#cid.ask

God is not with Charles, but he is god. - Max Verstappen

This man has earned his martyrdom through the acts of a demon. If he showed up at Scuderia Italian-Catholic Suffering Team HQ with actively bleeding stigmata nobody would bat a fucking eyelash. He is incredibly cringe and completely intolerable but also deserves to be carved out of marble with utmost care so that humanity, centuries on, can marvel at the inexplicable beauty of il Predestinato. He has the face of an angel, the past of a Greek tragedy, and the present of a modern myth in the making. His stupid Nahmias wine mom pants looked so bad that people forgot Lewis wore the whole fit and pulled it off. He thinks that, with enough celibacy and cold showers, he can overcome the labyrinthine Stellantis corporate clusterfuck that won’t let him win. He is nouveau riche and tacky about it while also being the very picture of timeless elegance. He’s everything to everyone and a wisp of smoke on the breeze that’s constantly in danger of quietly dispersing into nothingness. Either way, he is impossible to grasp. He is an idea. An ideal. Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc is, above all, a story. And stories are not real and cannot hurt us.

I would drink this man’s ice bath water. I can, will, and have gone to war for him. He is the methodical sleeper assassin of the paddock. He will make you love him and he will use it to his advantage and you literally will not give any part of a fuck the second you look into his big, brown eyes.

I’m fully bought into the Sainz family ecosystem (omg have you SEEN their HOUSE? Obsessed.) Papa Sainz’s career is a hell of a lot to try to live up to, and so is that of his lil protégée Fernando Alonso (ever heard of him?) but GODDAMNIT Carlos is gonna try. Every time it seemed like he’d be out of F1, he’s locked his jaw and held on by his TEETH, and now he drives for FERRARI (yes they are clowns but it’s still a big deal ok.)

These motherfuckers DO NOT QUIT. El Matador is out here driving the Dakar at 60, flipping his Audi, then making the medical helicopter TURN AROUND because he wants to get back in the race. That’s the stock Carlos comes from.

Mick has the potential to be such an interesting character, and yet he chooses to be a heavily media trained golden retriever. And for what?! He’s got a great body. He’s haunted. He’s traumatized.* All the makings of a blorbo are there, but he just can’t quite put it all together — much like his performance behind the wheel.

As someone who went into the same field as their very successful father and is doing only ok at it, I feel for him. Except my father is only mildly googleable. He’s Michael Schumacher’s kid! Like what the fuck are you supposed to do with that?