IN MY LAST COUPLE OF YEARS AT SCHOOL before motor racing’s lure proved irresistible, I used to cycle at weekends to the rifle ranges at Bisley, where I’d work as a marker, cowering in the target butts. It was pretty good fun, with the supersonic crack of bullets whanging overhead, the buzz of the occasional ricochet, and the frequent bawling-out via the field telephone for not having marked a shot (which usually meant the relevant ‘marksman’ couldn’t hit a barn door and had missed by miles).