everybody reblog and put in the tags what number you would pick if you were an f1 driver and why. you may only steal a current driver's number if you also explain your plot to get them to retire and/or hand over the number
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Husband: What is that livery?
Me (not having seen it yet but having read about it here): Oh McLaren? Special livery, I think.
Husband: Oh, it's special alright.
-------
Me: Explaining how I don't hate a specific driver, but also really don't like him.
Daughter: You don't hate him, but you wouldn't want him dating your sister.
and... time! stop the timer on how long it took between me learning about max's enjoyment of mafia docs and me implementing it into an angst fic
what can i say. it's my passion.
1.1k; mostly below the cut
(oh yeah cw for mild suicidal ideation)
---
For your fifth birthday, you spend the day at the racetrack. Finally done driving dizzy circles in parking lots, Papa drives you all the way to a proper karting track, and you drive until sundown, learning the turns, getting faster and faster.
At the end of the day, you don't even realize how exhausted you are until Papa has loaded your kart into the car and you get into the back seat. You fall asleep the moment the engine starts up.
-
Another reporter shoves a microphone under your nose, asking if the reason you performed so badly today was because you didn't get enough sleep last night.
You can barely hold back your snort of laughter. What a stupid question. Any sleep at all is more than enough. You've driven through worse.
-
You lose pole position, you lose the race, you lose the championship.
Papa pulls out his stopwatch and tells you you're not getting out of the kart until you've beaten pole by two seconds.
By the time you crash into the wall, your hands are shaking so badly you can no longer turn the wheel, and you can't stop the steady stream of tears soaking into the fabric of your balaclava. You're so tired it hurts.
You find yourself wishing you'd crashed harder. Maybe an endless sleep would be better than this.
-
Kelly doesn't love the documentaries you watch, but she's still curled into your side, scrolling through her phone on the couch. You have the subtitles set to Portuguese, and every once in a while you'll ask her how to pronounce a word, and she'll snicker at the prospect of you ever needing to know how to say loan shark to her family.
There's a section about interrogation, and the narrator, in his slow, calm voice, lists sleep deprivation within the same breath as pulling out people's fingernails with pliers.
You pause the documentary and can't find the words to answer Kelly when she asks you what's wrong.
-
After all the fireworks have fizzled out, and the champagne stops spraying, and the golden confetti is being swept away, all you can think about is how tired you are.
You get on the first flight home, but though you close your eyes, you don't get a moment of sleep the whole way.
-
After Silverstone, a lot of people ask a lot of stupid questions. But if they're dumb enough to ask if you're alright after a 51g impact sideways into the wall, then they're dumb enough to believe you when you say yes.
Besides, what is alright, really? You can still drive.
GP asks you in Abu Dhabi, voice jittery even though he's clearly trying to hide it, if you slept alright last night.
You stare at him. You haven't slept a full night since you went into the wall, even though it feels like your eyelids are always on the verge of falling shut. You don't let them.
You tell him yes. What is alright, really?
You've driven through worse.
-
You close your eyes down the straight—just for half a second, long blink—and when you open them, the front of your kart is colliding with the rear of another. Your foot finds the brake too late. You can still barely hold your eyes open as you careen into the grass.
Your race is over, but you still have to force your heavy limbs to move—to clamber out of the broken kart. You don't want anybody thinking you're terribly injured and have you sent to the hospital. Papa would kill you.
On the other hand, maybe if he does, you can finally get some rest.
-
For your fifteenth birthday, you spend the day at the racetrack.
Papa shakes you awake before dawn, and you barely have time to grab a banana on your way out the door.
You start your first lap as the sun rises.
You finish your last one as it rises again.
On the drive home, your head wilts towards the window, and Papa snaps at you to keep your eyes open. You've forgotten what it feels like to have them closed.
-
Papa yells, but he sounds underwater. His nails dig harshly into your arms as he drags you back to your tent, but it feels far away. Everything is tingly and numb.
Papa is good at what he does, though. He's good at making you learn. And by the time you're loading your broken kart into the back of the van, he's found a way to make you feel his hands.
You wipe the drops of blood off your kart before shutting the boot.
-
You stop blinking behind the wheel.
-
When Papa doesn't accompany you to races, he never pays much attention to time zones. He'll call you at 2am, or 3, or 4—whatever works best for him.
When you were younger, you set a special ringer for him so you'd always wake up when he called.
Nowadays, the only people allowed through your phone's Do Not Disturb are Kelly, Vic, and Mama. Even so, they never interrupt your sleep.
-
Your definition of alright, for as long as you can remember, has been based on your ability to drive.
Sometimes, you think that you'll only stop being alright when you're dead.
-
Standing on the second step, you scowl, sharp contrast to the smiling faces to your left.
Down below, parents and team members cheer and clap, with pride and politeness both, but your eyes find the one man out of place. In the middle of the crowd, Papa's steely eyes are locked onto you, even as he speaks on the phone.
No doubt, he's cancelling your hotel reservation. You'll be driving the van home across Europe instead of sleeping tonight.
-
The moment your head is in Mama's lap, and her hand is carding through your hair, you're out like a light.
When you wake up, creases pressed into your cheek, sleep sticking to the corners of your eyes, you feel more rested than you have in twenty years.
-
For your twenty-fifth birthday, you spend the day at the racetrack.
The sticky Singapore heat cradles you, suffocating even as the sky goes dark.
You don't finish either practice session in the lead, but once the day is over, a chauffeur drives you back to your hotel room, and you go to sleep.
-
Sometimes—rarely—Lily's cries wake you up in the middle of the night.
You don't mind. The tiredness isn't painful when it's for her.
And besides. You're much more well-rested these days.
hi you don't have to publish this at all or even take this suggestion, the belongingverse is Yours to write, but what about a moment when max has a nightmare/screaming in his sleep? and gp is trying to comfort him but it's difficult because he wants to hold max and max is still So, So traumatized (it can either be a happy ending or incredibly angsty, up to you!)
ANYWAYS just a thought lol no harm if you don't like it 🫶 hope you have a good day!
anon ive been hoarding this message in my askbox for weeks and just know that you predicted this. i had this fic planned ever since the first part of the verse lol. it doesn't go exactly as you wanted, but i hope you still like it!
tws: blood, descriptions of death, violence, panic attacks
Max jolts awake, desperately gasping for breath as his heart hammers in his throat. His hands fly to his neck to wipe away the ghosts of his father's fingers.
The remains of his dream are still playing in front of his eyes, vivid against the darkness of the room — his dad's angry scowl; blood, scarlet red staining the carpet.
He's been having the same nightmare since he got to GP's house. Every night he goes to bed and relives the day his dad died.
Sometimes he feels like his life now is a dream, something his brain came up with while Max sits next to his father's corpse, a fantasy where he gets to live and have someone who cares for him, who thinks that Max is good.
But then, the fantasy is real — Max gets to wake up every morning, while his dad sleeps in grave that Max still hasn't visited.
Maybe the nightmares are his penance, for what he's done.
Max's hands are shaking, cold night air sticking to his sweaty neck. He gets out of bed, with his heart still beating fast in his chest, and goes to the kitchen. He keeps his steps light, avoiding the floorboards that creak. GP keeps saying that this is his home too now, but Max can't stop feeling like an intruder every time he leaves his room.
The door to GP's room is closed, but this is the first time it doesn't bring Max comfort. He feels strangely sad looking at it, but he can't figure out why. He stands there, gripping his glass of water like a lifeline, watching the door as if it could give him answers.
Max doesn't want to go back to his room, where his father's ghost lingers in every dark corner, but what other choice does he have? He could stay here and sleep on the couch maybe, but that's wrong, what if GP sees him? Or maybe he could knock—
No, that's a stupid idea. Waking people up is bad. Max hasn't yet figured out if waking GP up is bad, but he's not going to try it now. And what would he say anyway? That he's had a nightmare? He's not a stupid kid anymore, he can deal with having a bad dream.
Max wills his hands to stop shaking and turns to go back to his room. The lamp he left on spills light onto his bed, luring him into the false sense of comfort.
He takes one last look at GP's door and goes back to his room. It's fine — he's always been good at receiving his punishments.
***
The door flies open with a bang that rattles through the ceiling.
Max jumps up from the couch, trying to run away, but his father catches him, arms winding around his body like iron bars.
His breath reeks of alcohol and cigarettes, eyes hazy and burning right through Max with anger. It's like a physical weight pressing him down, making him weak.
Fingers wrap around his throat, hot and heavy, as the other hand grabs Max by the hair; pinpricks of pain shoot through his scalp, and he can't catch his breath.
"Ungrateful son of a bitch," his father spits into his face, squeezing his throat harder and harder.
Max thrashes in his iron grip, panicked, pleading his father to let go, scratching at his arm like a prey animal in the claws of its predator.
His vision swims, blood rushing in his ears, limbs going weak and numb from the lack of oxygen.
Max takes a desperate choking breath —
And wakes up.
Just a dream, just a dream, he repeats in his head over and over, trying to calm down.
He frantically wipes at his cheeks, and in the pressing darkness of the night, the wetness on his fingers feels too much like his father's blood.
Max flings himself out of bed and out of the room. He bumps his shoulder into the doorway, but catches himself in time, almost stumbling into the couch.
It's like he is floating above his body, watching himself first get a glass with shaking hands, then almost drop it onto the floor as he tries to pour water into it.
The noise pierces through the ringing in his ears, and for a second Max freezes, before panic overtakes him.
He tries to clean the mess he's made, but he's not fast enough, and GP is already up, standing in the doorway to his room looking tired and fed up with Max.
Max wants to grab his own body and shake it up — wake up! He needs to apologize, explain why he's making such a fuss in the middle of the night, but his tongue is still heavy in his mouth. GP is about to yell at him for waking him up and all Max can think about is that he really doesn't want to go back to his room, back to his nightmares and his father's ghost.
He is surprised when GP doesn't shout at him, or tell him off for waking him up. Instead, he offers Max to stay up, and Max is too tired to look for a catch.
He goes back to his room to grab his blanket, trying to be fast before the darkness catches up to him, and goes back to the living room, to the safety of the TV and GP's kind smile.
Max doesn't mean to fall alseep, but when he wakes up, morning sun shining in his eyes and his blanket still tucked up around him, he realizes it's the first time he didn't dream of anything.
***
It becomes a thing.
Max wakes up from the nightmare, and goes to the living room, where, sometimes, GP is already sitting on the couch waiting for him.
Some nights, Max doesn't bother going to sleep in his room, instead curling up in "his" corner of the couch as he waits for GP. It can't be good for GP's sleep, but he always comes over and keeps Max company until he falls asleep.
His father appears less in his dreams, and Max stops seeing his shadow in every dark corner of his room.
His life is slowly becoming something he dared to dream about in his weakest moments, and Max really hopes it doesn't turn out to be a dream after all.
***
The door flies open with a loud bang that rattles through Max's bones.
He tries to get away, scrambling off the couch but he's too slow — his father's heavy hand wraps around his throat, pushing all the air out of Max's lungs.
Max begs his father to let go, scratching and thrashing in his arms, but all he can see in his father's cold hazy eyes is anger.
He is shaking, desperately trying to make his father let him go, gripping where his hands meet Max's neck.
He doesn't want to die, he doesn't want to die, please, he cries, but his father doesn't listen, squeezing his fingers harder.
"Max," his father says, hatred dripping from his voice.
Max chokes on his tears, chokes on the hands around his throat, frantically, desperately thrashing and fighting against the black spots swimming in his vision.
"Max," his father warns again, but Max doesn't listen.
Shaking, he uses the last shreds of his strength, grips his father's arms—
And wakes up, pushing GP aways from him. GP looks at him with wide, shocked eyes—
as he stumbles backwards, too drunk to keep his footing. His foot catches on something, and he falls, hitting the back of his head on the sharp corner of the table.
No.
No, no, nononononononono
Max crashes to his knees next to his father. His eyes are hazy and cold, watching him with—
concern. GP moves closer to him with hands held up like he is afraid Max will push him away again, but Max latches onto him, grips his shirt tight with his shaking fingers.
"I'm sorry," Max sobs, broken, as tears blurry his vision.
"I'm so sorry, please," he begs, hands frantically patting over his father's body, over the ugly gash in his head that keeps dripping hot blood onto Max’s fingers; over his chest, where his heart is beating faintly; over his hand, that has no strength to it at all as Max grips it tight, willing his father not to leave him.
"It's okay, you're okay, shh," GP keeps saying, holding Max tight in his arms.
Max shakes his head, face pressed into GP's t-shirt, getting it wet with his tears.
His father's eyes are not looking at him anymore, glossed over and staring into the ceiling with nothing in them. No anger, no hatred, nothing.
Max floats away from his body, watching himself shake and cry, curled in the corner next to his father's body—
curled up in GP's arms, head tucked into his chest. GP keeps rocking them back and forth as he rubs a hand over Max’s back, chanting,
"You're okay, you're okay, I'm here. Just breathe for me, just breathe."
"I'm sorry," Max says again, voice breaking as he keeps shaking and crying, and he still can't catch his breath, but he needs GP to know it, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry."
Because he didn't. As much as Max wanted his dad to disappear, to stop hurting him and yelling at him, he never wanted his dad to die — not like this.
But now his dad is dead, and it's Max's fault. He's ruined it, he always messes up, and does the wrong thing and says the wrong thing. He's ruined his father's life, and now he will ruin GP's life, because GP doesn't know that Max is bad, he took Max in and Max pushed him away.
"Shh, I know you didn't meant it, it's okay, I'm here," GP is saying softly, as Max keeps sobbing into his chest. "You're okay, I'm here."
Max wants to protest, wants to say that he is broken, but his stupid tongue is heavy again and he is still struggling to breathe. So he stays silent, shaking and sobbing into GP's chest, feeling small and childish, but not letting GP let go.
***
It takes Max a long time to calm down, but GP never stops holding him.
Pale morning sun seeps through the curtains, shining on both of them, curled up in the corner of the couch. Max takes a final, shuddering breath — he feels exhausted.
GP is fast asleep against him, arms still wound around him. Max should wake him up, should go to bed himself. But here, in GP's arms, he feels so safe — he doesn't remember ever feeling this way, not after they left his mom at least.
Maybe when GP wakes up, he will throw Max out or scold him for his tantrum, but it's a problem for later. Now, Max just wants to sleep.
He shuffles around until he's comfortable, head laying over GP's chest, covers them both with his blanket, and falls asleep.
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it's still so funny to me that fernando is both the guy that was most supportive of teen max being on the grid AND the guy that says "fuck them kids" every week. he has a favourite and is not afraid to show it
I like Kimi, I really do mainly because of Max liking him. Plus I hate Russell which is reason enough. But his fans are insufferable. They alone are making him so much less likeable in the community 😭
Hi anon 👋 I wish I had something more insightful to add. I'm honestly in the process of unpacking my feelings in regards to Kimi and it's not a done deal yet lol.
(this got sooooo long winded. i'm adding a read more 😊)
First I'll say that I don't really hate any of the drivers. Sometimes I get fully fucking done with one driver or another. George does fall into that category sometimes and Lando too tbh. Both of them lost a lot of points with me for their comments about Max and the regs during testing. And Neither of them impress me much in terms of racing, though I'll happily acknowledge that they are good and sometimes even great drivers. Anyway that was a lot of words to say I don't 'hate' any driver.
And then about the fans... I'm embarrassed to say that I do not engage with fans outside of my maxblr bubble. I learned early on last year during the 2025 season that I needed to just stick to my following page because the amount of Max hate coming from certain corners just fully bummed me out. And most of the times the takes were actually brain dead so even for intellectual honesty on my part there was nothing to be gained. I believe you that they are insufferable. I just don't know first hand. What I will say in regards to this is that I think there is overall some interesting things happening whenever Kimi gets valid criticism. People seem afraid to stand by it. I know this is a bit of a dead horse for me, but I was taken aback when Charles Leclerc apologized for the w2w comment he made about Kimi on the radio. When have drivers apologized about radio messages. I think the only time I've heard it is a driver to their engineer or team (ie Max to GP after he gets heated). I always assumed it was understood that those are heated moments and don't require any handwringing. Why did Charles apologize? He wasn't even wrong and it's an opinion. Is he not allowed to have an opinion on Kimi's wheel to wheel skill? Everyone and their dog on that grid has and has voiced their opinion on Max's 'aggressive' driving and no one apologized for that did they? Maybe I missed it?
Okay so now that I've already gotten long-winded like I always do on to what I'm trying to unpack. The thing is that there is a part of my negative feelings about Kimi are because I'm feeling protective of Max and his records. I hate it but yeah, that's a big part of it for me. Which is funny because I doubt Max is holding on to his records that dearly. He's looking ahead to the future ones he can break while having fun driving fast cars lol. So I keep that in mind when I think about Kimi... I'm feeling a little protective of Max.
But is there more to it? I think so. Let me say that the word 'deserve' isn't one I entertain really. You either win or you don't win. You either get a record or you don't. Kimi has won and has broken records. It's not about deserve or not deserve. However, that said, I think that the current state of affairs in F1 has broken a lot of what the sport should be about and it's bad not only for the sport, but I maintain, bad for Kimi as well. How is he developing as a driver when he is doing very little 'racing'. He's an incredible driver with an incredible skill set. He drives so smoothly and handles the car with a grace that is amazing at his age. But let's not forget that he logged a massive 9,000+ kilometers of private testing in a older spec Mercedes F1 car. That is unheard of for a rookie. By comparison Max did 400 kilometers. Ollie Bearman also did 400 km and Isack Hadjar did 471 km. I'm sure we'd find that the other rookies are similar. The only driver who comes close to Kimi is Lewis Hamilton who did 8,967.8 km (don't know how they know so precisely lol). Another Mercedes wunderkind. Interesting 🤔 What none of those private testing miles get you is wheel to wheel knowledge. His stint in F2 was marked unsurprisingly by amazing speed, but a lot of racing mistakes. Does Mercedes think they can just speed past his mistakes? Apparently they do. Is the strategy to just keep him in front? What happens if the W17 isn't the dominant car? Is Kimi prepared to race other hungry drivers to win? And more importantly has he been prepared mentally to push through loss? From what I can see right now... no, I don't think so. And it only makes me dislike Wolff even more. I really really distrust that man. I do not think he has Kimi's interests at heart.
So, yeah, like you I'll say right out loud. I like Kimi Antonelli. He seems like a sweet kid and I'm extremely glad to see a driver who can reach this level without having been abused into. I'd very much like to see that old trope die. No more Max is only good because his father kicked his ass. Ugh, that's ugly af and needs to die. But yeah, I like Kimi well enough. I don't appreciate his driving at the moment and literally cannot stand the comparisons to Max. I'm not going to apologize for that. It doesn't make me a bully. It doesn't make anyone a bully to say 'I don't like that driver.' My advice is to retreat to your bubble. This isn't politics or human rights or community or anything like that. This is a privilege I think you can safely take to protect your mental health that hurts no one 😊😊😊
Thanks for messaging and here's to hoping we get a Max victory very soon. Victoria en Barcelona!!!!
this is uhhhh a little bit of whatever. self-indulgent, quickly written. i'm slightly on the struggle bus rn. i feel the need to write something to make up for it all.
mostly below the cut
---
The swirling circuit around him is too familiar. A chill hangs over him even in the suffocating heat as he goes through all the motins like déjà vu—dizzy stumble in the garage, visor tinted dark, track swaying beneath him, lights too bright no matter what he does.
It hasn't been an issue in a while, his vision. It didn't completely fix itself after the season closed out in 2021, but time heals all wounds, and last year it had only popped up a couple of times, and only ever mildly, ground undulating in Austin, lights blinding in Bahrain. Some deep breaths, a clenched jaw, and he'd gotten through it. He always does.
The deep breaths aren't helping so much right now, though. And he's finding it hard to take them anyway—everything feeling like it's pressing in too close. The heat and the darkness and the bright lights. The memories.
Since they were last year's championship winners, Red Bull's motorhome is one to the left of where it was in 2021. So, technically, Max's driver's room isn't the same one, and the toilet he throws up into is different.
It still feels the same.
His head pounds the same, violence sitting close behind his eyes, where the lights drill in. His stomach churns just like it did, and its the same familiar bile that claws its way up his throat which he swallows down until he can't any longer. The world tilts on the same wrong axis, like it remembers all the places it shouldn't be and falls back into order. Maybe the Jeddah Max saw last year was the false one—maybe this, now, and before, is what's real.
Rationally, he knows he just has a flu. Knows it will pass, just like the vision issues did, Silverstone finally left behind in the dust. Knows he'll be able to push through it, just like he's pushed through illness many times before, and just like he's pushed through hell before here.
He'll push through. He always does.
The second step is the same as well. Too short. He's fallen too short again, and the trophy is too light and too heavy in his hold, arms trembling to keep it aloft but it should have been more. He should be stronger.
At least this time, the points aren't tied. Max fought like hell for that fastest lap, and he carries it with him as he winds his way back through the paddock, breathing deep, counting steady in his head. The champagne is too warm and sticky on his skin; it's too cold, chilling him to the bone.
Everything is too familiar. The porcelain resting against his forehead as he tries to gather the energy to flush his sickness away whispers welcome back.
And yet, everything is different now. He's a champion. He has his one-point lead clutched firmly in his grasp. And Copse Corner is long behind him, left in the dust.
Once he musters the strength to stand, he leaves the blinding desert lights of Jeddah behind him, too.
One thing always remains contstant, no matter when and where he is: He'll get through this. He always does.
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In the fear of sounding completely heartless, and not to make a competition, but what Kimi faced last year is not worse than what other drivers faced in their careers, especially in their rookie year. ESPECIALLY when they made mistakes like the championship contenders out. It’s unfortunate but it’s part of the job. Kimi was bullied by anonymous fans, not by teams, drivers, ex-drivers, journalists etc. He got an apology from Red Bull and the support of the fia and Mercedes (ironic yeah? Real life bullying is fine but online bullying is where they draw the line). More than what others can say. He is well protected.
Reminded that Toto Wolff gave his good friend Jos a call because max was interfering in the brocedes title fight too much.
Very quick, criminally unedited, malaise battling fic. Au snippet of Unstoppable. Fuck Wolff, fuck Mercedes. May they never know joy. Editing to add a tw: death of major chatacter
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. This wasn’t how the story was supposed to go. It had been years and years of planning and, sure, scheming if you wanted to be legalistic about it. When had Formula One not included scheming. They had gotten the ground effect era so tragically wrong. His once dominant, brilliant team reduced to second fiddle to a team created by a fizzy drink company of all things. The team was ridiculous. Christian Horner was ridiculous and fucking annoying. Max Verstappen was ridiculous and unobtainable. It all sat in his stomach like a tumor. Toto Wolff wasn’t about to get another regulation set wrong like that again and he wasn’t going to miss out on another rising star, another bright sun. So, yes, he schemed. In order to make sure he didn’t get the reg set wrong, he would make sure to influence its creation. He would know what it was before the FIA even realize what he’d influenced it to be. He signed Kimi right out of F2 without worrying about his lack of experience. Max hadn’t had enough single seater experience when Red Bull snatched him right out from under Toto. That was a lesson learned. Toto was very good at learning and applying that knowledge. He had his own wunderkind and he had a car that would take advantage of every single aspect of the regulations. It would be dominantly fast while always hiding its light under a bushel. Everything was set. But how could he plan for fate’s cruelty? How could he plan on cancer taking their brightest star before his cars couldn’t even challenge him? No one would ever care that his plans had yielded beautiful fruit. No one would care.
,
The news came just during the Singapore race week. Max Verstappen dead at twenty nine. Max Verstappen their jewel, their conscience, their court jester, their thorn, their villain, their hero, their bright north star was gone and the whole grid was left shell shocked. He was suppose to fight the cancer and win. That was how the story was supposed to go. Lewis Hamilton himself had given his young rival reasons to fight. But having a reason to fight didn’t always make you victorious. Hamilton should have known that better than anyone. Toto should have known. He also should have known you can win without being victorious. He should have known.
The rest of the season continued and Mercedes won both the drivers and constructors championships and no one cared. No one cared about that when the were forced week after week to look at the devastated faces of the Red Bull team past and present. Jonathan Wheatley had broken down in the middle of an interview in Brazil. David Coulthard left the commentary box when someone had unwisely compared Kimi to Max. It was too soon for that. It was too soon to even know. In Brazil every mechanic who had ever worked with Max walked the track together, desperate and broken, holding on to each as they cried. There was a hole in the sport. A Max Verstappen sized hole… no bigger. A black hole that seemed to be getting bigger.
Toto wanted to care. He wanted to be sad. He wanted to mourn, but the win had been his. It was what he’d traded his soul for and when Max died it was stolen from him. When they’d met to iron out the details of Verstappenracing partnering with Mercedes, Max had confessed that he hated that his first Drivers Championship title had an asterisk next to it in so many people’s minds. He thought he understood then what it must feel like, but no. Now, now he understands. No one will ever care that they won. No one will ever think about this season without thinking about what was lost, not what was won. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It wasn’t how the story was supposed to go.
I'm going to channel my malaise into writing. Either going to give Max all the joy he deserves or put him through the wringer so someone can comfort him. Or both. I haven't decided yet.
Apparently (according to autoracer) Red bull will be selected as the “benchmark” and are said to have the best ICE on the grid, there fore granting Mercedes 2% AUDO, Ferrari 4% and so one
AFTER TODAY WITH THE ICE FAILURE @/FIA REALLY?? WE’RE GIVHNG MERCEDES REASONS TO BE BETTER???
FIA once again showing that they are, indeed, a fucking clown organization.
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My husband is watching the full complete 2021 season. I could go into another room, but am I able to walk away when Max is racing? No obviously not. But last weekend was Silverstone and now we're watching Hungary. Ugh. Why does my partner want to cause me so much pain?
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