Monza: A Layman's Guide

"I think I might stay by the lake today", I said. It was very warm, with a slight breeze blowing off Como. The prospect of an hour’s drive to a sweltering Monza looked less appealing as the sun crept towards its apogee and holidaymakers milled about the close-knit bars and glittering waterfront of Argegno with animated gusto.

But I hadn’t bargained for the single-minded commitment of the others to the idea of the Grand Prix, the jewel in the crown of the Italian race season and the defining event, for the Tifosi, of the year. We – myself, my partner, her daughter and son-in-law - had been gifted VIP tickets for Monza by my partner’s eldest son, who works in the shady hinterland of troubleshooting between Formula One’s IT and television provision. And, as an Italian friend from England reminded me before we left for Milan, it would be churlish to pass up the opportunity of a lifetime, even without the faintest whiff of an interest in motor racing; churlish, and grossly unfair to the many who would cheerfully have travelled in my stead.

Nor had I anticipated the long walk in. A near forty-five minute schlep separated the car park – a dusty field baked to bone-hard in the 35 degree heat – and the Paddock, as we passed thousands of excited, flag-waving and red-bedecked fans lining the track. Our passes gave us privileged access to the central ‘hub’, the core of Team corporate hospitality and conspicuous opulence that seems somehow symbiotic with the enormous wealth of some of F1’s denizens. If the style and sartorial elegance of the throng were any guide – many were dressed to be seen, rather than for comfort in the enervating heat – then the gravitational pull of the Paddock and environs seemed resistless.

To be amply fed and watered entirely gratis, and at every turn, was both a bonus and a mercy: cappuccino bars, pop-up purveyors of prosecco and pizza, ubiquitous water fountains, and the best crema ice cream I have ever tasted, improved a flagging disposition to no end.

It was very hot; the neck-fan I’d invested in before we left England was re-circulating warm air and gave up the ghost entire as we headed for the pit lane whence the golden chalice of Formula One wheel change practice was promised. This last – a flat-out, non-negotiable harmonising of technology and ingenuity – is calculated to impress the kind of lumbering Luddite in me who struggles, elsewhere, to understand how aeroplanes actually leave the tarmac. It worked its shamanistic magic as all four wheels were replaced in a blink.

The other major attraction of pit lane presence, apart from craning over the barrier to see the ocean of red shirts and flags in the grandstand opposite, is the chance to gawp at the rich and famous who wander the tarmac trying to avoid Martin Brundle. They were pretty thin on the ground during my brief window, but I did see David Coulthard showing off his chiselled jaw for Channel Four, and later ex-England manager Fabio Capello looking vaguely into the blue beyond down the racetrack adjacent.

The race itself, preceded by much corporate fanfare and national anthem playing, is the bit we were all, evidently, waiting for. Warned, by my partner’s son, that we wouldn’t see a thing from our position in the Paddock, we headed off, trackside, into Monza’s surrounding parkland just in time to hear what sounded remarkably like the furious buzz of a colony of steroidal hornets, careening towards us. Seriously impressive, in both echoing build-up and ear-splitting volume, the received effect is astonishing, if very fleeting; the cars pass in a barely perceptible blur, their identities and drivers best known to the cognoscenti.

When it seemed likely that Ferrari were going to take the honours – I would have been clueless without the anticipatory racket of the crowd and the huge television screens – we headed off back in the direction of the Paddock. Unexpected winners, with the Monégasque Charles Leclerc in the hot seat, closely shadowed by Piastri and Norris for McLaren, Ferrari, and its legions of excited acolytes, came into their own as the finish line, podium and pitside metamorphosed into a vast celebration in red. And regardless of colour, stripe or affiliation, it would be a hard heart that didn’t rejoice at such an explosive outpouring of secular worship.