Pedal pushers

They’re not filmed or photographed as often, but a pedal cam is generally greeted with delight by audiences. Think of that seminal piece of film from Ruf. Stefan Roser in a Yellowbird, spectacularly yet casually sideways around the Nordschleife. Got it in mind? I bet you can picture the loafers and white socks.

And once you’ve got that image, it’s a short mental hop, skip and jump through the cranial picture bank to Senna in an NSX-R. Loafers and white socks again. That pulsing right foot, pumping from early in the corner, testing the traction. Then the perfect pressure on the brake pedal while neatly rocking onto the throttle to match the revs for a down change. There is a delicacy to it that is delightful. Forget your flicks and heel leads on Strictly.

Which brings me to footwear. I’ve always been interested in what drivers choose to lace up on their feet. I think it stems from an early assumption that if I could spend some of my student loan on a pair of race boots, this would in some way improve my driving immeasurably. Fancy footwear would lead indubitably to fancy footwork.

I was always rather a fan of the high-topped boots that sadly seem to have fallen out of fashion these days. Walter Röhrl’s blue Adidas jumping between the pedals of his Sport Quattro. Senna in his workwear of red Diadoras. Häkkinen’s black Asics. But then it all seemed to change. I’m sure others wore them earlier, but Michael Schumacher is the first that I remember adopting the lower style. The red Nikes at Ferrari particularly stand out in my mind. Of course he wasn’t the first to have a bit of sock on show. Who can forget James Hunt’s toes?

Anyway, back to the loafers, because just as I’m not sure about roundels on the road, so I tend to think that race boots shouldn’t really be worn in the real world. But what to wear? We’ve established how important inputs to the pedals are, so soles that allow you to tread on a rose bloom without dislodging a petal is surely the way forward? Some can pull off the loafer look; Tod’s to make your toes twinkle. Oxfords were of course good enough for Barnato. And there was a period where Puma pushed the pit lane into the mainstream with its Speedcats.

Onitsuka Tigers have always been a good option for not looking like a driving shoe while also being a good driving shoe. I favoured its Ultimate 81s for a while. But even they weren’t always slim enough for things like Caterhams where my lanky frame and size 11s needed all the help they could get. Then I found the world of barefoot trainers and flitted between various types of those. The New Balance Minimus range was great. Then Merrell’s Footgloves and most recently some pairs of Inov-8 Bare XFs all found their way onto my feet. They look a little different to your run-of-the-(tread)mill trainer and sometimes attract comment, but crucially they don’t look like I’ve just jumped out of a single seater. I like them.

And then there was the occasion about five years ago when all that stuff about feeling with your feet took a torpedo amidships and sank in the course of roughly five miles of road.

It was February and I was in Sweden. The car was a Group B 911 SC RS, resplendent in that lovely cool shade of Mint green that looks like it’s been squeezed from a tube of toothpaste. The road was closed and covered in ice, with waist-high snow banks dictating the edges. The low sun cast long shadows over the bright white landscape and the dark pine trees lent that slightly austere, high-contrast lonely feeling to everything that evergreens do and deciduous don’t.

Breathing in the sort of dry, cold air that seems to give you a greater clarity of mind, I buckled up the red straps of the Sabelt harness and looked around the sparse cabin. In the driver’s seat was the slim figure of Richard Tuthill – purveyor of Porsches par excellence, particularly those of the rallying kind. He is also very handy behind the wheel.

On his head was the rally driver’s choice of bonce bucket, a silver Stilo WRC DES helmet. On his hands were a pair of Alpinestars Nomex gloves. So far, so standard. But a glance in the footwell revealed something altogether more Cotswold Outdoor than Demon Tweeks. A pair of clumpy walking boots designed to keep out the cold and help with traction outside of the car were positioned on the pedals. At first glance I wasn’t even sure the brake could be pressed without one of the others getting attention too. More mountaineering than motorsport. More yomping than yumping.

But they didn’t seem to hold him back. Not in the slightest. The way that he made the car dance down the narrow road was one of those rides I’ll never forget. Flat-six barking and blipping, we seemed to be perpetually sliding at significant speed. Braking late, accelerating early, the studs in the tyres constantly clawing at the slippery surface beneath us. Unless we were airborne.

It was an astonishing display of car control. Of precision heel and toe, deft left-foot braking and teasing throttle application – sometimes all three seemingly within the same second. As Nancy didn’t sing, his boots were made for walking but that’s not all they could do.