I had plenty to worry about that morning. I was about to take my racing licence test on an unfamiliar track, in a car that I’d barely driven, using skills I’d only recently mastered. What's more, I’d been commissioned to write about the process for a national outlet, so the embarrassment of failure would be excruciating both personally and publicly.
What I didn’t expect to have to worry about, was my appearance. A week earlier, my racing coach Stewart had gently advised me that I might want to pay close attention to other racers – not to watch how they approached a hairpin bend, or their speed through the straights, but to clock how they were dressed. I did look around, finding only one other woman, a professional , who was casually clothed in a t-shirt and padded gilet, her hair pulled back loosely, with no make-up on.
I glanced in the mirror at my own smart trousers, designer blouse, fresh nails and lipstick and considered that he was probably advising me to dress for the job at hand, rather than a job in fashion. He said it with the best intentions; this is one man who has only ever wanted to see me succeed. He couldn’t have known that this comment would become something I agonised over, every other minute, until the big day.
When I decided to try racing, after a desk-bound decade in fashion magazines, I knew that I was setting myself up for a big challenge. In the first instance, it would require great driving skill, handling sometimes complicated cars, on tra.
