Holland – Part 2: A Father’s View
When the sector went yellow on the timing screen, I just knew it was Harrison.
Then the Safety Car boards came out.
As the top two cars trundled past the grandstand with Harrison missing, something inside me just collapsed.
Throughout Harrison’s motorsport journey I’ve made plenty of mistakes, but none have ever felt as bad as that moment.
When Harrison first got his licence and was collecting signatures to come off his novice cross, I pushed him to get enough signatures for an International Race Licence. I’d always regretted never managing to get him to race a kart in Europe and, when we moved into cars, I desperately wanted to put that right.
So I pushed for Zandvoort.
With the help of some incredibly well-connected people in British Formula Ford we found Harrison a hired car and a drive with John Svensson Racing in the Marcel Albers Trophy. It was an incredible opportunity.
Looking back now, though, I let the idea run away with me.
I became so caught up in the thought of Harrison racing at one of Europe’s great circuits that common sense and financial discipline slowly disappeared out of the window.
Once we committed, everything seemed to gather pace. The Tunnel was booked. The hotel was booked. Car hire, insurance, team fees, entry fees, tyres… then came the practice sessions, fuel, food and all the little costs that quietly add up until you suddenly realise you’re spending far more than you ever budgeted for.
I’d seriously underestimated what the weekend was really going to cost and, if I’m honest, that financial anxiety sat quietly in the back of my mind for the entire trip.
Even getting there became part of the problem. Driving all the way to Holland in one day wasn’t ideal preparation for anyone, especially the driver. Then I remembered that we had one of the biggest weekends of Harrison’s Super Classic Formula Ford season at Donington just seven days later.
For the first time I genuinely started asking myself whether I was asking too much of him.
Friday never really settled those doubts.
The car had an engine issue all day, Harrison never got a clear run and the lap times weren’t where we expected them to be.
That was when another fear crept in.
Had I put Harrison in the wrong car?
Had I worked so hard to create this opportunity only to leave him looking slow in front of people whose opinions mattered?
Knowing that people were watching only made the pressure feel greater, and I could see Harrison starting to feel it as well.
Qualifying was torture.
Richard Freye and Harrison’s team boss disappeared towards the front while Harrison found himself buried in traffic. I sat on my own in the grandstand, staring at the timing screen and willing the numbers to change.
At one stage he was fifteenth.
Then I started counting.
One car…
Two cars…
Five…
Ten…
He just kept overtaking people.
By the end of the session he’d climbed to third, less than half a second from pole despite the engine still not running properly.
For the first time all weekend my hands unclenched.
Third would do nicely.
Saturday’s race only determined Sunday’s grid, so there was no need to force anything. Bring the car home, stay near the front and we’d have every chance of standing on the podium the following day.
The team kept working on the engine while Harrison headed to the grid.
I went back to the grandstand.
The clock seemed to move painfully slowly.
Eventually the race started.
The three leaders broke away almost immediately and Harrison looked completely at home. He wasn’t hanging on. He wasn’t taking silly risks. He was racing properly, sitting second and looking comfortable.
For the first time that weekend I actually allowed myself to relax.
Then the yellow sector appeared.
I knew.
I don’t know how.
I just knew.
Back at the awning nobody really knew what had happened. People guessed at everything. Had he spun? Had there been contact? Had the engine failed? There were no medical vehicles, which gave us a little hope, but nobody had any answers.
The team boss arrived first.
He looked downbeat.
The owner looked devastated.
I tried to stay calm but every fear I’d been carrying all weekend suddenly arrived at exactly the same moment.
Eventually the recovery truck pulled in.
Harrison climbed down, exhausted and drenched in sweat.
“Engine,” was all he said before disappearing into the back of the truck.
The team gathered around the car.
I heard the quiet conversations before I saw the damage.
The engine had a hole in the side of the block.
It was over.
Months of planning.
Thousands of pounds.
His opportunity.
Gone in less than four laps.
Then another thought hit me.
The insurance didn’t cover the engine.
I remember clenching my fists so tightly that my fingernails dug into the palms of my hands.
We watched Harrison’s onboard footage with the owner.
There was nothing.
No missed gear.
No over-rev.
No warning lights.
Nothing Harrison had done had caused the failure.
One by one the team told me not to worry about the cost and, more importantly, they all spoke about how impressed they’d been with Harrison before the engine let go.
I could actually see the weight lifting from his shoulders.
Mine too.
We went down to the beach later that afternoon.
People probably thought we were relaxing.
We weren’t.
We were simply somewhere different, but every conversation still found its way back to the race.
As a father, though, my thoughts had already moved on.
How do I pick him back up?
How do I get him home, reset him mentally and somehow get him ready for one of the biggest championship weekends of the year only a few days later?
Then there was the financial mess I’d created.
That was mine to sort out.
Mine to fix.
If I dwell on what that weekend cost us financially, emotionally and mentally, I can still drive myself mad.
So instead I choose to remember something else.
For four laps, on one of Europe’s greatest circuits, my son proved he belonged.
Everything else was simply bad luck.
One weekend. Two perspectives.
Zandvoort was one of the biggest moments of Harrison’s season. Rather than tell the story through a traditional race report, we’ve written it from two very different viewpoints: Harrison’s, as the driver inside the car, and Richard’s, as the father trying to build opportunities while carrying the emotional and financial responsibility that comes with them.
