I didn’t know the first thing about F1 in 2018. In fact I couldn’t wait to change the channel while my boyfriend was watching a press conference.
"What were you doing before then?” The guy in red asked, smiling mischievously. "I was waiting to put a good lap in,” the guy in white said, “to wipe the smile off your face,” he added under his breath. The guy in white patted the guy in red’s arm, insisting that he was only joking. The tension was electric, and it had my full attention. But the other guy in red seemed to be daydreaming. “Do they have brawls in the bars after a race?” I asked. I live for the drama. The guy in red with the mischievous smile seemed to be the underdog, the guy in white some kind of superhuman. The daydreaming one was pure comedy.
This was the moment that began my love for F1. For the first time I saw inside the machines that zoomed predictably around faraway racetracks: I realised F1 wasn't just about stats or aerodynamics, but the people behind the wheel.