On Meeting Ayrton Senna & Dreaming His Fatal Crash
[from my 2026 book StarDreaming]
. . . . the twists and turns of the racing circuit are metaphors for life’s unexpected changes of gear, pace, direction, scenery, and companions along the way. And crossing the finishing line means being back to square one, to the challenge of the next race. All in all, Ayrton was both true to his own journey as well as selflessly concerned for the welfare of others less fortunate than himself.
Nearly six months after meeting him, I had a Dream that was like having an archangelic spear driven through my heart. It was intensely vivid, overwhelming and traumatising. My consciousness was in a racing car as with frantic speed it navigated the twists and turns of the track. The car suddenly seemed to slow down and there was a sense of braking as it approached a curve. But instead of following the curve, the car kept going straight ahead and slammed into a high wall, hitting it at an angle with catastrophic, brutal force. There was a blindingly bright yet peaceful light and I was jolted awake by a deafening explosion and the sudden, colossal impact. I cried out, ‘Ayrton, no, God, no, no, no.’ I simply knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that it was him. The sense of what I’d called out was, ‘Dear God, no, please don’t take this precious gift from the World.’ But I already knew in my heart that God had called him home.
If you’ve ever had one of these very rare Dreams, you’ll understand what I mean by saying that it tapped into a depth of absolute and ultimate certainty, a place of seamless unity, empathy and reality. This is the timeless, emotionally dense, shared realm of soul that C. G. Jung calls the ‘collective unconscious’. When you fall into its ultra-real, overwhelming power and presence, it can resonate throughout your waking life like a destabilising time distortion and emotional tidal wave, as if a giant stone has fallen into your energy field and flung out enormous ripples that threaten to drag you into the Abyss, should you be unable to stay afloat above it.
Waking from the Dream was like returning to a lesser reality. My heart was pounding so hard that I feared it was about to burst. I felt like I was going to throw up. Disoriented and trembling, I got up and put on the tv, wondering if I’d see a news flash about Ayrton’s crash. But nothing was announced. It was, as I recall, around 9.30 pm. I’d had a busy day and feeling tired, had gone to bed early. After turning off the tv I went back to bed, but couldn’t sleep. I kept reliving the Dream, the blinding speed, the sudden braking, the horrific impact, the sense of annihilation, finality, loss, shock and explosive force—and the calmly brilliant light. I got up again around 10 pm and put on the tv. And there it was.
Ayrton had apparently just died on impact from massive head injuries during the San Marino Grand Prix, at the Imola circuit in Italy. Nonetheless he was being airlifted to hospital. Later released videos showed his blood dripping from the helicopter onto the roofs of cars below. The attending doctor reported some days later that Ayrton showed no brain activity after he’d been removed from the car, but because his heart was still beating he had been flown to hospital, where his heart gave out not long after.
I’ve never cried as gut-wrenchingly as I did while watching the tv coverage of Ayrton’s death, since it wasn’t news for me but rather an outer ‘echo’ of what I had in some deeper way experienced precognitively. I felt as if I’d lost a beloved friend, or relative immensely dear to me. Compounding the tragedy, when track officials examined the car wreckage they found a furled Austrian flag. Ayrton, who up until the crash had been leading the race, had planned to raise it after the race in honour of fellow driver Roland Ratzenberger, who had died in a fatal crash during a qualifying race on the previous day. (Upon learning of his death, Ayrton, inconsolable, had retreated to his motor home, broken down in tears and collapsed to the floor.)
A later technical report found that the steering column of Ayrton’s car had fatigue cracks and had been badly welded together before the race. The consensus verdict is that during the seventh lap of the race it had snapped, causing him to lose control of the steering. The attending neurosurgeon, though not a religious man, claimed that he felt Ayrton’s spirit depart as he lay on the ground after being removed from the car. His funeral procession a few days later, attended by three million people, was the largest ever in the city of Sao Paulo’s history.
Two billion people were devastated to watch Ayrton’s crash on live tv. Millions poured out emotional expressions of personal loss and anguish. The whole of Brazil imploded with grief and their Government declared three days of national mourning.
Ayrton had always confessed that God was always with him, but that he felt closest to God while racing. Before each race he habitually reflected and sought guidance from a scripture reading. Before the San Marino race he allegedly prayed to God for the greatest gift that He could bestow. According to his sister, he was consoled by a Bible verse that assured him he would receive the greatest gift of all, God Himself.
For him racing could be a path to transcendence, to an altered state of awareness that brought him beyond limited perception, something he once experienced (during a race) as driving well beyond normal human limits through a kind of tunnel. He realised he was no longer driving consciously, but rather by a kind of instinct in another spiritual dimension.
Ayrton always charted a razor thin track between the yin and yang of calmness and breathless speed, between discipline and danger, agony and triumph, humane sensitivity and indomitable will and inner fire. While in his presence at the Australian Grand Prix, at first it had struck me as pleasantly surprising yet odd that this formidable competitor possessed such a calm demeanour, as well as such a kind gaze and gentle voice. Like the focused samurai, he drew strength and courage from inner poise and a humble sense of closeness to the divine. Years later it dawned in me that it was this lived paradox which made him—in words from the song Tina Turner dedicated to him at that Grand Prix—‘simply the best’. Beyond a doubt he was, and I suspect always will be, the most enigmatic, charismatic and beloved racing driver of all time.
He transcended the sport. As many people perceived, there was something ethereal, even mystical about him that was readily experienced by others, though impossible to define. You could see in his fathomless, supremely soulful gaze that inseparable blend of joy and sorrow that only fully alive individuals know. Yet at the same time Ayrton was always thoroughly grounded, practical, businesslike, and focused on his goals. Behind the wheel he was a ruthless, Zen-like warrior. Away from the track he enjoyed a contented life that included helping to run his family’s organic farming estate. He was spiritual in this down-to-earth way, as if the divine both raced and rested in his blood.
Copyright 2026 Maureen B. Roberts
Photo Copyright Charrel Jalving [Trackside Legends]