F1 drivers, they are (almost) just like us

Among the many fascinations of this career path, first and foremost are the people who write about cars. I count many among my best friends: complex, talented, and dysfunctional nerds of all stripes. In second place are the drivers from Formula 1.

A mentor and friend in the business once told me that F1 drivers are boring people – basically nothing more than sensible meat with shiny teeth wrapped in a bright Nomex suit. He explained that success in Formula 1 requires such a laser focus that any driver who does the sport will miss those life events that break us and in turn make us human. You know, those scars that build character: dog shit on your fresh white Nike sneakers or a drive-thru job at Wendy’s.

But of course, that’s not true. F1 drivers can give incredibly boring interviews, but I think that’s a failing on the part of the interviewer. I found F1 drivers fascinating. When the corporate mask slips, as it often does live, the drivers are often geeks, balls of contradictions and charisma, sometimes hideous and beautiful. Some of them you want to hug.

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On a recent flight home from the Texas ranch where I interviewed Mick Schumacher, I thought about these elite drivers and tried to unravel a common thread.

“Are they all just fast sentient meat?” I thought. “Aren’t we all just sentient meat?”

I mostly thought about it because my Instagram DMs were full of questions about Schumacher. People are curious about their characters, and I’ve met a few, so the questions keep coming.

They usually ask, “What is Driver X in fact like?”

I’ve officially interviewed five F1 world champions, swapped stories with a few more legends, had drinks with the fellows, sipped champagne with lackeys and had a few rare encounters with the shining talents. I learned that if you stick around long enough, F1 drivers always reveal themselves. They want to be seen, really, and are never boring.

The first few times I met a retired F1 hero of mine, he was all polished and easy going. But one night, after about a dozen camps, the driver decided to let his guard down. The man had some upcoming vacation plans worth sharing. First, he would rent a camper and travel across the American South, picking up a friend along the way. This dude is an S-Tier NASCAR legend who obviously knows how to party. During the trip, the pair intended to visit every little dirt track and A-grade university campus along the way, looking for both “local talent” and an abundance of substances – both legal and illicit – but never in moderation. The driver later asked me about the legality of shooting down drones in the state of California because “I looked like someone who knew.” (My response after a sip of beer: This is America, my friend, get a gun and walk with God).

If you’ve ever complained that sponsorship money has wiped out the bad boys of F1, well, there are more than a few black-track sellers who might disagree. But the sheer glamor of the sponsorship makes these drivers put their guard up. At least from the front.

Another erudite F1 champion and his beautiful wife once asked to join me at an empty table for lunch. I had just finished an interview with the driver and was sitting alone processing the conversation moderated by one of the sport’s most prestigious and wealthy sponsors. During the interview, he was as buttoned up as ever, just as the handsome, conscious piece you’d expect. But over lunch he told me about the anxiety of leaving Formula 1, waking up to find your career is over in your mid-thirties, that vacuum he felt counting the meaningless days ahead, and the liberation and focus that life as father.

I wanted to seem sympathetic to this deeply vulnerable monologue, except that his lovely wife often interrupted the conversation, but only until her mouth was full of food.

Some drivers, on the other hand, try so hard to brand themselves as fit that it backfires. For example, Lewis Hamilton’s on-screen persona is often so refined that it borders on hideous. That side of Lewis was nowhere to be found during the interview, but only after I told him we weren’t going to talk about F1. After that statement, his eyes were riveted on the conversation and his attention was held for about 36 minutes – 16 minutes more than his PR team had promised me.

I’ll admit I never really cared for Lewis as a cocky young driver whose talent often outstripped his judgement. His dominance with Mercedes was also stifling for the sport. But as a human being, I’m Hamilton’s biggest fan.

But it’s not all unicorns and fresh Pirellis. Another world champion couldn’t be further from the odd man out playing in the commercials. After I approached for an interview, his assistant suggested that I make a substantial donation to the driver’s charity. This is common practice, she assured me. I was young, naive and on a deadline. The implication of this proposal seemed clear.

Now in journalism you don’t pay for interviews. In retrospect, my behavior stretched far beyond acceptable morality, or at least deep into murky gray waters in which writers should not dare swim; I was eager to please and a consultation with senior staff would straighten the situation.

I gave money to the charity instead, then got the interview. then, Road and Track’The editor-in-chief correctly informed me that this donation cannot be covered as a business expense. I’m confused. Lesson learned.

Weeks later, the F1 champion rang my mobile phone. In a fit of rage, he accused me of missing a payment to the charity. With shaking hands, I immediately made a second payment from my phone, this one with a personal credit card, then rechecked the first payment. Both payments were made. I never heard from the F1 champion again and my bill took months to clear.

I ended up giving money to charity. I’ve made far worse mistakes, but I’ll never forget the thrill of seeing the F1 icon number light up on my iPhone, nor the surreal horror of being chewed out by my character.

The thread between these anecdotes? There may not be one. All F1 drivers are extremely motivated, extremely talented, and the extremes of their work can really reveal something beautiful about the human condition. We usually see this expressed on the racetrack, their genius is expressed in clever passes and cunning racing skills.

But the closer I got to professional drivers as people, the more I saw through cracks in the veneer. Indeed, there are still many who compete with James Hunt’s appetite for life. There is even ugliness. (There are also details related to me for certain [REDACTED] which are not to be shared in this post).

So what are F1 drivers? really like? Grab a seat because this may take a while to explain. After all, these drivers aren’t just sentient fast meat. They are people.