Valencia

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