Yahoo Lifestyle Forgetting 'fitting in': there's true power in showing up as yourself
I had plenty to worry about that morning. I was about to take my racing licence test on an unfamiliar track, in a car that I’d barely driven, using skills I’d only recently mastered. What's more, I’d been commissioned to write about the process for a national outlet, so the embarrassment of failure would be excruciating both personally and publicly.
What I didn’t expect to have to worry about, was my appearance.
A week earlier, my racing coach Stewart had gently advised me that I might want to pay close attention to other racers – not to watch how they approached a hairpin bend, or their speed through the straights, but to clock how they were dressed.
I did look around, finding only one other woman, a professional racing driver in the F1 Academy, who was casually clothed in a t-shirt and padded gilet, her hair pulled back loosely, with no make-up on. I glanced in the mirror at my own smart trousers, designer blouse, fresh nails and lipstick and considered that he was probably advising me to dress for the job at hand, rather than a job in fashion.
He said it with the best intentions; this is one man who has only ever wanted to see me succeed. He couldn’t have known that this comment would become something I agonised over, every other minute, until the big day.
When I decided to try racing, after a desk-bound decade in fashion magazines, I knew that I was setting myself up for a big challenge. In the first instance, it would require great driving skill, handling sometimes complicated cars, on tracks frequented by others whose experience would far surpass mine. Beyond that, I was aware that the motorsport industry has been slow to catch up to the fairness and equal opportunity we’re beginning to see elsewhere. To call racing ‘male dominant’ feels like a dramatic understatement. Less than 10 per cent of motorsport participants are women and, in certain parts of the paddock, female faces are virtually non-existent.
Through relationships with current and ex-racing drivers like Molly Taylor, Naomi Schiff and F1 Academy Managing Director Susie Wolff, I know a lot about the difficulties that women face in finding funding, sponsorship and track opportunities, or even in relying on sportsmanlike behaviour from other drivers. I know that 'banter' can turn sour and that garages full of sometimes all-male technicians can feel intimidating to those without the sturdiest self-assurance.
The one thing I hadn’t been concerned about was what to wear. In an actual race, the regulation is for fire-retardant jumpsuits; you don’t have a choice in the matter. At other times on track, the only requirement is for material that covers your legs and arms. I’ve shown up in leather blazers, power suits, a Proenza Schouler roll neck, you name it. It never occurred to me to try and assimilate to anyone else, because I’m usually most confident in my favourite clothes. And while I can concede that in certain sporting and working environments, there are outfits you might consider inappropriate, such as those that restrict movement, I don’t subscribe to the idea that we should always dress to fit in, or that we should have a notion of what 'a racing driver' – like a doctor, lawyer or CEO – looks like.
On the morning of my test, I felt lampooned by this conundrum. It dawned on me that while it usually doesn’t matter if I’m judged for my lipstick and tonged hair, on this day the opinion of one person – the test instructor – would be the difference between a pass or fail. Considering an industry still rife with sexism, could showing up as myself really cost me my racing licence?
I was frustrated by the sovereignty of this thought, knowing that for most others taking their racing-licence test, it wouldn’t have crossed their minds. I should have been brushing up on flag signals, checking what is covered in scrutineering, not scrutinising my own indecision over make-up.
I made the choice eventually, to dress down. I popped on some jogging bottoms and a long-sleeved tee, threw my hair in a low pony and did bare-minimum make-up: some eyebrow pencil and a sweep of mascara. Walking into the briefing room at Snetterton race track, I hugged the perimeter, watching as no less than 65 men filed in and not a single other woman. Galled by just how much I could have stood out, I was grateful, in that moment, to be a wallflower.
But as the day developed, I began to feel differently. Driving a first-edition Lotus Emira – an exotic-looking, high-performance sportscar – I was getting plenty of attention anyway. It was an unusually flashy car to be taking the test in and a red rag to anyone feeling bullish. A rowdy BMW M3 driver sat on my bumper round the first few corners, pushing my patience under pressure. A Ginetta race car overtook me on the straight, only for its passenger side door to fly off and tumble in the direction of my windscreen. I was calm, judged my braking distance and avoided a catastrophe. As I came up against strong winds, tricky turns and aggressive behaviour, I became steadily more certain that passing my test would have nothing to do with my athleisure-wear and everything to do with the strength of my driving.
Spoiler alert: this was correct. When the timer started, I drove cleanly and assuredly, passed with ease and am now in possession of a circuit racing licence, which I hope to use soon on a first race. In hindsight, I wish I’d decided against pigeonholing myself into anyone’s expectations of appearance. It’s not that I don’t think that Stewart had a point; prejudices are still rampant and biases filter into decision-making often. Assimilating was an attempt to avoid any risk of appearance hampering my accomplishment. But the experience has strengthened my resolve to show as many people as possible that how you identify, dress or do your hair has little to do with skill, knowledge or the shrewdness of your instincts – be that on track, in court or at the head of a boardroom table.
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