Taken for a ride. By George! (Life Lessons from a Drift Car)

My fiancé is a very passionate man. One of the things that first attracted me to him was that passion. Long before I appeared in his life, long before our paths crossed, he already cared deeply about cars. There is something enormously attractive about watching somebody love what they do and throw themselves into it completely. Sometimes it's a little bewildering. Sometimes it's all-consuming. But enthusiasm on that scale is difficult to resist. His love of cars was firmly established before I arrived on the scene. Indeed, there are moments when I suspect his car, and I continue to compete for attention, although I should point out that only I receive a cup of tea in bed every morning, accompanied by a winning smile. His extraordinary car community, Vengaworld, has become a source of pleasure to thousands of people. It's rather wonderful to be driving through some distant town and suddenly spot a Vengaworld sticker in the rear window of a passing car. Their events have become legendary, built on the radical notion that enthusiasts should be able to come together without somebody immediately trying to charge them for parking, exhibiting, breathing, or existing. It was this passion that, after an extraordinary evening at Shoreditch for the Shoreditch Showdown, an evening I attended barely two hours after stepping off a nine-hour flight from Las Vegas, took us to Goodwood, that glorious Sussex cathedral dedicated equally to horsepower and horseflesh. We've visited many times before, but this occasion was a little special. Brayden's community has introduced me to some wonderful people. They are generous, funny, welcoming and kind. Even if they can occasionally spend an entire dinner discussing carburettors, alternators, differential ratios and turbo lag without once noticing that I had quietly slipped into a coma. George Barclay is one of those people who simply makes you feel better for having spent time with him. He arrives at pizza nights in Soho driving an enormous white American limousine that causes every head on Berwick Street to swivel in unison. Yet George himself remains utterly without pretension. He is gentle, thoughtful, generous and quietly funny. He is also one of the best drift drivers in the country. Drifting, for those unfamiliar with the sport, involves taking a perfectly serviceable motor car and deliberately pointing it in a direction different from the one in which it is actually travelling. The aim appears to be to produce sufficient tyre smoke to convince nearby spectators that a new pope has been elected. In the Vatican, white smoke means a pontiff. At Goodwood, it generally means George has arrived. For quite some time there had been vaguely voiced threats that, one day, I would have to go out in the car with him. This prospect did not fill me with joy. I had experienced drifting exactly once before, during one of my earliest dates with Brayden at Brands Hatch. I believe the accepted description of that experience is “fun". My own description would be "anxiety with seatbelts". So when Saturday arrived, and with it the prospect of a three o'clock ride around Goodwood with George at the wheel, I was slightly apprehensive.Let's just say I had chosen to wear brown shorts. My impending terror became a source of considerable amusement to almost everyone present. A camera was fitted to the car.A crash helmet was selected. I was strapped into the passenger seat with so many harnesses and restraints that I felt less like a passenger and more like a payload on a moon mission. Then we rolled gently out towards the circuit. I had decided that, for the sake of the camera, I would provide a running commentary. The problem was that I was terrified. George, meanwhile, radiated the sort of calm confidence usually associated with airline captains and surgeons. We turned onto the straight. The engine roared. And then we were off. The acceleration was astonishing. A moment later we were sideways. Or backwards. Or diagonal. It's difficult to be precise. There were flicks, transitions, feints, slides, drifts, opposite lock, throttle control and a whole vocabulary of driving techniques that I neither understood nor had time to learn because I was too busy screaming. And then something unexpected happened. I relaxed. Not gradually. Almost instantly. The terror evaporated, replaced by pure exhilaration. I wasn't clinging on. I wasn't bracing for impact. I wasn't even pretending to be brave. I was laughing. Whooping. Cheering. At one point, I couldn’t resist a burst of jazz hands. There are few clearer signs that a middle-aged gay man has surrendered completely to joy. The language coming out of my mouth was colourful, certainly, but it wasn't the language of fear. It was delight. Complete, unfiltered, childish delight. By the time we completed the lap and slid dramatically into the pits, executing manoeuvres normally associated with supermarket car parks in Essex after dark, I was grinning from ear to ear. George looked slightly concerned. His crash helmet had prevented him from hearing anything I'd said. For all he knew, I'd spent the entire lap praying. He opened the door. I climbed out. A small crowd was waiting. "That," I announced to anyone within hearing distance, "was absolutely bloody brilliant.” I cannot thank George enough. But afterwards it left me wondering about something. How many times in life have I resisted the skid? How many times has life taken an unexpected turn and my instinct has been to tense up, grip harder and fight against it? How many times has change arrived uninvited and I've pretended that if I simply objected strongly enough it might go away? Yet the lesson of that lap was remarkably simple. The moment I stopped fighting the movement and trusted the process was the moment I began enjoying it. Go with the turn. Trust the slide. Accept that you are not always pointing in the direction you're travelling. Earlier this year my work changed dramatically. Some projects that had been part of my life for years suddenly disappeared. The road ahead seemed less certain than it had before.And funnily enough, it was Brayden who said, "Don't worry. We'll go with this." As usual, he was right. Sometimes life isn't a straight line. Sometimes it's a drift. And if you're lucky enough to have the right people beside you, the unexpected turns can become the most exhilarating part of the journey. I never expected to learn a life lesson sitting sideways in a drift car on a damp Saturday afternoon in Sussex. But by George, and thanks to George, I did.