#mysimola

Every year I stand at the start line and realise something. I’ve already had my fun.
Not here (at the event).
Not in the 60 seconds (hopefully less this year) ahead of me.
Not in the six runs.
Not in the final (if I qualify).

My fun was in the year before this, leading up to the event.
The late nights or in my case long days.
Torque checks. Doubts. Spreadsheets. Quiet obsession.

People think racing is what happens on the hill. It isn’t. The hill is the release.
Six minutes (again, in my case)
Twelve kilometres.
The faster you go, the less you experience.
The better you get, the shorter it lasts.
Spectators see launches. Slides. Crashes & Trophies.
They don’t see the year. The anxiety of the first shakedown. The first corner in anger wondering,
“Did I build this properly?”
“Will it brake?”
“Will it turn?”
They don’t see the business deals negotiated between runs. Identity shifts. Logistics. The race van built because driving a racecar to an event is very, very bad idea.
The stress of towing a race car you built, with a race van you built, to a very public event, broadcast internationally.
They see, my last 365 days consolidated into roughly six minutes (mostly much less).
Why do I keep coming back?
Because racing isn’t the run.
It’s the preparation.
Racing is life.
Simola Hillclimb