A Rookie's Perspective of the 2026 Simola Hillclimb

There are moments in motorsport where everything feels polished, controlled and perfectly planned. Simola Hillclimb was not one of those moments for me. And honestly? Thank goodness for that. Because somewhere between trailer dramas, gearbox panic attacks, emotional breakdowns, Red Bull-induced hallucinations and me genuinely wondering if I was about to launch myself off a mountain in a veeeeerryyyy pink single-seater, something really special happened.

Little girls started screaming and running to my car. Not screaming because somebody famous walked past. Not because there was a million-rand, 1 000 hp supercar revving nearby. But because they saw a bright pink racecar being driven by a woman.

Uplifting

I cannot even explain the feeling of hearing tiny voices shouting, “Dad! Dad! I want to race, too!” while dragging their parents over to Rosie (as I’ve named her) our super-duper pink pilot car for Forza Women’s Single Seaters. Now, here’s the funny part: I actually don’t even wear pink. Like, ever. I had to go shopping for more than just race parts for this event. But suddenly I arrived at Simola Hillclimb with this Barbie-on-caffeine-level pink racecar and the spectators collectively decided I am now ‘Racing Barbie’.

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And honestly? At first I expected it to annoy me. Instead, I leaned into it. Because if being ‘Barbie’ means little girls see motorsport and think: “Wait… girls can do this too?” Then pass me the pink helmet and let’s go.

The truth is this entire project was never just about racing. It was about proving something bigger. The debut of Rosie at Simola wasn’t just another race weekend, it was the first real public test for the future of women in single-seater motorsport in South Africa. No pressure, right? Except… massive pressure.

Pre-race Woes

The car only came together the Tuesday before the event. There was no glamorous testing programme. No preparation. No learning the car. No knowledge on what to expect. There was just us. A dream. A very stressed (new) gearbox. A lot of sleepless nights. And enough pink Red Bull to concern several medical professionals.

Driving into Knysna felt surreal. The roads started winding through mountains while rain threatened to ruin everyone’s weekend plans and my stress levels simultaneously. Everywhere you looked there were trailers, racecars, drivers and fans. The entire town buzzed with this incredible nervous excitement. Then came documentation. And that was the real “oh sh*t” moment. The moment where it stopped being an idea and became terrifyingly real.

Not Like on TV

Seeing the Simola Hillclimb course for the first time in person was enough to humble me instantly. YouTube videos do not prepare you for that mountain. Not even slightly. On YouTube it looks fast and exciting. In real life it looks like something designed to emotionally traumatise racing drivers.

The elevation changes are violent. The lack of barriers felt way too scary. Suddenly I realised… I don’t have the proverbial ‘b@lls’… The corners tighten up on you, and I asked, in my mind, “are you sure we don’t brake here?” And there’s this constant awareness that if things go wrong, gravity gets involved very quickly.

People who haven’t driven the hill don’t fully understand the level of respect it demands. It doesn’t care who you are (my dad has race for decades). It doesn’t care how confident you sound. It doesn’t care how many followers you have online. The hill will expose you immediately. And trust me, I was scared.

Deep Breath

I had barely driven the car properly before arriving. I’d only done a handful of laps in a single-seater the year before. Suddenly I was standing on the start line of one of South Africa’s most iconic motorsport events, trying to look calm and pretty while internally negotiating with every higher power available.

Behind-the-Scenes

The thing about motorsport is people only see the final result. They don’t see the panic attacks behind closed doors. The self-doubt. The pressure of representing something bigger than yourself. The fear of public criticism. The exhaustion. The financial sacrifices. The moments where you genuinely wonder whether chasing a dream is slightly delusional behaviour.

Social media especially loves perfection. But Simola taught me something really important: perfection is boring. Real stories are messy. And ours definitely was.

There were mistakes. There were wobbles. There were moments I doubted myself completely. There were comments online questioning whether I belonged there at all. But there were also moments where little girls climbed into Rosie, looked around the cockpit with massive eyes and suddenly believed motorsport had space for them too. That made every terrifying second worth it.

Because Forza Women’s Single Seaters was never created just for women who want to drive racecars. It’s for women who want to belong in motorsport in any way: as drivers, mechanics, engineers, marketers, media crews, team managers, photographers, all of it. We belong here too. And maybe that’s what Simola really gave me. Not confidence, not validation, not even experience; but perspective.

Belonging

The pink car climbing that mountain wasn’t just about proving that I could do it. It was about showing people, especially young girls, that you don’t have to shrink yourself to fit into motorsport. You don’t have to become less feminine. Less emotional. Less ‘girly’. You don’t have to wear blue and pretend you hate pink to be taken seriously.

You can arrive in a bright pink single-seater called Rosie and still attack one of the most intimidating hills in the country. And honestly? That feels pretty badass and very ballsy! Until the next checkered flag, Racing Barbie signing out.