Some drivers seem to have greatness thrust upon them, have all the riches of the racing world fall into their laps as though ordained from the very beginning of their careers, while others have to fight for it tooth and nail, forever grafting to claim their moment in the spotlight. And if you could argue that our first two champions may fall into the first camp, there is no question that GP2's newest champion is very much in the latter.  Continue

Nerves fray at the end of a racing season: tension builds, tempers flare, and people over-react through simple tiredness, whether it be Marco yelling because Stan put his camera case where Marco normally puts his laptop, or Will yelling because the Spanish security guard was being over officious after he opened a door they were late in opening, or Didier yelling because the parking attendants are trying to make him park miles away from the paddock, or me yelling because the guards are trying to make us walk around the world. 

It’s natural that we’d all be tired by the end of the season, particularly with one round to go, but it happens and the yelling comes, and then it’s gone and we’re quietly ashamed of the outbursts, mostly because we don’t know where they even came from, because on any other day we’d have laughed and made a joke about it instead, laughed at how ineffective the Spanish are at organising anything rather than taking it as a personal attack and snapping.

But we’re not alone: outside in the paddock there was a throbbing black cloud of tension, and its epicentre was a man called Timo Glock.   Continue

"What time do you get in?"
"5.45. Is that okay?"
"Sure. It's an hour and a half drive from the track, but you'll be here in an hour: I'll get Marco to drive." Everyone has trouble getting to Spa: it's in the middle of nowhere, near nothing much and on the way to nowhere else. Most people drive there just because they'll end up driving most of the way anyhow, and with the race being back to back with Monza the teams and series staff all made their way straight up through Switzerland and Germany after the last race.  Continue

Once upon a time, not too long ago, I was living a fairly normal life in Brooklyn: I'd moved over there a few years earlier for work, and the river of life has bubbled along for a while until a horrible thing happened and all of our lives changed, mine in particular. My friend Bira, the editor of a famous website then and now, worried about my well-being and was looking for a way to save me. She's always been one to collect strays.  

"I've had this idea," she wrote to me one night.  Continue