They twist, sweep, and go down hills, sometimes on existing streets. Whereas Nascar is all left turns, cars that look like cars, and spectator-friendly oval tracks, Formula 1 has a madder, purer heart: the oldest courses date from a century ago. The “formula” of Formula 1 refers to a set of rules, first enshrined after the Second World War, to bring some order to the urge to race dangerous cars on the asphalt of foreign cities. Wolff, who is fifty, is the best team boss in the recent history of the world’s fastest motorsport. At one point, I found myself by the pit lane when three cars leaped out, red tail-lights flashing. Two Formula 1 drivers were killed in the span of three years at Zandvoort in the seventies.
He kissed people’s cheeks, touched elbows, gave impromptu TV interviews, and yelled last-minute thoughts to his drivers.
He worked the grid in a white shirt emblazoned with the Mercedes star and the logos of twelve other corporate sponsors, black pants, team-issued Puma sneakers, lovable smile. He could pass for a Sacha Baron Cohen character or for someone who breezes past you in the airport, smelling good, wearing loafers and no socks. The afternoon was humid the air felt saturated. In Zandvoort, loudspeakers laced the sky with dance music.
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