The air temp is only 90 degrees, but I'm a waterfall of sweat, making a human-shaped wet spot on my seat at the Sepang International Circuit. I'm hot and miserable; even my eyeballs, tongue, and the roof of my mouth are sweating. With 90 percent humidity, any personal excitement over popping my Formula 1 cherry has evaporated in the punishing heat of one practice lap.
This probably isn't the type of excitement you'd expect to hear about in a story detailing the planet's ultimate racing series in exotic Malaysia, but there isn't much excitement to speak of on qualifying day. With just a few diehards in the stands, it seems more like a preseason practice with the rare spectator reading newspapers or lazily fanning themselves in the heat. Besides, it's way too hot and sticky to be excited about anything but returning to my air-conditioned hotel room and dumping a bucket of ice cubes down my pants.
But I shouldn't complain, right? After all, I'm on a week-and-a-half-long, all-expenses-paid trip sponsored by Malaysia's Board of Tourism, and this is technically work. I guess I could be like thousands of my fellow countrymen, on the job in Afghanistan, Iraq, or some other god-forsaken hellhole, where its just as hot, just as humid, and the day's excitement isn't watching shrieking motor cars but dodging shrieking mortar shells. Whatever. I work for Sport Compact Car, and we complain about everything.
The Trip
Why am I here? Well, apparently the Malaysian government thinks that far too many young Americans spend their hard currency on happy endings, white-sand beaches, and cheap beer in nearby Thailand, so they devised this press junket in conjunction with the annual Formula 1 Grand Prix. Take that Phuket! They invited a few of my other tuner magazine colleagues and I on what was billed as the ultimate F1 trip, hoping that we'd be so impressed with the Malaysian motorsports orgy, we'd write the kind of stories that would entice legions of NASCAR fans to travel 17 hours to the land of fake Rolexes and durian.
So why the blasphemy, you ask? Who wouldn't give vital parts of their anatomy for a chance to perforate their eardrums to piercing, 140-decibel shrieks and inhale the pungent exhaust of the most highly developed engines in the world?
I did, at least for the first 3 minutes before the howling wails forced me to head to the concession stand for $5 foam earplugs. Call me a poser, but experiencing F1 racing live has already fallen well short of my hopes. Sure, it's only practice and qualifying, but aside from the out-of-this-world sounds, smells, and techno geekdom, F1 is no more entertaining than any other form of wheel-to-wheel circuit racing, only they do it with an unimaginable amount of money.
I'll be the first to admit that I'm not a diehard F1 fan and I may not be worthy of the seat I'm sweating on. But while I don't regularly stay up till 3 a.m. to watch a race, I have a healthy respect for the phenomenon and keep up more with its technology more than most race fans. From my complimentary seat (which is complimentary for a reason) here in the middle of a blind straight, the fantasy of F1 quickly disintegrates into staring through the ubiquitous fenced-off K-rails and the occasional colorful blur of something that looks like it's got four wheels flying by at over 150 mph. There isn't even a chance to make out which driver is in which car.
Then there is the real reason I'm here: I'm supposed to get a good story out of this. Our initial invite letter promised media passes, which would have no doubt made things a lot more interesting, though probably less relatable to the average Joe. But without a media pass, press pass, or even a hall pass, I'm stuck to this seating section with nothing to see but fences, empty pit garages, and 160-mph blurs. For a journalist used to unrestricted access and worried about the demands of a lunatic editor, the situation is beyond frustrating. The fact that I lugged $3,000 worth of camera gear for nothing is driven home when our tour guide shows us the infinitely better shots he got with his point and shoot from his vantage point on the outfield lawn.
Hot Import Nights
But let's focus on the positive, shall we? The race isn't for a few days, and even then it's just a three-hour conclusion to a weeklong carnival that lays siege to an entire city. From the minute you set foot into the airport, there is no question that the entire city is in the grips of Formula 1. Every kiosk, storefront, and walkway is bedazzled in the liveries of Ferrari, Renault, and on one occasion, Super Aguri Honda (although I'm not sure why.) In this sense, it's just like NASCAR, but in addition to the local drunks, fanatics, and drunken fanatics, you also get the pleasure of partying with belligerent Australians and Eurotrash who haven't stopped drinking since they left their hemisphere.
Just 40 minutes from the track is Malaysia's capital, Kuala Lumpur, or KL as the locals call it. It's the heart of the celebration and our hotel, right smack in the middle of downtown KL, is within walking distance of the massive twin Petronas towers. For the entire week preceding qualifying and the race, parties and events are planned throughout the city. And unlike the sweaty time at the track, it's a complete blast. The first night's excursion led us into an open-air club filled mostly with locals. But unlike any other club, just inside the entrance - past the swarm of scantily clad Ferrari girls passing out free swag and posing for pictures - sat a mock-up of Ferrari's 248 F1. After a few exorbitantly priced drinks, I don't remember much beyond trying to figure out which young lovely was in fact a lady-boy and eventually being chased out by a local Triad gangster, but I think Malaysia is my kind of place.
After three nights of partying, jet lag and sleep deprivation finally get the better of me, I collapse in a sweaty heap and begin to dream about F1 practice. At least I thought it was a dream until I was knocked back into consciousness by the repeated blares of actual race cars making wide-open throttle passes just under my hotel window at 4 in the morning. At this hour, logic slowly filters through, but as I stumble to the window, I recognize that these are real sounds but definitely not of F1 origin. Through my sleep-crusted eyes, I make out the shape of a McLaren F1 GTR Le Mans car and a BMW M1 Procar making a final dash past my window for the night. I find out the next morning that for the Malaysian GP, BMW flew in several historical race cars from das Vaterland to run parade laps through the downtown streets of KL. In a mid-afternoon tropical downpour the next day, these race-slick toting legends manage to put on a sometimes sideways show for the crowd. Maybe it's not something to be proud of, but not everyone can claim they've been splashed by a McLaren F1 GTR.