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Formula 1 often exudes an aura of snobbery, classism, and a certain level of detachment from reality that’s seldom found in other sports. Look down the walkways between F1 teams’ grandiose motorhomes and the garages where the cars are kept, and you’ll notice an abundance of both old and new money. The quiet types wear Patek Philippes and Birkins, while the loud ones flaunt their Richard Milles and Louis Vuittons. In that bubble, arriving by chauffeured S-Class is acceptable, but a chopper is preferred. This is the F1 that’s amplified to the world via TV, but especially social media. The play is: make it glamorous, make it aspirational, and everyone will want to come. It works.
Outside of the few acres that comprise the F1 paddock, however, things are different. There are no celebrities, just fans of all backgrounds and ages. There are fewer Audemars Piguets and more Seikos, and the ratio of Gucci loafers to classic sneakers is wildly different outside the guarded paddock gates. The vibe is different, too. Which is why, as much as I love the hustle and bustle of the paddock, I make it a point to explore as much of the track as possible throughout any race weekend. I won’t say that that’s where the real fans are, because fandom exists across all demographics, but the grandstands and GA areas are definitely where the real vibes are found.
Jerry Perez
For all the tracks I’ve visited in my life, it wasn’t until this year that I finally made it to Silverstone. The British Grand Prix is the home of F1, and not just because most teams are based near it. Silverstone is where the first sanctioned Formula 1 Grand Prix was held back in 1950, and it remains a special place to this day. Having attended iconic races like Suzuka, Hockenheim, and Autodromo Hermanos Rodriguez, I knew this British icon and its tens of thousands of adoring fans would pack a good punch, but I didn’t expect a random quartet of Lando Norris fans to leave such a lasting impression on me.
Jerry Perez
A Jazzy Encounter
I was about to embark on my hour-long drive back to my hotel when a tall man approached my driver’s side window. It was Saturday, about 7:30 pm, and I had stayed at the track later than usual because the Cadillac F1 Team had thrown a big 4th of July party complete with hot dogs, burgers, popsicles, and plenty of Budweiser to commemorate the occasion.
I stopped my Honda Jazz e:HEV and rolled down the window to see what he needed. I quickly realized he wasn’t someone who worked at the track, nor a team member, nor anyone I knew; he appeared to be a fan who had probably just gotten off the shuttle at the stop about 300 feet from the media parking lot. “Can I give you some money to take me to my campground down the road?” he said. It took me a second to grasp what he was asking. A bit confused, I asked him to repeat himself.
Jerry Perez
From what I gathered in just a few seconds, he had been walking for a while, was tired, and it was a pretty hot weekend. That entire week, in fact, all of Europe had been setting records for highest temperatures. “It’s just down the road, and I’ll give you some money,” he repeated. I tried to look up the location where they were camping, but nothing came up—later on, I realized I was misspelling the place’s name. “Sure, why not? Hop in, I think it’s in the direction of my hotel anyway,” I told him.
The man walked around to the passenger side (I’m in an RHD car) and got in. He introduced himself, but I quickly forgot his name. Then, he dropped a bit of a surprise on me: “Just pull over up there and pick up my mates,” he said. As it turns out, it was a group of four friends attending the race, and they were all making the long trek back to the campground, which I estimated was about an hour-long trek from where we met.
“What did I get myself into?” I thought. But it was too late to back out. I spotted his mates a few feet ahead and noticed them bust out in laughter when they saw their roughly 6′ 5″ friend in the front seat of a little Honda Jazz. And let me tell ya, that’s when the party started.
We all introduced ourselves to each other, even if, again, I immediately forgot their names and quickly got to chatting about how the encounter came about. I heard one of them say, “Wait, did you think Jerry was a taxi driver when you approached him?” and everyone (including me) busted out laughing. I went on to explain that I was a journalist covering the race, and they were actually in a press car kindly provided by Honda.
Jerry Perez
It was a short drive to the campground, which indeed turned out to be on the way to my hotel. In fact, I had seen it the day before and even considered booking a spot there to save on accommodations. Plus, the proximity to the track would have saved me a two-hour round-trip drive the next day, but I ultimately decided not to.
I made my way down a long dirt road lined with caravans, tents, roof tents, and all sorts of camping accommodations propped up by thousands of adoring fans across West Northamptonshire. The guys argued back and forth about which of the 50 identical dirt roads I was supposed to turn right, until one of them made the executive decision that it was “that one.” Surprise! It wasn’t.
We arrived at their campground, where three of them were sleeping in their cars—a lovely Range Rover Autobiography, a Land Rover Discovery, and a BYD—while the fourth had gone old-school and pitched up a tiny tent. They once again offered me some cash for the ride, which I politely declined and instead asked them for feedback on the Jazz’s interior and ride quality. Of course, it was all positive. We were taking a selfie to commemorate the 15-minute adventure and go our separate ways, when one of them suddenly said, “What are you doing tonight? Do you want to hang out?”
Jerry Perez
A few minutes later, I found myself at a very unexpected tailgating party on a field next to Silverstone. Thousands of racing flags waved in the air, each one proclaiming the camper’s favorite team or driver. The smell of food sizzling on hundreds, if not thousands, of BBQ grills around me filled the air with a sweet aroma that reminded me of an Indy 500 morning. In fact, the whole scene felt very “Indy” to me, and not F1. F1 races in the U.S. aren’t this chill, aren’t this approachable—they’re mostly seen as upper-crust events. If I had to compare, this was more like an NFL pre-game tailgate party.
We hung out and talked about our backgrounds, families, jobs, and which team or driver we were rooting for, etc. Well, I didn’t have to ask—it was obvious from their Lando gear. They were obviously interested in getting a bit of insider info, as I mentioned, I had interviewed several drivers in the past, etc. Just had a great time while enjoying a few drinks. Then, another question, though this time it was more of a statement: “Jerry, we’re all going to a concert tonight and then an after-party. You should come.”
Next thing I know, I’m back behind the wheel with my four new friends stuffed in the Jazz once more. We’re headed back to the track, and lucky for them, my special parking pass gives me quick, easy access—not to mention a much better parking spot—than any random fan could get. By this point, we’ve broken all the ice and are mostly acting like we’ve been friends for a while. The jokes kept coming, and the vibes kept getting better and better. We made it to the M&S stage, where a huge concert was already happening. I didn’t know the performers, Chase and Status were one of them, and DJ Vikkstar for the opening set. I didn’t mind the tunes; I thought most of it was fun—but I could tell my buds didn’t quite enjoy them as much. I think they’re more the Coldplay, Oasis types.
Jerry Perez
It’s at this point that I’m soaking in the entire experience, and the fact that I was now at a concert right smack in the middle of Silverstone—a track that is just so special and, quite frankly, I didn’t think I would get to visit this year—along with some really nice people who were being really kind to me for no reason. Because, in reality, sure, I gave them a ride, but they truly didn’t have to do anything other than say “thanks.” But the fact that they had already done so much more for a complete stranger was really setting in. I was very touched.
If I’m being frank, I had been feeling in the dumps that day. I had been solo in Europe for several weeks already, and a bit of loneliness had started to kick in. It had started during Father’s Day two weekends before, and then that day, the 4th of July, I was missing the kids, missing the fireworks, missing home a bit. I was just planning to go back to my hotel, have a beer, maybe some fish and chips, and call it an early-ish night. I wasn’t in the best of moods, so I planned on sleeping the pain away.
Jerry Perez
After the concert, we walked all over the track—and I mean all over, mostly because we got lost several times trying to find the after-party they had tickets to. It was probably close to midnight by this point, and there were still thousands of people at Silverstone. In fact, when I asked a track attendant when the parking lots closed (to make sure I didn’t get stuck there overnight), they giggled and said, “Oh, love, we’re open 24 hours.” This was nuts! This was so much more than a race; it was a weekend-long party.
After walking around for a while and seeing a lovely firework show, we finally reached the after-party venue, which was near the main straightaway. But there was a problem. As the guys had explained a few times leading up to that moment, they had tickets for this gig, but obviously, I didn’t. Yet, somehow, they were fully convinced that they were going to get me in anyway. And when I say fully convinced, I mean they had no doubt whatsoever they’d find a way to get me in… for free. It’s this British confidence that helped build the British Empire, I suppose.
Jerry Perez
I tried the old-school “smooth-talk my way into an event,” but it didn’t work. I tried to sneak through an opening in the fence, and I failed, too. The guys had already gone in with their tickets, and despite their repeatedly reassuring me that they would mastermind a way to get me in and that I should not leave, I was starting to feel it was late and maybe I should call it a night. “I tried to get in, but it didn’t work, and either way, I’ve already had a lot of fun, maybe I should start my long drive home,” I thought.
Just as I was wrapping up that thought, one of them surfaced from the crowd like a valiant Knight of the Round Table, with a big smile on his face. I won’t go into details and share how I got in, but I will say … I got in.
Jerry Perez
We partied, people-watched, talked U.S. and U.K. politics, danced with some carnival dancers, watched a robot duck take over the dance floor, a person dressed as a frog dance to Eminmen, and, much to my surprise, wrapped up the night with some surprisingly good tacos. My belly was full, but my heart was even more so.
We began the trek back to the car at around 2 am, I think. I still had to drive to the hotel, sleep, pack up all my stuff, and be back at the track early in the morning. Sunday was going to be a very long day.
Jerry Perez
Sunday was, indeed, a very long day, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t help but feel grateful for those four guys who had adopted me the night before and shown me a good time. I can’t wait for them to read this.
Thank you, Alex, Steve, Kal, and Dan, for hopping into my Jazz. (You really thought I forgot their names, huh?)
Email the author at jerry@thedrive.com
As deputy editor, Jerry draws on a decade of industry experience and a lifelong passion for motorsports to guide The Drive’s short- and long-term coverage.
