You know you’re working in a good (admittedly remote) office when an email for writers’ favourite races goes out and all the replies come flooding in within five minutes. 

Spanning the globe and a whole number of different eras, it’s amazing what memories stand out, be they individual driver performances or tiny details like the way one driver leant his head into a corner. There’s even a near-riot in NASCAR in our list. 

Let us know which was your favourite in the comments below.

1992 Belgian Grand Prix

In a season of domination for Nigel Mansell and his high-tech Williams FW14B, the Belgian Grand Prix at Spa-Francorchamps was a rare treat in 1992: it was actually a good race. But a great one? That’s probably a stretch. So why, of all the thousands of motor races I’ve seen, have I picked this one? Because as favourites go, Belgium 1992 turned out to be a major landmark, for the world of Formula 1 but also for me.

I’d just turned 18 in August 1992 and was preparing to head off to university. So what did I decide to do? Instead of saving my hard-earned summer savings, I spanked a chunk on a Page & Moy coach trip to Spa for what would be my first experience of a motor race overseas. Sensible decision, as usual.

The experience added fuel to a smouldering idea I’d had for a few years, that writing about motor sport would be an ideal way to avoid getting a proper job when full-time employment could no longer be avoided.

So early one Thursday, I caught the first train up to Victoria, found the stop where the Page & Moy coach was waiting and headed for Brussels. Yes, Brussels. About an hour and half away from Spa. Quite why we were staying so far from the track, I have no idea – but then I had no idea about anything at that age.

Once I did get to the circuit, I wandered around shadowing another chap for a while, then plucked up the courage to strike out alone. It was wonderful. The Ardennes forest and the ribbon of famous track that winds its way up, around and through it was mesmerising, especially once the aural shriek of 3.5-litre V12s, 10s and 8s began to stab at my eardrums.