Vintage print by Rene Vincent, 'Women Join The Racing Driver Fraternity'

So, if women compete in the same events as men – and why not, given that it is just as much about the cars as it is about the drivers – why are there so few women racing drivers? After all, there’s an entire association out there promoting women in motorsport with handy lists of everything you’ll need to buy to get started, and it’s not like lack of body mass would be a disadvantage in what is essentially a test of lightness and speed. OK, at the top ends you’re going to need some neck muscles to prevent you being spontaneously decapitated by your own car as you hit maximum G, but no more so than a female bodybuilder needs to achieve, surely. So why the lack?

To the internet! The wonders of googling “female racing drivers” yielded this pertinent thread where I didn’t learn much other than the names of four female drivers in the history of the entire sport. Thanks, guys, that totally answers my question.

Anyway, I decided to do a little more research. How do you become a racing driver? Surely you can’t just turn up outside Ferrari’s headquarters and demand to join their team? (Why hasn’t anyone tried this?) Silverstone’s driver testimonials are unsurprisingly all by men. They do have one thing in common, though: they all started young. The official site for the Ginetta Challenge, one of the many races I’d watched that day, has a helpful flowchart showing what it takes to get to the top of the league, as well as a price list. The Independent interviewed a young Porsche driver and explained the top wage (£60k) and the likely costs (thousands of pounds if you don’t get sponsorship).

So, to summarise: this is a sport where you have to start investing hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds into a pre-teen child, shepherding them along and making them practise every waking hour until, in their mid-teens, they get signed up to a racing team that then commandeers their careers until they’re 35, at which point they’re expected to retire.

I WANT TO BE JUST LIKE DANICA PATRICK WHEN I GROW UP. Image courtesy of Hot Fresh Pics and numerous dodgy sites.

This is all well and good, and we can assume that no families on income support are ever going to produce the next Monaco GP winner. However, there is more to it than that. Starting that young, a child has to show a pretty strong preference for the sport, and the parents have to be supportive/pushy enough (delete as appropriate) to pour their savings into karting and rallying and fire extinguishers. They have to want it just as much as the child.

So there you are, eight years old, going up to mummy and daddy and saying, “I want to be a racing driver! Will you sign my permission slip?” And mummy and daddy look down on their precious little one and say, “Why don’t we buy you a new dolly instead?”

Maybe that’s not what happens to every little girl. Some undoubtedly come from racing families, and just as much effort is poured into their motorsport careers as would have been done for a male child. In some circles, with the right family emphasis, girls in motorsport can flourish. I’m guessing that this is about the same ratio as male ballet dancers.

To answer my own question, there are female racing drivers. Sabine Schmitz is queen of the Nurburgring. Danica Patrick rocks IndyCar and NASCAR. Amanda Whitaker won the National Formula Ford Championship. Wiki has a list of five – five! A veritable cornucopia of choice! – Formula 1 female drivers, including Desiré Wilson, the only female F1 driver to actually win anything in Formula 1.  You can see an entire bevy of them in this poll listing the “10 Sexiest Women in Motoring and Motorsport“. Now not only am I armed with names, I also have cup-sizes. MY QUEST IS COMPLETE, GUYS.

I will leave you with the baffling sight of Top Gear – not precisely the bastion of political correctness – pointing out that this is insulting and patronising in the extreme:

Actually, I think it starts a lot earlier than that, but the sex kitten perception is unlikely to encourage any parent to finance his or her daughter’s racing dream.

My point is this: it takes a pretty determined kind of little girl to decide that she wants to go into motorsport when the whole world is insisting that she should be playing dress-up. And it takes a pretty supportive kind of family to encourage her, rather than simply buy her something frilly to shut her up. Maybe the tide is turning. Maybe the little girl with the need to go faster faster faster only needs to ask. But if it’s not turning fast enough, we will have an entire generation of little girls with no female motoring heroes to look to.

And I can promise you that no one ever tried to talk Jenson Button or Lewis Hamilton into playing with their dollies.

To be fair, I don't think the bikini shot is far off. Image (c) McLaren Sport

I had already recruited one colleague to help with the eventual engine rebuild, and she would therefore be present for the assembly of the model. The instructions promised that a 10-year-old would be able to put this together with a little adult supervision. Surely that meant that two 20-somethings should be able to manage it?

Of course, prior to assembly, we had to purchase a few things that did not come as standard in the kit. The first was batteries. The second was beer.

Haynes internal combustion engine model

Alcohol and batteries thus acquired, we put in our takeaway order and opened up the box. Out spilled plastic heaven. A million fiddly parts attached to plastic frames, with tiny numbers on the frames indicating the part numbers. The manual would instruct us on how to assemble it. It also named all the parts, so hopefully we would learn the names of at least some of the moving bits and pieces by the end.

Things started off pretty well. We had Top Gear’s Africa adventure on the telly and the pistons/crankshaft assembly in the cylinder block, and the pistons made satisfying up-down movements when you turned the crankshaft. The instructions said that you needed sanding paper to get the edges of the plastic smooth, but as we lacked sandpaper we made do with nail files, which seemed to do the trick. The whole thing turned so smoothly that we didn’t even need the vegetable oil to make it work.

“This would be even better if it was the right size,” I said as the plastic innards were slowly swallowed up inside the model.

“That would be much more satisfying,” Colleague X agreed, trying to get the tiny screw to stay perched atop the tiny screwdriver, and slot the entire thing into the tiny hole on the side of the crankcase. “This feels more like keyhole surgery.”

“Which is also important.”

“Yes. But not the sort of thing I had in mind when I bought the six-pack.”

I, too, was getting a little restless. Earlier that week I had opened my planner to try to book a last-minute meeting with a senior colleague. He, peering over my shoulder, wanted to know what “Engine Build” was referring to, and why it had so many exclamation marks. I attempted to explain.

“Hmmm,” he said, frowning. “Yes, interesting. But an engine’s a big commitment. Did you think about starting with something a little smaller?”

A motorcycle? Sure. Ultimately, though, I’d decided on the engine, because I was learning to drive a car, not a bike.

“No, not a motorcycle,” he said, just as thoughtfully. “Something smaller. A lawnmower, maybe, or a hairdryer.”

I very pointedly did NOT stab him with his own pen, but instead said that we were doing a model version first.

“Yes,” he said. “I think that’s probably for the best.”

Anyway, other than patience and tact when faced with senior people and their hairdryer suggestions, what did I learn from doing this little side-project?

Firstly, it’s bloody cool. There’s now a little engine model on a shelf in my living room, and if you press the little button it lights up and makes happy engine noises.

Secondly, the instructions may well be wrong. Try the different bits together until they fit. This will probably be more useful that memorising engine layouts.

Thirdly, the reviews and advertising for this product piss me off something chronic. “Ideal for a dad and son project,” one proclaims. Well, yes, it is, but it’s also ideal for a dad-and-daughter and mum-and-son project. Or mum-and-daughter. It’s basically model assembly, and doing this with a kid (without taking over and finishing it off yourself) would probably take an afternoon.

Fourthly, the rocker arm assembly fits on top of the valves and the camshaft, and there’s only one correct way of lining up all the cams on the camshaft. There is no obvious way of knowing what that way is without having them labelled in alphabetical order. (This may require a textbook. Or a mechanic.)

Finally, although doing the plastic model was fun, it is limited in several major areas. It is extremely simplified, for one thing. The water-pump is two bits of plastic moulded and snapped together. The ‘sparkplugs’ are tiny Christmas tree lights that light up according to the position of the crankshaft (so the position does have to be correct, and the wiring is a bit tricky, but it’s not actually how a spark plug works). The dipstick is a completely pointless clip-on piece of plastic that looks like a Barbie accessory, and I still have no idea what it does (although presumably you dip it in things).

Lookit! All shiny and plastic and PERFECT.

You also get the feeling that filing tiny bits of plastic with a nail file is not precisely what engine maintenance is all about. (Although it may well involve nail files. At this stage I have no way of knowing.) Assembling the model did make me more familiar with a lot of the parts, and I think I understand the fundamentals. But it felt a bit… delicate. A lot of the parts were so tiny that you had to hold them by the tips of your fingers, and slot them into place using your nails. It’s the same problem as following a textbook: it’s too clean. I didn’t start this wanting to stay in my living room, with clean fingers and a perfect working model completed in a couple of hours. I want something that will take months and leave me exhausted and exasperated and absolutely triumphant when it is in fact finished.

Colleague X and I sat back and contemplated the finished product while James May and Richard Hammond performed emergency surgery on Oliver in the background.

“Well,” she said eventually, “it’s very nice.”

“Yes,” I said. I pushed the button again, and we watched the pistons move up and down and the little lights pretend to be sparkplugs. “Shall we build the real thing?”

“Let’s.”

• Look out for more Secret Diary of a Female Petrolhead entries as Vik continues her engine adventures (you can read her previous Secret Diary entries in the “Toolbox” category on the sidebar on the right).

Real engines go in real cars. Our glowy plastic engine will have to go in a glowy plastic car.