Thank Frankel it’s Friday: I own a 2CV because I crashed a Caterham

I first went to Goodwood in, I think, 1986. I would have been 20 years old and a pretentious, arrogant idiot of the very first order. I had a job in the City at the height of the bull market, I had some money and I thought my real purpose on earth was to bless the world with knowledge of my sublime driving talent.

The medium through which I would achieve this was my new-ish Caterham Seven Super Sprint and, the fact I genuinely thought that just about the coolest thing on wheels shows you how far removed from reality I was. I think then as I think now that Caterhams are among the most wonderful cars ever made, but even I must concede there is not one scintilla of coolness about any of them.

Goodwood in 1986 was at the same time both entirely like and unlike it is today. Fully twenty years after it had last hosted a race meeting and used for testing only intermittently thereafter for testing, it was in a fairly dilapidated state, a poor shadow of both its former and latter self. But the track was exactly the same fast, technical and tricky track it is today, but even more dangerous because the tyre barriers were completely fossilised and there was by my recollection no gravel anywhere at all.

At the time I knew nothing of the place, but had turned up in the Caterham and somehow persuaded a bunch of my idiotic mates to drive down to watch my heroics.

My eldest brother volunteered to take me round to show me the layout and for some reason let me drive his mid-engined Renault 5 Turbo 2. At about 30mph with threats of capital punishment if I so much a put a wheel off the track. And it all looked so terribly easy. These were barely corners at all.

I accept that what I should then have done in got is the Caterham and trawled round, lap after lap, slowly building speed, understanding the character of this unique circuit. But that’s not what happened.

Instead, and I can still barely believe this 33 years later, a mate of my brother’s called David Sandeman asked if I’d like to try his Formula Ford. He probably didn’t realise it, but this was the bravest thing David had done since breaking the world record for the youngest solo crossing of the Atlantic.

So into his little Van Diemen I squeezed myself and off I went. And it all got easier still. I couldn’t believe how precise and immediate it felt but more than anything else, it appeared to have limitless grip. It was while travelling flat out through Fordwater that I realised this was not the case.

To anyone who actually knew what they were doing, the corner was of course easily taken without lifting in such a car. But I didn’t have a clue and when I took the wrong line and saw the edge of track rushing up to meet me I did two things I’d probably not try today: I turned hard right and jammed on the brakes.

You can perhaps guess the rest: one RF80 pinwheeling down and then off the track with me as one thoroughly terrified passenger. Providence alone saved me: it spun in rather than out and came to rest so far from the circuit and with me so disoriented I had no idea how to rejoin. It took an age to get all the grass out of it and it’s been referred to by my brother as ‘the lawnmower incident’ ever since.

So I really should have learned my lesson by the time I’d grovelled out my apologies and retreated to the Caterham. And in many ways I had: I’d spent all my money buying the bloody thing and I couldn’t afford to put so much as a scratch on its red and aluminium bodywork.

Which is why I was actually quite cautious and drove quite sensibly and within my then rather modest personal limits. I was enjoying the infectious growl of the 135bhp 1.7-litre pushrod Ford motor, the snick of its brilliant four-speed gearbox and the inimitable feel of the car through the steering and chassis. I did a few laps and got the hang of the place sufficiently to no longer be a menace to myself or anyone else. It was brilliant.

But while I could just about keep my inner idiot at bay when no-one was looking, I was very aware that every time I came out of the chicane (a chicane you no doubt would have seen in countless photos), all my idiot mates were watching. So on my last lap I decided I’d show them: I’d boot the tail of the Caterham far out of line, drift beautifully out of the corner, then wrench it straight and pull nonchalantly into the pits to receive my ovation. In my head, I could see no flaw to this plan.

The plan all worked beautifully right up to the moment the Seven snapped irretrievably sideways backed us both into the bank. I was bloody lucky all over again because the standard low and thin Caterham roll-over hoop split my borrowed motorcycle helmet leaving me unharmed.

And that was that: the car went back to Caterham for a repair estimate, but it was academic really: the rear suspension was smashed, the live axle bent, the bodywork deranged. I asked them what they’d give me for the wreck and accepted the first figure I was given and I bought a 2CV with the proceeds.

So my first visit to Goodwood resulted not in glory, but my first crash at Goodwood too. To date, and I realise what a dumb thing it is to say, it is also my most recent crash at Goodwood. I hope very much it stays that way.

Jackie Stewart and chicane photos courtesy of Motorsport Images.