I’ve realised something recently. I feel more emotion working on the car than I do driving it.
When I’m driving, everything is focused. Controlled. You’re in the moment. But when you’re on the spanners, looking after someone else’s car, it’s different. You feel responsible.
Over time, I’ve built my own rhythm when working on cars. Checking wheel nuts. Suspension. Fluids. Bodywork. I move around the car in a pattern, almost without thinking. It becomes a routine you trust. You go over everything once, then again, just to be sure. Every car is slightly different. Some are awkward to work on. Some have fuel systems that are hard to access. Some have belts that never quite sit right. You learn each car’s quirks. What to watch for. What doesn’t quite behave like the others.
But no matter how many times you check something, that feeling doesn’t go away. When the driver straps in and heads out, that’s when it hits. You’ve checked everything. You know you’ve done it properly. But as the car leaves the pit lane, there’s always that moment. Did I miss anything?
At Silverstone, I had it properly. I was working on Lorna’s car during testing. Something simple — her mirrors kept working loose and vibrating. It doesn’t sound much, but it was costing her laps. Every time she came in, it was still there. I started to feel responsible.
There was a red flag, and I knew I had one chance. I stripped the assemblies down, swapped out the bolts, and taped everything to make sure it stayed solid. It wasn’t about making it look neat — it just had to work. I almost missed the green flag. But I wasn’t sending that car out again with a loose mirror.
When she went back out, that feeling was there again. Waiting. Watching. Listening. And then she came through, flat out. That’s when it goes. That moment of relief.
It’s strange, because when something does go wrong, that’s when I feel most comfortable. That’s when the process takes over.
Everything we’ve drilled in the workshop — the routines, the checks, the way you approach a problem — it all comes back. You don’t think, you just do.
Being a mechanic is tough. You have to follow your process exactly, every time. Like hitting your lines as an actor.
But at the same time, you have to adapt. Things don’t always go to plan, and when they don’t, you have to react quickly and make the right call. It’s structure and improvisation at the same time.
That’s what surprised me most. It’s not just about turning spanners. It’s about responsibility. Because when that car leaves the pit lane, it’s not just theirs anymore. A small part of it is yours too.
