Meeting Ayrton Senna

He was taller than I had expected, and more annoyed too. I’d been waiting under the awning at the foot of the steps leading to the McLaren motor home when he emerged. Blue jeans, red fleece, chunky watch and, yes, annoyed. Very definitely annoyed.

‘Is this him?’ he said to his McLaren minder while pointing, but not looking, at me. It was. ‘Okay,’ he says. Suddenly we have eye contact and there is no longer a television screen between me and that face I knew so well. The look is piercing. A hand extends, the grip firm but soft. Not the vice I’d been expecting.

‘The car is here? Good. We go.’ And without another word, Ayrton Senna and I walk out into a cloud of journalists and photographers, through the flashbulbs, and clamours for attention to the silver Honda NSX waiting quietly beyond.