Outside Line: When I say Formula 1 is my religion, I mean it

I was brought up Catholic. I know what religion feels like. I felt the Holy Spirit, and I believed with all my heart during communion and confirmation. I was God-respecting. But even then, I questioned. How does one loaf feed a multitude? How does blind belief silence doubt? Still, I went along because the priest said: “You’ve got to have faith, son.” And I did.

Then I became a photojournalist. I saw the world for what it really is, raw, filthy, broken and full of misery. Children suffering I found unbearable. I saw things no god could justify. I thought, if He were here, He’s departed. If there was a divine plan, it sure as hell didn’t include the places I’d seen. So I ditched religion. Dust to dust. Atheist for life.

I thought I lost my religion, but I did not. I was looking in the wrong places when, in fact, I have been living it for as long as I can remember. The 1971 South African Grand Prix, to be precise, was when the Holy Spirit plucked me to racing salvation.

Two years later, I was gifted a book on the 1973 Formula 1 season, and since then, almost every Grand Prix has been my pilgrimage. If I wasn’t there with a camera slung over my shoulder, I was watching, reading, consuming everything live or in the wake of each weekend. Nothing has changed.

The ritual remains. Friday begins my Formula 1 Sabbath, the start of my holy weekend. Practice sessions are my bible classes. Saturday is qualifying, sacred, pure, untouchable. That’s when our gods of speed reveal themselves to the congregation. The Pope is the dude to beat. [We’re a competitive bunch!]

How many Saturdays have you jumped with joy, or thumped a fist in despair, or just gathered your jaw after it dropped a foot or two? The emotions and passion you would think twice before unleashing in public often flare during this aperitif for the main service.

Which is, of course, Sunday mass, the Grand Prix. The altar is the podium, the hymns are engines, and the communion is when the chequered flag waves and all are safe and well from battle. That’s the culmination of my faith.

Rewind your movie in your mind's eye: How can we forget the marvellous Sundays? The Sundays of coronations: Hamilton, Alonso, Vettel, Rosberg, Button, Schumacher, Prost, Scheckter, Stewart, Hunt, Lauda, Andretti, Piquet, Rosberg and Rosberg, Villeneuve, Fittipaldi, Jones, Mansell, Hill, all champions, the Popes who have reigned since Formula 1’s holy spirit descended on me. Some beautiful Sundays of pure, delirious beauty.

But on the other side of the coin, your movie will show, like all religions, there has been massive darkness and sadness in Formula 1. Many of us watched Ayrton Senna rise, rule, and perish on a Sunday.

How many Sundays have you and I had that tore our hearts out? The Sunday Ayrton died before our eyes, I cried. Many of you did too. I was at Kyalami on the Sunday Tom Pryce was killed. I photographed Martin Donnelly surviving a huge, death-defying shunt at Jerez.

And many more, including friends who died racing, albeit not in Formula 1. Those days carved scars into our souls, and I only hope that one day we can meet up again in our racing heaven, as there is a ton of unfinished business to catch up on.

Death spawned a time when I nearly abandoned my religion. For years after that horrid weekend at Imola, it was hard to love Formula 1 for me. I cooled on it until Pope Lewis Hamilton reignited the flame of belief, which Max Verstappen now carries with such grandeur.

I admit, when watching a Grand Prix these days, I’m still the young boy waiting for the lights to go out, sitting in front of the TV, gossiping with my WhatsApp brethren, gearing up for the race at hand, our Sunday mass. Our religion. It’s beautiful. It’s sanity.

In our church, the World Champion is the Pope. The grid is the College of Cardinals. The priests are the engineers, mechanics, strategists, the guardians of the parishes. And we, the fans and media, are the faithful. We gather in front of our TVs or on grandstands at our Cathedrals and Temples of Speed to worship.

Currently, we are witnessing the Pope of Formula 1, Max Verstappen, rewriting our holy scriptures. He is on his way to becoming one of the greatest Popes in our sport. His dominance will be etched into our sacred texts forever.

As was the case this century with Michael Schumacher, Lewis Hamilton, Sebastian Vettel, Fernando Alonso and the other World Champions who have contributed to the gospel of our sport.

Our religion has branches of our doctrine spread to our close brothers and sisters of the religions that are MotoGP, WEC, WRC, DTM and every series down to grassroots karting. The admiration should be mutual. We are all related by the racing that pumps through our blood.

What’s the endgame of our faith? Heaven, of course. Formula 1 heaven. No queues, no traffic, no problems. Just clouds shaped like racetracks.

Who is our God? The One who first said: “Let’s sit in this car, drive as fast as we can and see who is the quickest.” He or They created our world, of which Formula 1 became the crown jewel. Let He or Them be a mystery, like all good religions. Some uncertainty is captivating.

And beneath them sits the Holy Trinity, Fangio, Senna, Villeneuve (Gilles, of course). My eternal three. You may have your own trio, your own pantheon. And in our Formula 1 heaven, unlike here on the planet of the apes, you are free to make choices.

When I arrive at the gates of that heaven, I’ll find my Formula 1 cloud and sit among my people, the Formula 1 lifers, the dreamers, the ones who bled for the sport, and were captivated by it at the same time. Access all areas, to every driver I never met but wished I had, and to the ones I met but not for long enough. No security gorillas!

That’s my heaven. That’s my faith. So when I say Formula 1 is my religion, I mean it. Those who know, know. Some may say: “Get a life!” They don’t get it. And I don't care. Others could decide: “Velasco, you are a nutcase!” Steep, when their crowd punts a “virgin gave birth to a child” narrative. Seriously?

In closing, with that all in mind, I cite divine inspiration when I pen posts like this one or this older one ;-)