Essentially, all men believe they could have been Michael Schumacher, if they had had the breaks, so I try to work on the assumption that some of us must be wrong - and that includes me. Besides, these days I'm a responsible family man with a Volvo estate, for whom motoring satisfaction means getting from A to B without one of my passengers being sick on the upholstery.
Oh, who am I kidding? There was no way on earth I was going to be beaten by a girl. Woman, even.
Of course, before taking the chequered flag, I needed to factor in the complex etiquette of the challenge: it wouldn't do to win too easily - I am a chivalrous chap, after all - but wouldn't it be a kind of reverse sexism if I didn't really try? Worse, what if I misjudged my rival and actually lost? Not to be contemplated.
Emma and I had arrived at Rockingham Motor Speedway, near Corby in Northamptonshire, a bit behind schedule after taking a wrong exit, but having managed not to begin our showdown with any unseemly map-reading squabbles. Enzo Mucci was to be our instructor for the day - and our judge. He races a Renault Clio V6. "Wow. They're a bit of a handful, aren't they?" I asked. "Yeah. My first time, I managed two laps before I spun off - they told me that was good." (Excellent! Nothing like a bit of blokeish rapport to offset the inevitable gallantry he would extend to Emma.)
First up was the skidding test in a BMW 3 series. We were given three attempts; the best time would count. I felt confident. The last time I'd done something like this was on an assignment in Finland about a BMW ice-driving course, so I know my oversteer from my opposite lock, thank you.
My first run involved several leery slides, but I got smoother and my third time was just a smidge over 1:06. Emma's turn. She looked slower at first, no heroics, but gaining in fluency. Perhaps this wasn't going to be such a pushover, after all.
Her best time was only 0.3 of a second off mine. Technically, I was ahead, but the truth was, Emma had struck a huge psychological blow.
I was still adjusting my world view when it was time for the blindfold test, which involved piloting a Mini Cooper around the coned course wearing taped-up ski goggles, following instructions from the other driver - but with a ban on the words "left" and "right".
Emma came up with "leg" and "fright", which was practically cheating but quite smart. Much smarter than I was, in fact, because it did not occur to me until half an hour afterwards that the person being tested was the one giving the instructions, not the one driving blindfolded.
Naturally, Emma's communications skills proved better than mine ("Leg ... full leg! [Expletive] No, right - [expletive] I mean, fright!"). I should probably count myself lucky she didn't ask for earmuffs to go with the goggles. So now the scores were even as we went into the next event: driving a tank-like 4x4 over a mock-up of a first world war battlefield.
We scored equally (although I would claim I made the biggest splash in the sheepdip). But frankly, mud-larking was a bit sedate for my tastes. In the immortal words of Maverick: "I feel the need, the need for speed."
So my motoring id was rubbing its sweaty little palms together at the thought of our last task: taking a BMW M3 around Rockingham's motor circuit - 343bhp and not a speed camera in sight. Surely, this would be the moment when sheer class and innate talent, not to mention the possession of a Y chromosome, would win the day.
Emma's turn came first. As before, she looked not spectacular but increasingly efficient. Although this final leg of the competition was on the racing circuit, there were no marks for speed alone. Our instructor, Enzo, was looking for technique, smoothness and control.
He said nothing about obedience.
"Brake now, hard ... brake ... brake !" What's he on about, I kept thinking, the corner's still miles away and these babies stop on a sixpence? Why does he want me to drive like my granny?
"OK, easy on the power ... not too soon. Easy !" Aw, c'mon. It's supposed to be fun. Call yourself Enzo?
My 15 minutes flew by. (To him, it may have seemed slightly longer.) It was awesome. And I had to have beaten Brockesy.
Just as well for me, then, that David, the photographer, didn't capture for posterity my slack-jawed look of disbelief when I learned that Emma had won. I was ready to die of shame, but I took it - like a man.
It was a long drive home.
MS
The expert's verdict: "He started off like a bull in a china shop," says Enzo. "That's completely typical: men always make their mistakes first and learn that way. Women listen more and start slow, then build up. Matt's car control was basically good, but men think speed is all about aggression: late braking, fast into the corner. It's not, because then the car is unbalanced and you can't get the power down. Emma was actually faster on the exit. Women always come out on top."
I assume that I'm going to be bad at this, which is not my usual default position. But the night before the competition, several things become apparent. First, I haven't driven a manual car for two years; and second, when I did I never went above fourth gear, even on the motorway, because in my experience fifth gear lives dangerously close to third gear and the sound an engine makes when you change down instead of up at that speed is one that will stay with me until I die. I am also frightened of traffic.
Matt drives us to Northampton. On the way, he tries to psyche me out by casually referring to the difference between front- and back-wheel drive. He also boasts about how different cars take corners according to different weight distribution. What he doesn't understand is that in place of knowledge, I will rely upon the double warhead of female intuition and some highly developed monkey-see, monkey-do skills.
There are four parts to the test, each designed to punish a different driving skill. Matt heroically goes first on the skid test, in which we have to drive a BMW fitted with slippery coasters around an assault course of cones. Helen the PR and I huddle in a wooden hut and disparage his efforts. But I am secretly bricking it; apart from a couple of 360-degree spins, Matt looks pretty confident out there.
After clocking a best time of one minute and six seconds, he gets out of the car and I slide in beside Enzo, our instructor, who is very capable and who I am thus determined to impress. But - horror! - looking down at the pedals, the shapes seem suddenly unfamiliar and I have to clarify which one is the accelerator. We sit for a bit on the tarmac. Enzo clears his throat. "Clutch," he hisses. And off we go.
Men make up some 90% of the customers at Rockingham, which confirms my view that, unlike women, they confuse liking driving with being good at it. The few women who do visit the track have tended, says Helen, either to cry or stick to first gear. But on the skid course, after two practice runs and a little light cone-demolition, I find that I am definitely brilliant at it. I'm accelerating between cones like a demon, braking like a goddess and then slamming into these genius skids that should have been on the television news that evening. My time is also one minute and six seconds, a few milliseconds behind Matt.
Next up is the Mini Cooper for the blind driving test. This involves one of us driving blindfolded while the other gives directions from the back. Matt turns out to be better at giving instructions than taking them, and I at translating them into action.
Just before lunch we are handed the keys to a £70,000 BMW off-road thing and allowed to cane it over enormous mud mountains and down mud-covered black runs. At this stage, we're neck and neck, although I may have the edge on rattling the vertebrae of my two passengers. But it all comes down to the final event, track racing. I hate this one; how much easier it would be to drive sedately down the middle of the track, rather than slamming the car into corners. What possible good can come of it? A couple of times I fall into my old habit of changing down to second instead of up to fourth, but unlike the family Peugeot, this bad boy can handle it. Matt seems much faster than me, and looks slicker, but I'm cornering with less emergency braking.
In the end, it pays off. The results come through. I win. I win. I WIN. Despite the handicap of my sex, I appear to be - whaddya know? - a LOADS BETTER driver than my adversary. In victory, as in all things, I am extremely gracious. Matt somehow manages to drive us back to London and after being dropped off, I settle in for an evening of problem solving, decision-making and electrical rewiring.
EB
The expert's verdict: "She had the advantage of starting off slowly and building up speed, rather than starting quickly and having to pull back after losing control," says Enzo. "Women who come to the course tend to listen more than the men, and benefit from not trying to be too clever too soon. Around the track, she began cautiously but speeded up towards the end and by braking lightly into the corners, was able to come out of them faster."
· The Great British Driving Test - Men v Women is on ITV1 tonight at 9pm. The driving day was provided courtesy of buyagift.co.uk.
