The Race that Changed it All

May 2019. I wasn’t doing well.

I didn’t know what the next step was meant to be. I was unravelled, going through the motions. But if there was one thing that still lit me up, it was motorsport. Always had. Since the mid-80s, I’d been glued to the F1 with my dad – a McLaren fan from day one. Later, it was MotoGP, British Touring Cars, Superbike races. I loved the noise, the smell, the speed – all of it.

It was something I shared with family. With my son Josh, who tore around the Isle of Wight kart track like a lad born for it. With my brother-in-law Will, who owned a monster of an off-road vehicle. We’d take it to “pay and play” days, getting it stuck in ridiculous places and winching it out again. It was messy, brilliant fun.

So when the chance came to race in Europe at the King of Spain Ultra4 event – a proper off-road race in the mountains above Barcelona – I was in.

We jumped in the tow truck with an empty trailer and headed to Italy, where our teammate Pier had the car from a previous event. He greeted us like family. We ate fantastically, prepped the race vehicles, and even without sharing a common language, we spoke racing, food, and wine – which is all you really need in northern Italy.

On 21st May, we left early and drove along the French coast past Monaco into Spain. By the 22nd, we were at the race site in Les Comes. We got through scrutineering and qualified 18th out of 34 – not bad at all, considering we were running on passion more than budget. While other teams were stripping down and rebuilding engines each night, we were grilling pork on a Big Green Egg.

And then came the first race day.

Rain. Relentless rain. The course turned to soup. On lap 3, somewhere near the top of the mountain, we made a mistake. A small one. A rear wheel dipped just off the edge. And then everything went quiet.

We rolled. Hard. Around 200 feet down the mountainside. End over end. It felt like forever. And in the middle of that chaos, I had one thought: This is it.

I saw my life – the people, the moments – and weirdly, I didn’t feel regret. I felt… proud. Like I’d lived honestly. Done my best. If this was it, I could accept that.

But it wasn’t it.

We were in a beast of a machine – reinforced chassis, full FIA race suits, helmets, HANS devices – the whole lot. Somehow, I got out. Walked away. Climbed back up the hill, soaked and shaken, and flagged down help. Will was still in the car. We were pulled out. Safe.

Later, once the race had finished, we winched the car back to the pits. Cleaned it up. Ran diagnostics. Incredibly, she still ran. We were good to race again. We ate that night – pulled pork, Catalan boar, acorns and all – and drank a few beers in shock and celebration.

The next day we returned to the track. We were last on the grid after the crash, but hopeful. Until the engine started to overheat. Something small had gone wrong. Game over.

Still, the others raced. We cheered them on from the pits, battered and bruised but still buzzing. That night, we found a hotel, washed the mud and oil away, and sat down to the kind of dinner that stays with you forever – tapas, a tomahawk steak, and several glasses of red wine.

The next day, we drove home.

And somewhere on that journey back – ferry-bound, tired, sore, and thankful – it hit me.

That could’ve been it.

One mistake. One edge. One roll. Gone.

It was the moment I realised I didn’t want to waste time living like I had been. I didn’t want to fill my life with noise or ego or things that looked good on the outside but meant nothing inside.

This was the kick up the arse I didn’t know I needed.

I didn’t walk away from that race with a trophy. I walked away with perspective.

And that’s worth a hell of a lot more.