Driven. James Martin

medieval streets and squares of Italy, from Brescia to Rome and back again. At the time, I was head chef at the Hotel Du Vin in Winchester and was constantly surrounded by mega-rich people with mega-money cars. I’d just acquired a fantastic little two-seater kit car of my own, so when I overheard talk about a world-famous classic car race, my ears pricked up. Not long after, I came across an article about it and from there I was hooked.

      Enzo Ferrari called it ‘the world’s greatest road race’. Only in Italy would they allow three hundred vintage sports cars to drive at breakneck speeds on public roads, competing against one another and against the clock, cheered on by women, children, young men, old men, local mayors and the police. It’s fast, loud and dangerous, and utterly intoxicating. I read about the Mille Miglia’s glory days when Juan Manuel Fangio and Stirling Moss battled it out, Moss ultimately claiming triumph in 1955 in his legendary Mercedes-Benz 300slr, completing the race in a staggering 10 hours 7 minutes and 48 seconds. I read about the horrific accidents, including the one that killed twelve spectators in 1957 and led to the annual event being scrapped on grounds of safety. Then I read about the race’s 1982 revival as an historic rally for vintage cars, a time trial rather than an out-and-out race. I wanted to go and see all the incredible machines, to hear the noise and feel the excitement. Right then and there I promised myself that one day, if it was the last thing I did, I would go and watch the Mille Miglia.

      I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d actually get to drive in the thing. That seemed such an impossibility that it wasn’t even an ambition. Back in its heyday, if you were able to get hold of a car and some petrol, you could be out there going wheel to wheel with Moss and Fangio. Technically, it’s still open to anyone. Every year roughly two thousand people apply to take part in the race. Only around 350 are chosen, and it’s all based on the eligibility of the car. You can’t buy or muscle your way into the Mille Miglia, you have to be invited once you’ve applied. On the upside, that means it’s not full of rich brats and yuppies with too much money and no idea of style and sophistication. On the downside you need bags of money, because eligible cars don’t come cheap, and neither does getting them to the start ramp.

      Fast-forward to 2005 and I was at the BBC to talk about a new cooking series. We were trying to brainstorm ideas but not coming up with anything. As an aside I mentioned the forthcoming Mille Miglia and how I would love to go to watch it because I was nuts about cars. Suddenly everyone in the room perked up and wanted to know more about the race and my car collection. They asked me to write a proposal for a programme based around my actually doing the race.

      I had no idea what the proposal should look like, so I got in touch with a producer I knew. He said that the best thing to do wasn’t to try to put the race on paper, but to put it on film, to make a mini pilot so the BBC could get a feel for the cars, the places, the event. So two weeks later, there I was, standing next to the start ramp in Brescia, a camera in my face, shouting above the roar of an Alfa Romeo revving up behind me, ‘Forget Monaco, forget Formula One, this is the most amazing race in the world, the Mille Miglia, and next year I’m going to do it.’

      A week after they got the pilot, the BBC came back with a yes. And that was it. I was doing the Mille Miglia. Not that any of us – me, the production company, the BBC – had even the first clue how to go about it. Production hired someone to sort out the logistics of the race, the application process, and everything related to the organisation of the race itself. The BBC set a budget but it was barely enough to cover the camera crew and the editing, so the car and a co-driver were most definitely going to have to come out of my own pocket. In fact, money got so tight so quickly that when it became clear I was going to have to hire support mechanics too and pay for their transport, food and accommodation I struck a deal with the producer. I said, ‘I’ll waive my fee if you pay for the support team.’ He agreed, no doubt thinking he was getting the better deal, but for once being paid nothing really did make sound financial sense. Not that earning nothing and borrowing vast sums of money to pay for cars I really can’t afford was anything new to me. Throughout my life I’ve seemed to make a habit of it, though I’ve never once had any regrets.

      There were moments when I wasn’t convinced I was ever going to make it to the start line. At one point my car, a bright red 1948 Maserati A6GCS, one of only three made that year by the legendary Italian car manufacturer, looked worryingly like a two-year-old’s Lego set, i.e. in pieces, and lots of them. The bills for repair were adding up and the loan I took out in the first place to cover buying the car and getting it into the race was already bigger than the mortgage on my house. At one point the loan repayments alone were more than I used to earn in a year at Hotel Du Vin, when I first read about the race. But if it’s your dream, you’ve got to do it, right? For once, I actually agree with my dad, who always used to say that anything in life is possible, it just depends whether you’re prepared to work hard enough for it. And I’d worked hard for this. I’d spent my whole life working towards this point, absorbing everything there was to know about cars, hurtling through my life on four wheels and using all my hard-earned cash to fuel my passion. And now I can truly say that nothing comes close to the noise of thousands of over-excited Italians screaming and cheering as the cars throttle down the famous start ramp and charge off into the night, down the narrowest of cobbled streets, made narrower by the devoted crowds that line the way from start to finish – and this being Italy, there are no barriers separating cars and spectators; they don’t even close the roads for it. It’s the biggest collection of classic cars you’ll ever see, not sitting in a museum gathering dust but out on the road doing what they were built for. This three-day test of skill, stamina and decades-old metalwork is the ultimate adventure for any car fanatic. And I’m utterly proud that I’ve been a part of it.

      Cars and food might not be an obvious combination to most people, but to me it all makes perfect sense. One just always seems to lead to the other and, as you’ll see, I’ve gone to ridiculous lengths for both. So while it may come as a surprise to hear me raving on about vintage cars and Italian rallies, rather than celeriac mash and spun sugar, you should know that every memory of every job, pay packet, place and person I can think of comes with a make and model number attached. Looking back, it’s easy to see how everything I’ve ever done has been leading me unswervingly to the start line of the world’s most famous road race. I hope the stories that follow will show you why entering the Mille Miglia has meant so much to me, and that you’ll enjoy reading about some of the best moments of my life.

       1 SKATEBOARDING AROUND THE KITCHEN TABLE

      It all started when I was seven years old. I was skateboarding around the kitchen table. I remember going round and round. I couldn’t get enough of the speed, the challenge, the skill, the going round and round.

      We lived in an old farmhouse with a big kitchen which was always at the centre of everything. The kitchen was the hub of the family as well as the house. It was all pine inside, with a huge dresser, a big old butler’s sink and a big round pine table with pine chairs. The table sat ten and was always busy. People didn’t knock on the door of our house, they just walked straight into the kitchen and made themselves at home. It was a lovely place to be. That’s where my love of food started. If my mum wasn’t cooking, my dad was. Mealtimes were a big deal in our house, and Sunday lunch was the most important. The table would be packed for it. My grandparents would be there, my mum, my dad, my sister, my aunty, and me, on my skateboard.

      As well as the big pine table, the other important feature of the kitchen was a big old Aga with a metal towel rail on the front of it. If you pulled on the towel rail quickly enough while stood on a skateboard, you could launch yourself with enough force to ride almost all the way round the kitchen table. What made the kitchen particularly suitable for skateboarding, though, was the floor. It had these cork tiles which with hindsight were horrible but at the time were perfect for skateboarding on. Ceramic tiles or lino would have been lethal: one pull on the Aga towel rail and you’d have been off with a broken neck. But the cork tiles, designed to stop nasty slips while holding a boiling pan, gave all the grip you needed for a successful run around the kitchen table.

      Skateboarding was the ‘in’ thing at the time. Me and my