THE SACRIFICE

Painting by Ygraine Barrow 1995

San Marino Grand Prix

Imola

1st May, 1994

In team garage he puts on his helmet,

then pulls gloves on inside out - an

obsessive superstition of his.

Adrenaline begins pumping.

Easing himself into his car.

Starting the engine.

Now lapping the circuit

to take his position

at the front of the grid.

Formation lap commences.

Cars zig-zagging

to warm up tyres.

Engines revving.

Lining up for the real thing now.

They're all in position.

Tension becoming unbearable.

He can practically hear

more than twenty other hearts

pounding in unison

with his own.

This waiting is tantamount

to torture.

Mind focused ruthlessly.

Every muscle flexed

to the point of pain,

in preparation for insane dash

to stay in pole position.

Red lights flick on.

A cheer from the grandstands.

There's an uncontrollable fluttering

in his solar plexus.

He feels strange today:

sick, light-headed;

as if about to black out.

The vision of first place trophy

in his mind's eye

is inexplicably replaced

by brilliant white light:

The Face of God.

And just for an instant,

he's hovering high above;

looking down on himself

sitting motionless in his car.

There's a voice inside his head, saying,

'You are destined for greater things.'

Incomprehensible becomes crystal clear.

He's profoundly moved,

close to tears;

thinks of his family.

Green lights replace red.

His foot to the floor.

Ear-splitting screech

of engines pushed to the limit, then

BANG! Two cars collide.

He's uneasy.

Is reminded of yesterday's

death crash during qualifying

that he'd been trying so hard

to avoid dwelling on.

Anger grips him.

Why would no one listen

to his demands for change

in circuit safety regulations?

Do they want another death?

Pace car brought in.

Four frustratingly slow laps

that kill gear boxes and brakes.

He feels keyed up, irritated,

anxious to get on with the race.

'Why are such amateurs

allowed anywhere near a car? he demands

out loud in exasperation,

drumming his fingers

on the steering wheel.

Pace car veers off.

He tears away,

defending his position

with characteristic aggression.

He feels fated today:

that whatever happens,

he cannot possibly lose.

A few laps on.

Approaching the Tamburello bend,

he turns steering wheel to the left.

But a pair of ethereal hands

wrench it to the right, driving his car

head-on into the wall.

A blinding flash.

His girlfriends face.

Half-heard screams from the crowd.

SILENCE.

But this is not the end.

I'm sure I glimpsed him

a few weeks ago.

He was standing in the road

just ahead of a bend

in the race circuit at Monaco.

A few seconds later

a car crashed,

after swerving at the last minute

as if to avoid him.

If it hadn't veered off,

there would undoubtedly

have been a tragedy.

That driver must have believed

he had a Guardian Angel that day...

Ayrton Senna was Formula 1's

last fatality to date.

Now, I think I know why.