I watched Senna tonight – the first DVD I’ve bought in a while, and certainly the first I can remember buying on release day for a long, long time.

Watching the final seconds of onboard footage brought a lump to my throat, a feeling in the pit of my stomache and transported me back to being 17 and sat in the living room of the family house, watching the race live with my father.

It also brought home the fact that whereas the loss of Steve Jobs or Princess Diana etc were tragic events, the live nature of it made it akin to the JFK shooting for me personally. Even down to the search for the cause, whether on a grassy knoll or in the design of the Williams he was driving.

It’s weird, watching it now, as I’m close to turning 34 – the same age as Senna when he died. I’d known motor racing was dangerous long before when one of my first F1 heroes, Elio De Angelis, died in far more horrific circumstances, but that was during a testing session, so was far removed. And the death of Roland Ratzenberger just the day before had been tragic, but as a relatively new driver to F1, I hadn’t got the same longstanding fan relationship with him (even if patriotism often had me cheering for Mansell versus Senna, for example).

It also brought to mind racers since, on two and four wheels, from talented amateurs and those at the start of their career, to those competing at the highest level, and some of which I had the honour of meeting or occasionally actually chatting with. I’m not a talented enough writer to be able to justice to the passing of any of them, but  maybe someone else has;

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate
Those that I guard I do not love;

My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public man, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;

I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.