150 km/h to Finding Myself

From G-forces to anti-gravity — a day on the racetrack, my own little F1 movie.

Yesterday was an extraordinary day in my life. It was a Sunday unlike any other—adrenaline-fuelled and dopamine-laced, pure ecstasy on four wheels. I suspect I will soon need another fix. Before you come blazing at me with guns drawn, rest assured I am talking about my day out on the tracks—encouraged by my twelve-year-old son and by the one constant in the many variables I am continually trying to solve: my husband.

It was another cold, wintry day, the sky a wash of grey and a gentle breeze threading through the trees. I knew it was going to be a long day, the racing track being some distance from home. In all honesty, I would much rather have stayed back—pottering around the house, relaxing with a book and a cup of coffee, or simply being a couch potato watching the latest crime series on Netflix. But it was not to be. Fate had something else planned for me, and I simply went along.

I climbed into my SUV with the swag of a Bollywood cop, Ray-Bans and all, fully taking in my son’s eye-roll and the look on his face that practically screamed, “Mom, you need to pipe down.”

Off I went, listening to some cool tracks, our heads bobbing as we coasted comfortably along—held by that muted, effortless joy that comes from stumbling upon some ancient wisdom.

As I entered the tracks, I was greeted by the purring of engines, the squealing of tyres—each sound a single, electrifying note of power, physics, and poise. It felt otherworldly. I wondered what an actual F1 race would be like and immediately added it to my bucket list: one of the top ten things to do before the day of reckoning.

The acrid smell of burnt rubber hung in the air, but it did little to dampen spirits. There was bonhomie and brotherhood everywhere. The snazziest of cars were out in full glory—Ferraris, Porsches, BMWs—rubbing shoulders with us petrol-heads. I stood there gawking alongside my son at these gleaming machines, the inner child in me wanting to clamber into one and drive straight off into the horizon.

Quickly snapping out of my reverie, I signed up for some warm-up karting laps and soon felt my shoulders singe, my quads quake, and my hamstrings protest. It was exciting—exhilarating—each corner demanding tactical judgment, for the slightest error could spin you off the track and straight into trouble.

As I hit the track in my shiny ride with my husband by my side, watching the speed dial swing furiously past 150, it felt as though I had stepped into a dream I never wanted to end. The world around us was suffused with a softness of light that blurred into nothingness—it was the witching hour for me. Sequestered inside a helmet, with the G-forces hemming me in from all sides, it felt stifling and uncomfortable as I started off. Not to mention the nerves—this was my first attempt at driving a sports car, and that too on a track with other cars flying past me, their cloudy silhouettes dissolving in the blink of an eye.

Grateful to the universe, to the higher power above, and to my endlessly patient and supportive family, I felt infinitely enriched.

I had never felt more alive. Every cell in my body seemed to awaken, my breath falling into rhythm with my heartbeat. I felt hungry for more—wanting more from life, unwilling to settle. Isn’t it strange how realisations arrive in the most unplanned moments? That sudden knowing that age is irrelevant, that one can hit the pause button on mediocrity and dull routines and begin all over again. I’m not suggesting that one become an F1 driver or jettison responsibilities, or turn away from the people who matter. Rather, I mean doing something in addition—something that reminds you that you are alive. And yes, the labels will come when you try to break away from the commonplace—boomer, aunty on steroids, wannabe—but none of it matters. It’s your life, and you get to live it your way.

For someone who was once diagnosed with Generalised Anxiety Disorder, this felt like coming home—like true calm, true grounding. I met some fantastic people yesterday, bonding over our mutual fascination for cars and everything that surrounds them. It was truly an immersive and a humbling experience.

A banner hung above the track read: Do the race your way. And that is exactly what I intend to do. I am not competing with anyone but the earlier versions of myself. Whether as a mother, a wife, a sister, a friend—or more recently, the founder of my cleaning brand, Green Molecule—I hope to imbue each role with the magical spark I felt on the track, and to do it entirely my way.

In hindsight, it really was my own little F1 movie — a day that hurled me from G-forces to anti-gravity, and left me changed in ways I never expected. Somewhere between the roar of the engine and the stillness within, I found my way home.

Molecularly Yours,

Sanjana

Curiously Irrepressible

First dreamer. Accidental chemist. Green Molecule- Clean Confidently.

P.S.: This is simply my personal experience and not a prescription for anyone else. We all find our spark in different ways — to each his, her, or their own. This is not a roadmap at all, just something that happened to work for me.

https://www.molecularlyme.blog/post/what-i-build-when-no-one-s-watching

"To borrow from Roosevelt’s timeless words — you become the man in the arena, bloodied and bruised, yet standing tall after every fall."

If I’ve made you curious, please click on the link above. Happy reading! 🌿