Faced with the chance of driving a Formula 1 car, Justin Hynes didn't hesitate and, with only two or so adjustments to his gloves and overalls. . .
These are the words almost every racing driver on the planet yearns to hear: "Would you like to drive a Formula One car?"
No hesitation, no moment's reflection on whether this will imperil other destinies, other realities, not even time to draw a breath. Just a slowly exhaled "Whoooo. . ." Breathlessly.
"Uhh, is that a 'yes'?"
"Yes," I said. "Where, when , what do I need to bring, can I go fast, can I take it home?"
Yup. This isn't some poetic tale of a struggling driver's triumph against the odds to finally claw his way to summit of motorsports, to suck in the rarefied air of Formula One and scream "top of the world, ma!" like Jimmy Cagney in a racesuit.
No, this is the tale of a driver who struggles to find second-gear in a hire car, who, while capable of waxing lyrical about mid-corner oversteer and the hitting of apices, is more familiar with middle-age spread and the occasional hitting of the bottle. Me, driving a Formula One car.
Magny Cours, the Circuit de Nevers, 4.30 p.m., last Friday. Sky overcast. The threat of rain still scents the air like cordite on a battlefield.
Formula One first qualifying has been a washout and for a while I've been thinking Alpine stars, the race wear company who have in their unfathomable naiveté have organised this event in association with the race school just opened by former Benetton test driver Laurent Redon, are going to pull the plug on my moment of glory. Track too wet, drivers too fundamentally clueless, chance gone.
But no, they're pressing ahead. "Register over there, get your tag and then head over to the front of the building to get your boots and suit," says the pretty PR girl. "You are driving aren't you?"
"Oh yeah," I say confidently. "Definitely driving. I'm an excellent driver."
She regards my Rain Man impression with barely concealed wonder. I can almost visualise her thoughts: "How could anybody, I mean anybody, be dumb enough to let this man behind the wheel of a Formula One car. He's clearly mentally subnormal."
"Hey," I silently reason back. "I work in Formula One. What the hell d'you expect?"
And there's the key. I am a Formula One writer. I talk about driving these cars with authority. I understand understeer and oversteer, I sort of know what engineers are doing when they change the angle of a front wing. I've met Michael Schumacher.
These things, and these alone, qualify me to drive a Formula One car. It's a crazy, mixed up world. After all, most people of my acquaintance believe, and they will not be gainsaid on this matter, that I cannot drive nails.
But still, they're going to let me do this. Fools.
So I'm registered. They've handed me an extremely comfortable pair of their stylish little raceboots, a race suit that fits, and a nice pair of green and white gloves. I reckon that if looking the part is half the battle then I'm there.
I practise my patented F1 driver focused look, but succeed in merely looking vacant. So I pull on a balaclava and helmet and practice nodding at my race engineer whilst simultaneously refitting my gloves. I've seen countless F1 drivers do this and it looks impressive and makes up for the disaster that is the focused look. I also have a go at grabbing my crotch in preparation for climbing into the car as this seems to work for David Coulthard, but then maybe he's a bigger winner in that department than me. I merely look like a bad Michael Jackson impersonator in a baby-gro.
Never mind. Cars await. A 1999 Benetton as driven by Giancarlo Fisichella and Alex Wurz. A 1997 Arrows, as taken to second place at the Hungarian Grand Prix by Damon Hill and uhh, also driven by Pedro Diniz and a 1994 Larousse driven by a raft of people including Eric Comas, which did, frankly, nothing.
And guess what, I'm guided (kicking and screaming) towards the Larousse.
"No, it's all right, I'll wait for someone else to have a go, I don't mind. . . look, it's okay, I WANT THE F**** BENETTON!!"
I'm pretty proud of this performance as I reckon it demonstrates my hunger to move on to bigger and better things, and teams. Strangely, other people are looking at me like I've gone slightly mad.
But they insist on the Larousse. No matter. I'll drive that. It's deficiencies will just prove my worth all the more.
Except it's irrelevant. All these cars are fitted with the same engine a 3.5 litre Cosworth putting out 700bhp and revving up to 13,800. They're all fitted with carbon brakes and a host of other doohickeys designed to make it easier for clowns like me.
I clamber in and I get a briefing from the engineer. This gives me the opportunity to nod and refix my gloves again and I reckon I look cool.
"You engage the clutch," he says. "And we will push start you. When we yell release the clutch, 5mm of throttle and gear up and down with the paddles, blah, blah, blah. . ." I've stopped listening. I'm suddenly confronted with the reality that I have to drive this beast. Oh Christ. But it's okay I feel the leaden clutch depress, wiggle my feet to locate the accelerator, and flip the paddles behind the steering wheel. All systems go. I'm pushed, release the clutch and with an ear-shattering bang, the world stops.
There's just me and this car. The world swims into focus with the scream of 700 horses behind my head, the car trundling out of pit lane and onto the circuit. I feather the throttle, feel the unbelievable power and shift to third on the exit of the first corner.
The car jolts beneath me like a bronco, forcing me foward in the seat. Push down gently on the accelerator and bang, the world stops again. And it doesn't start turning again until I'm forced to turn into a pits just a brief lap later. This is the most exhilarating minute of my life. Down to second for the next left hander and into a right, up to third on the exit for the back straight, push more, up to fourth, brake hard and downshift to third for the next right hander. And so it goes. A series of moments that will linger forever. They may fade to sepia tones, but the extraordinary ebb and flow of power and braking, the enormous kinetic connection to this machine will stay with me in technicolour forever. And I don't think I ever got above 80 mph.
It is simply the thrill of blending with such awesome power and control that floods your system like heroin. It is a towering, razor-sharp high, like no other. I can only imagine what it must be like to open the throttle out, push until the edge of the precipice is rushing by like impulses across synapses.
But they take you out of the slipstream. Land you in solid ground too soon and, like heroin, it leaves the world outside that cockpit, grey and lumpen. The thrill is gone. God how you want more.