The Passion Begins

My passion for automobiles goes back as far as I can remember.  When I was three, I was placed upon a thoroughbred racehorse to trot around on and my love of motion was born.  As far as cars, and eventually racing, that lust and appreciation for danger, and possibly death, of overcoming fear and believing in your goal when things look bleak, that all came to me in my grandfather's car as we snaked aloud the precipitously narrow and high mountain passes in the deep countryside not too far as the crow flies, from Hiroshima, Japan.  There was only one lane.  The fact that it was paved seems shocking upon recollection.  On one side of the road the mountain, and on the other a long drop down a gorge or a river.  Not even a hint of a guardrail.  The road was crumbling on its edges.  When you encountered oncoming traffic, one vehicle would have to back up to the nearest cutout in the mountain, carved there so cars could get by each other.  Often, it would be raining.  This, I realized immediately was a life and death challenge.  I always loved and respected my grandfather, but this took my awe of him to a new level.  I trusted him implicitly.  There was no reflected paint or other markings when it got dark.  Just two lone headlights shining into the abyss.  In a storm.  The mountainside, the rocks and the roads are all the same grey color.  I remember always thinking "I'm so glad I'm inside the car and not outside.  It was scary outside, especially for a little kid.  It seemed to me that at any moment a wild animal or Ninja would pop out of the mountains to attack us.  It reminds me of a description of a Targa Florio I read which recounted the contestants taking on the best Sicilian country roads and mountain passes could throw at them, which early on, included the facing of bandits who would appear in the hills.  Even now, I can't help but marvel at how my grandfather handled these challenges so calmly. He seemed to exhibit no more stress than if we were on a quick trip to the local store. 
    When I was 11, it was my turn to learn how to drive on those very same mountain roads.  It is still one of the biggest thrills and best memories of my life.  It was in a mini Honda, and my main memory is of my grandfather gently pressing home the importance of knowing where the outer edge of the tires were.  It didn't realise at the time, but that was so I didn't put a wheel off the road, which could have triggered tragic results.  And of course when it comes to racing you can't put a wheel wrong there as well, or you lose time or cause an accident.  I always remember my grandfather when I take the wheel of any vehicle.