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Cars were never just machines to me. They were part of growing up.

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As a kid, I’d race around my parents’ house with a plastic set of drawers on wheels, sliding it across the floor like I was flying through Becketts at Silverstone. It drove them mad. But even then, I was obsessed with movement, with sound, with speed.

I had Hot Wheels everywhere. Boxes of them. Every model I could get my hands on. Cars weren’t just toys. They were stories. They were power. They were freedom.

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My dad taught me to drive when I was 12 years old. Before I was anywhere near legal age, I already understood clutch control, throttle balance and what it meant to really feel a car.

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My stepfather always had something serious on the drive. The latest M3. An RS6. Straight sixes. Twin turbos. V8s that shook the driveway when they fired up. Performance wasn’t something I discovered later in life. It was normal from the start.

At school, I became friends with a lad who raced Ministox at just 13. I travelled with him to stock car tracks across the UK, standing in the pits under floodlights, breathing in fuel and rubber. The atmosphere. The aggression. The adrenaline. It gets under your skin.

After leaving school, I became a mechanic. I wanted to understand cars from the inside out. Not long after, I volunteered as a medic at Birmingham Wheels Raceway for several years. I wasn’t just watching racing. I was part of it. Trackside. In the pits. In the chaos.

That passion has never left.

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Even now, I have a simulator rig in my garage. I still race. I still chase lap times. And now I share that with my 10 year old son.

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Because this isn’t just a job. It’s something that’s been part of my life at every stage.

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