It’s the cars: 240kmh around corners, 5g braking forces, 0-100kmh in less than 2 seconds, incredible levels of downforce, the fact that Robert Kubica survived, the fact the HRT actually worked for a whole season.
It’s the races themselves: the start of a Grand Prix, 300kmh overtakes around the outside of the 130r, Mark Webber upside down in Valencia, zero grip and zero visibility whenever it rains and yet the drivers never take the foot off the throttle, knowing that the broadcast could cut to Petrov in the wall at any moment.
It’s the drivers: Michael Schumacher, Fernando Alonso, Lewis Hamilton, Sebastian Vettel, Luca Badoer.
It’s the fact it’s a World Championship: Europe, North America, South America, Oceania, Asia and the Middle East.
It’s the history: 60 years and counting, Sir Stirling Moss, Juan Manuel Fangio, Sir Jackie Stewart, Alain Prost, the Nurburgring, 1000bhp turbos to 700bhp NA V8s, Murray Walker, the Prancing Horse, Bernie Ecclestone.
It’s the glamour and the prestige: most expensive sport in the world, the celebrities that flock to the grid, the Monaco Grand Prix, the fact that countries all over the world are falling over themselves to secure a race in their nation, the Santander trophy that gets awarded after apparently every other Grand Prix.
It’s the names that have been lost: Senna, Rindt, Gilles Villeneuve, Ratzenberger, Bandini and the countless other drivers, marshalls and spectators.
Itís that every fortnight, a British woman sits in front of her television to cheer on a Brazilian driver in an Italian team to victory on a Turkish circuit, while a man in Bangladesh cheers for a Japanese driver in a Swiss team for passing a German driver in an Indian team.
God, I love this sport.