Aged seven in 1953, I sent the F1 driver a letter. Not only did he write back, he invited me to the paddock at Silverstone
My relationship with Stirling Moss started in 1953. I was seven. I lived in Coventry, then the heartland of Britain’s, indeed Europe’s, motor industry. The Jaguar car factory, then makers of sports cars that regularly won at the Le Mans 24 hour race, the most famous race on the calendar in the 1950s, was a couple of miles away. I was car crazy. To the chagrin of my parents, I wasn’t interested in reading. Until, that is, I discovered motor racing magazines and, in the blink of an eye, I learned to read. My idol was Stirling Moss.
I wrote him a letter in 1953, saying how much I admired him and wishing him every success. I didn’t expect a reply. I was just a little kid in a small semi-detached 1930s house in Coventry, a city without much distinction apart from its car industry and its suffering in the blitz. Then soon after I got a letter from Stirling with some photos. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I wrote back.
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