Nothing beats racing at Kyalami, especially when you’re piloting a particularly trick 1965 Ford Mustang Fastback, writes The Wheel Deal.

It’s 8:30am on a boiling Saturday morning and I’m pacing up and down the Kyalami pits in my fireproof overalls. Though I’m in the shade, surrounded by cool concrete, my skin is on fire and sweat is prickling its way down my back. There are plenty of chairs to sit down in but with the amount of adrenalin washing through my system, I find it impossible to keep my body still for more than one second. It’s kind of like that feeling of anticipation you get waiting for a doctor’s appointment, except ten times more intense. I glance down at my watch (probably the 20th time in the last five minutes) and wince at how slowly the seconds seem to be passing. This, I soon learn, is the most excruciating thing about motor racing; the angst-ridden period between heats where the anticipation of taking to the grid becomes utterly unbearable.

By the time it comes to actually pulling on my balaclava, squeezing on my helmet and strapping myself into the seat of the 480hp monster, I’m on the verge of throwing up from nerves. This sounds ridiculous, I know, but the fear of the unknown – jostling for position on one of South Africa’s most demanding high-speed racetracks – is probably one of the biggest, hairiest challenges I’ve faced since I took to the sky in an Extra 300 aerobatics plane. After arming the fire extinguisher, twisting the ignition, I realise that there’s no turning back and my mouth goes dry as I splutter down the pit lane and line up on the grid with all the other classic sports, saloon and GT cars turned out for today’s Execuline 9-hour Retro.

A rolling start, we slowly peel off the main straight and follow the safety car around the hazy asphalt; all weaving and snarling like some demented pack of wolves. The panic that ruled me just a few minutes is slowly subsiding and now the only thing that matters, the only thing I can think about, is blasting up the through the field and taking as many places as I can in the space of eight short laps. Crawling down the mineshaft I flash my eyes over the dials and make sure that everything is as hot or cold as it needs to be. Snaking through the final hairpin, a tight lefthander feeding onto the crowd-lined pit straight, my gloved hand slides the gearlever into second and the Mustang sends an extra loud symphony of gas blasting through its two unsilenced exhaust pipes. The driver of the Cobra up in pole position puts the hammer down as he crosses the start line and the bunched-up collective behind him follows suit. This is it. Race on. Time to show people you mean business.

My eardrums on the verge of exploding thanks to the accumulative effect of 23 highly tuned and revving engines, aggression takes the place of fear and for the first few laps I trade my normally placid demeanor for one of pure, uncompromised aggression. Of course the way I handle the controls remains smooth and progressive – get too rough with that leather-wrapped Shelby steering wheel and you’ll quickly end up in the kitty litter – but when it comes holding my line and threading past traffic through the infamous Sunset sweep, I force myself to give no quarter. In racing indecision is the devil and even the smallest, split-second hesitation can end in a door-rubbing disaster.

The first lap is nothing but a confusing blur but when I hit the old Kyalami pit straight for the second time, I’m totally in the zone and making the most of the Mustang’s incredible grunt. Equipped with a 289 Hi-Po crate engine built by Ford Racing in America, it allows me to thunder past the more nimble Alfas and Darts on the straighter sections of the circuit and slowly reel in the Cobra, Ferrari P4 and Ford GT40 sitting at the front of the pack. With the field starting to spread out, my semi-slick tyres at their optimal temperature, I’ve now got space to get on the good foot and I start nailing some pretty quick lap times. Fighting heat-induced understeer through some of the tighter corners, I resist the temptation to push it too hard, to take any unnecessary risks and just concentrate on holding my position until the checkered flag unfurls on Lap 8. When it does I cross the line alone; shredding past my crew on the pit wall with not a single car anywhere near me. This is somewhat perplexing as it’s anyone’s guess what position I’ve actually managed to work my way up to. I sure as hell haven’t got the foggiest.

Coming off the power I slow down for the obligatory cool-down lap and suddenly become conscious of the unworldly heat being harbored inside the Mustang’s cabin. It starts in my feet and then slowly washes up my body like some invisible lava flow. Flipping up my helmet’s visor, the air coming in through the driver’s-side window hits my skin and causes the sweat to dry instantly; leaving a greasy salt-laced crust smeared across all across my face. Waving at the marshals, keeping off the brakes, I’m suddenly swamped by emotion as I realise that I’ve done it; I’ve finished my very first race outing without piling into another competitor of having a costly brush with the chicanery. But even more special is the fact that I did it behind the wheel of an automotive legend, an American muscle car that stole my heart ever since I saw it ramping through the streets of San Francisco with Steve McQueen in the movie Bullitt.

Pulling into the pits I kill the motor and the Mustang’s bodywork shakes as that white-hot V8 takes its last deep suck of air and petrol. Flinging off my five-point harness, I squeeze out from behind the roll-cage and – in the jovial spirit of NASCAR – high five each member of my crew before shedding as much sweat-sodden race gear as I possibly can. I soon learn from my godfather, the man brave enough to let me pilot this incredible machine in the first place, that I’ve not only finished first in my class but third overall after starting at the very back of the grid.

McQueen once said that racing is life and that everything before and after is just waiting. It turns out that the man was right; I’ve already started counting down the days until I next take to the track at Zwartkops next year on January 30.