fuck.

My turn, it's almost into the red.

Go!

Fourth in class (out of five!) and 33 rd out of 40 in my group. Do I care? Not even the least little bit. I get to go back to work and when people tell me about their weekend watching football, waiting to find a parking spot at Ikea and doing the grocery shopping, I get to tell them I was racing cars.

While I'm loading the car onto the trailer my dad looks at me and tells me the same thing he's been telling me since we started racing, back in 2007.

I'll take being a slow racer over being a fast spectator any day of the week.

MonkeePuzzle > t_s 05/12/2014 at 11:38

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great read

"When that's done I fire up my phone and take a picture of myself. My race face consists of an expression similar to that one I had when I got caught telling that dirty joke and was sent to the headmaster." where is this pic?

MonkeePuzzle > t_s 05/12/2014 at 11:41

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"I'll take being a slow racer over being a fast spectator any day of the week." epic bumper sticker worthy

You can tell a Finn but you can't tell him much > t_s 05/12/2014 at 16:12

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Awesome write up and it sounds like a great experience. Keep racing and keep telling us about it.

Seatballs > t_s 05/18/2014 at 11:50

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Sounds like fun. Helpful tip for next time - edit out all of the superfluous detail (e.g., the first 50% of this article).

t_s > Seatballs 05/19/2014 at 02:54

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To ask an Italian to leave out superfluous detail is to miss the point. ;)

BiTurbo228 - Dr Frankenstein of Spitfires > t_s 05/20/2014 at 13:42

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Kickass :) very jealous

Also jealous of growing up in Siena. I absolutely loved the place when I was travelling around Italy. It's like all the best bits of Florence concentrated into one beautiful, characterful city.