Jo’s Diary: The healing powers of power

But, don’t take it from me. Take it from my Ti colleagues, whose words are not only more eloquent than mine (hardly – AF), but also whose judgement on cars I trust far more than my own. Upon its launch, Andrew English described the F12’s sheer power as ‘like a bear in a box’, while Peter Robinson celebrated the F12’s ‘epic pace, barely believable’. Henry Catchpole felt that sitting at the Berlinetta’s wheel was comparable to having ‘Red Bull intravenously fed into your veins’. However, it was Andrew Frankel’s description that hit closest to my own feelings, as he described the F12 as ‘a car of many talents, one of the less obvious being a capacity to make its occupants yelp’. And, oh yes, yelp I did.

Admittedly, given my history, I’m not the most relaxed of passengers, but even then I am pretty good at keeping my thoughts to myself. This is how I coped with my first passenger lap in Al’s drift-prepared AE86 Toyota Corolla, as part of a demonstration at Goodwood. On the first lap we took Madgwick Corner at the top of fifth gear, the 4AGE engine’s ITBs screaming bloody murder as he threw the car sideways as hard as possible. Did I think I was going to die? Absolutely. But in hindsight, it was also one of my favourite experiences in the whole world.

Equally terrifying was the time I was offered a pillion ride around Silverstone at the Bennetts British Superbike Championship. Sat on the back of a sports bike, I might as well have been holding onto a rocket aiming for outer space. In fact, had you asked me at what point of the track I was on at any given moment, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. I spent the whole length of the straights eyes fixed on the sky as the rider kept the bike propped up on one wheel. Then, as we approached the corners, the sheer bite of the front brakes sent me momentarily into zero gravity, my body suddenly hovering over the seat, feet floating, no longer on the pegs. I put so much effort into trying to push myself away from the tank, to avoid all my weight coming crashing down at once into the rider that I bruised my be-gloved fingers in just one lap.

But there was something different with the F12. There was a ferocity that I had never experienced outside of the two-wheeled realm. And maybe that was why one rainy day, I finally snapped. The roads were wet, and as the crescendo of noise, g-force and lack of traction finally overwhelmed me, something strange happened. I can’t really explain what did it for me. Even at legal speeds, I felt like an engineer doing hull maintenance on the Starship Enterprise as we went into warp speed, the road and other cars coming at me like shooting stars. My palms felt sweaty and my nails dug into the Italian leather beneath me. And, like a child on a rollercoaster, I felt like the only option was to shut my eyes to block out the world around me.

Unfortunately, very quickly this became the norm. It seemed  not to not matter how slowly or how carefully Al drove, this newly unlocked fear slowly took hold of my life. Clammy hands constantly grasping for a handle to latch onto, even at the lack of any apparent danger. At first, it was isolated to my time in the Ferrari, but slowly it filtered through to all the other things I enjoyed. It wasn’t long until I noticed I had been driving my own cars with a clenched jaw, my fingers white from gripping the steering wheel. Slowly, the precious safe space I had carved for myself dissolved away, bit by bit, until it was no more.

It was a dark time. As much as I tried to make peace with the spiralling thoughts, my previous mind tricks would only work for so long before my body was once more riddled with jittery panic and anxiety. I kept trying to find a fix, but even with professional help it was hard to explain the reality of what I was feeling without making it sound like a rather niche and quite exceptionally first-world problem.

Then, just a couple of weeks ago, I had the chance to join one of the coveted Goodwood Road Racing Club track days, a perk of GRRC membership. There was only one issue, a variation on the familiar pre-party ‘I’ve got nothing to wear’ lament, in this case being that I had nothing to drive. My E46 BMW M3 would have been perfect but is currently going under some ‘light’ restoration (more on that soon) and my Suzuki Cappuccino could not possibly fit the two of us plus bags unless one of us could fold up like an accordion.

‘We could always take the F12,’ Al suggested, as I promptly spat out my tea. In theory it was a great idea, as after the track day we were going on a long scenic drive, also part of the GRRC weekend events, so what better car for the job? So, I agreed in principle, convinced that by the time the weekend came I would have either mustered the courage to do it or had enough time to concoct an exit strategy and find a slower car. Spoiler alert, I didn’t.

On the day, Al went out on his own first as I watched from the top of the Goodwood pitlane. The car looked menacing on track. From my viewpoint, I could finally appreciate the sound of the F12 down the straight and how it has an almost a Jekyll-and-Hyde quality to it. First there is this very distinct thunderous noise, like the V12 is trying to eat the world whole through its air intake. Then, as it comes past at speed, the exhaust noise takes over, like an old atmo F1 car: piercing, loud, and searing into my skull.

For the next run, I was persuaded against my better judgement into the passenger seat. Unrestricted by road laws and common decency, I was about to experience my worst nightmare, doubled. In the first corner, my feet dug into the metal plate in the passenger’s footwell, my braking point into Madgwick turning out to be a lot earlier than Al’s. Then Fordwater, completely pinned, the front-mid-engined layout making the car incredibly stable (and, oh, so fast) around the corners. Like a bloodhound, the F12 kept its nose on the track through St Mary’s and Lavant, followed by a rush of instant power. The Lavant straight, one that has always felt so long as a spectator watching the races from the safety of the grandstands, took only seconds in my mind as we time travelled to Woodcote. I had barely blinked and we were past the chicane, ready to do it all again.

We were coming around the second lap when it dawned that I was no longer on the edge of my seat. Finally, without my worry blinds on, I could see clearly and appreciate how, despite its madman ways, so civilised and composed was the F12 on track. So, as we slowed for a cooling lap and Al asked if I’d like to take the reins of the beast, I surprised myself as much as anyone by saying, simply, ‘yes’.

We joined the front of the queue one last time, me in the hot seat. It was time to face my Kryptonite head or, I should say, wheel on. I dried my hands on my jeans for what felt like the 50th time in a row. In those last minutes waiting in the pits, I remember becoming acutely aware of everything around me. Like how my legs were just a tiny bit too short for the driving position of the F12 and I needed to perch slightly to peek over the steering wheel and view the mile-long bonnet in front of me, or how tight my helmet suddenly felt around my head.

After what felt like a decade, the marshal finally waved us through. This was my first time driving at Goodwood, which was immensely special by itself, and I had an empty track ahead of me.

Like a trusty First Officer, Al helped me navigate the circuit, shouting for the different braking points over the noise of the 12 cylinders. I’m wary of not pushing my luck and skills, but the F12’s sharp but reassuring handling filled me with confidence. The sweaty hands bothered me no more; suddenly I was all fight, no flight. The engine noise grew louder in the cabin. Somehow, in the eye of the storm, I found the calm for which I had been searching for so long.

On reflection, I am so grateful I was able to overcome this mental block and finally appreciate this car for what it is: a marvellous piece of engineering put together by a team of lunatics, the last of a dying breed of naturally aspirated V12 powered cars.

My mind has finally made peace with the beast and today my yelps are more enthusiastic than fearful. I am in no way fixed, and as it is usually the way with the matters of the brain, and I know I will never be. But my sacred space feels safe again. My only regret? Should have braked later and gone faster. Next time.

Note from the author: as uncomfortable as it felt at first to share all of the above, I am hoping my story might help others who have struggled with hypervigilance and Post Traumatic Stress to feel less alone. I also want to thank the Goodwood Road Racing Club and their marshals for providing me with an opportunity to drive in a safe and controlled environment.

Finally, I am donating the fee for this story to Mission Motorsport, a charity close to my heart, whose work focuses on supporting the recovery, rehabilitation and reintegration of members of the forces through the healing potential of motorsport. Thank you for being part of my journey. Jo