Motorsport Memory: 2014 Italian GP
Looking around at the wealth of talent, experience and knowledge in the Autosport office, it’s instantly obvious I’m a mere rookie, an imposter if you will! I didn’t stumble across motorsport until the age of 15, on a damp Sunday in late August. I was in a sullen spirit after receiving what a stereotypical Asian student would consider mediocre GCSE results. So turning on the TV to find nothing else on to distract me from my academic ‘woes’ but the Belgian Grand Prix proved to be the first step in leading me astray from a more conventional career path my parents would have approved of. I was taken aback by Lewis Hamilton’s composure in an action-packed race. Forty-four laps later, it was all over – and before I knew it, the epic 2010 season was coming to its exciting conclusion in Abu Dhabi.
Four years later and with significantly more cash courtesy of Student Finance, I decided to take my first pilgrimage to a race and chose the homeland of the tifosi. The beautiful Monza
Park and the historic track that it encircled was every bit a testament to the legacy it had spun over the past 92 years.
I’d been mute in the engine-noise debate that had rattled on throughout that season because I’d never experienced the sound of an F1 engine beyond the telebox. The V8 was raucous, but I was more than content with my ears splitting to the sound of V6s. By the time the F1 cars hit the track, the grandstands were packed with fanatical fans. Now this was what I’d been waiting for.
The defining moment of the weekend was on Sunday morning. I turned up to the track early, not for any other reason than wanting to explore without succumbing to the heat of the rising sun. I watched fans gather around an enclosure to get autographs, so I attempted to join in. Now to paint this horrific yet amusing picture: I’m just shy of five foot, standing in a mosh pit of screaming, perspiring and significantly taller tifosi.
As soon as Hamilton came out, I was in the eye of the sweaty storm. Such was the force of the swell, the plastic carrier bag containing my bottle of water was ripped from my hands, leaving nothing but the severed handles gripped in my fists.
I was quickly rescued by the eagle-eyed security guards and propped in front of the barriers separating the fans and soon-to-be double world champion. One signature later, I didn’t care about my near-death experience.