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You may not understand the appeal of motor racing. You may not like it. But me? I have never understood how it is technically possible. Think about it. If you are in the lead, you take the fastest line through the corner which means the chap behind has to be on a slower line. This means he cannot get past. It is impossible.

And how do you outbrake someone into a bend? The chap in front will brake at the last possible moment, which means you have to brake beyond the last possible moment. And to make matters worse, you have to brake more because you'll be going faster, and you'll be off line.

Any attempt, therefore, to make an overtaking manoeuvre in motor racing can only result in one thing: your untimely and extremely painful death.

This is one of the reasons why I have always found it easy to say no when someone has offered me "a drive". There are other reasons though. I look stupid in racing overalls. My head is too large and misshapen to fit in a helmet. And for some extraordinary reason, I'm always busy doing something else when the invites arrive. "Oh I'm sorry. I'd love to. But I've just looked in my diary and I'm planning on laying an egg that day."

Once, however, I gave in. It was for a charity of some sort, and though it would be held in front of a Silverstone Grand Prix crowd, we'd all be driving measly Honda Civics. Better still, I wouldn't be up against lantern-jawed superheroes called Clint Thrust. It was a field full of people like John Alderton and Jeremy Irons.

At Stowe, on lap one, I put my theory about the impossibility of overtaking to the test and found it flawed. I did get past. But I don't know how, because I had my eyes shut from the moment I stamped on the brake pedal.

It was so frightening I began to hyperventilate, which caused my visor to steam up. And as a result, the chap I'd got past retook the place immediately.

The next lap, I realised I was catching him again and that if I wasn't careful, I'd be in a position to overtake once more at Stowe. Since I'd tried it once, and had found the experience to be less enjoyable than catching genital warts, I lifted my foot ever so slightly from the floor.

No one was any the wiser and it meant I didn't have to do any silly hero plunges into the corners. Everyone was happy, and I came third. Feeling a bit sick and vowing that I'd never do it again.

So I don't quite know how I ended up back at Silverstone for last year's Britcar 24. But I do know this. I loved it. And that makes me very angry.

Over the years, I've tried my hand at all sorts of things that you might call hobbies. I collected stamps as a boy. I had a train set. I've attempted to put up shelves, gardening, reading, chess, jigsaws, golf, tennis, painting, bird spotting, and looking at pornography on the internet. And I've been extremely bad at all of them.

And then, at the age of 47, when it's far too late, I discover something that I can not only do, but which, more importantly, I absolutely adore. Endurance motor racing. At face value, it looks like normal motor racing.

There are motorhomes, and lap tops and people in branded shirts rushing about, pretending to be Bernie Ecclestone. But there is one difference...