A Match Made in Heaven: F1 Comes to Sin City
Three-time champion and all-time stud Max Verstappen of Red Bull commented upon arrival, “it’s 99% show, 1% sporting event.”
Caesar’s and Nobu offered a $5M package for god-knows-what (a night with Max?), and Hooter’s hotel Oyo 10x’d their usual $15 nightly rate.
The roar of a car zooming past, tire bits and gas slapping fans in the face, the gloss of a newly polished Mercedes, the puffed pecks of a man in a Palace/Kappa x Alpine racing jacket, all under the blazing lights of the Vegas Strip.
Formula 1, the highest class of motor racing in the world, is a rite of passage for many a Rimowa-carrying loafer-donning man - Europe’s par excellence. Since its inaugural race some 70 years ago, flocks of ardent fans have journeyed around the world, watching sexy men in even sexier cars fight for the championship. This year however, all eyes turned from the glitzy circuit of Monaco to the Las Vegas Strip, the first time F1 returned to Sin City since its 1982 flop.
The choice of America’s entertainment capital for the season’s penultimate race was met with much criticism, from fans and participants alike. Three-time champion and all-time stud Max Verstappen of Red Bull commented upon arrival, “it’s 99% show, 1% sporting event.” Seven-time champion and streetwear icon Lewis Hamilton of Mercedes, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself, using the circuit as his personal catwalk.
Leading up to the event, hotels along the Strip launched their prices into the stratosphere. Caesar’s and Nobu offered a $5M package for god-knows-what (a night with Max?), and Hooter’s hotel Oyo 10x’d their usual $15 nightly rate. Vegas’s hottest clubs stacked their weekend with A-list headliners - Dom Dolla, Major Lazer, A-Trak, Calvin Harris, and Rüfüs Du Sol, among others. Race tickets sold for thousands, with the Paddock Club, the most elite of sections, boasting a price tag of $22,800 per ticket.
Opening night was a show — Heidi Klum showed up topless, while Keith Urban and J Balvin levitated, singing above the Strip. Justin Bieber waved a checkered flag while Rihanna and A$AP Rocky watched nearby, both sporting Ferrari red.
Together, F1 and Vegas were selling status, their own version of the American dream.
In the first two days, the sport persevered through its own apparent hangover. Practice was pushed to 2:30am on Thursday night after a drain cover hit a car, cold Eggos were served by Wolfgang Puck (reminiscent of Fyre Festival’s cheese sandwiches) and hours before the main race, track marshals scrambled to clean up an oil spill. In the meantime, swarms of people moved from the north side to the south side of the Strip, valiantly battling to get to their seats or to find a hole in the barricade covers to catch a glimpse of the track. What should have been a forty-minute walk from one end of the Strip to the other was transformed into a two-hour Odyssey mazing through casinos — exactly what the city would have intended.
The spectacle was messy, chaotic, and extreme — yet also utterly mesmerizing.
At 10pm a glossy Donny Osmond sang the national anthem, and moments later 20 cars were off to the races blazing through the Strip at 200mph. For all the flak it received, the Las Vegas circuit allowed for 18 overtakes during the 50-lap race and a competitive fight between the three front-runners as they vied for first position. For a little under two-hours, Vegas pulsed with the sounds of roaring cars, the great American Sphere blazing in the background, and 350K spectators hyped up on Red Bulls and other substances. The whole thing was exhilarating.
“For all those who said it was all about the show, Vegas proved them wrong,” Hamilton reflected post race, “this has provided a better race than most of the tracks we go to.” Many drivers and team principals echoed Hamilton, with Red Bull principle Christian Horner commenting, “Las Vegas delivered one of the best races of the year, if not the best race of the year. Hopefully that is igniting the interest of the American public to F1.”
In the end, the race was Vegas’s ultimate show. Spectacle or sporting event, it was fueled by exhilarating adrenaline — the roar of a car zooming past, tire bits and gas slapping fans in the face, the gloss of a newly polished Mercedes, the puffed pecks of a man in a Palace/Kappa x Alpine racing jacket, all under the blazing lights of the Vegas Strip.
Vegas is honest when it comes to its search for immediate gratification — for money, sex, power, glory. F1 is not far off, pumped up on its own status symbols, it too searches for the rush. The two are not that different, but in fact, made for one another.
The choice of America’s entertainment capital for the season’s penultimate race was met with much criticism, from fans and participants alike. Three-time champion and all-time stud Max Verstappen of Red Bull commented upon arrival, “it’s 99% show, 1% sporting event.” Seven-time champion and streetwear icon Lewis Hamilton of Mercedes, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself, using the circuit as his personal catwalk.
Leading up to the event, hotels along the Strip launched their prices into the stratosphere. Caesar’s and Nobu offered a $5M package for god-knows-what (a night with Max?), and Hooter’s hotel Oyo 10x’d their usual $15 nightly rate. Vegas’s hottest clubs stacked their weekend with A-list headliners - Dom Dolla, Major Lazer, A-Trak, Calvin Harris, and Rüfüs Du Sol, among others. Race tickets sold for thousands, with the Paddock Club, the most elite of sections, boasting a price tag of $22,800 per ticket.
Opening night was a show — Heidi Klum showed up topless, while Keith Urban and J Balvin levitated, singing above the Strip. Justin Bieber waved a checkered flag while Rihanna and A$AP Rocky watched nearby, both sporting Ferrari red.
Together, F1 and Vegas were selling status, their own version of the American dream.
In the first two days, the sport persevered through its own apparent hangover. Practice was pushed to 2:30am on Thursday night after a drain cover hit a car, cold Eggos were served by Wolfgang Puck (reminiscent of Fyre Festival’s cheese sandwiches) and hours before the main race, track marshals scrambled to clean up an oil spill. In the meantime, swarms of people moved from the north side to the south side of the Strip, valiantly battling to get to their seats or to find a hole in the barricade covers to catch a glimpse of the track. What should have been a forty-minute walk from one end of the Strip to the other was transformed into a two-hour Odyssey mazing through casinos — exactly what the city would have intended.
The spectacle was messy, chaotic, and extreme — yet also utterly mesmerizing.
At 10pm a glossy Donny Osmond sang the national anthem, and moments later 20 cars were off to the races blazing through the Strip at 200mph. For all the flak it received, the Las Vegas circuit allowed for 18 overtakes during the 50-lap race and a competitive fight between the three front-runners as they vied for first position. For a little under two-hours, Vegas pulsed with the sounds of roaring cars, the great American Sphere blazing in the background, and 350K spectators hyped up on Red Bulls and other substances. The whole thing was exhilarating.
“For all those who said it was all about the show, Vegas proved them wrong,” Hamilton reflected post race, “this has provided a better race than most of the tracks we go to.” Many drivers and team principals echoed Hamilton, with Red Bull principle Christian Horner commenting, “Las Vegas delivered one of the best races of the year, if not the best race of the year. Hopefully that is igniting the interest of the American public to F1.”
In the end, the race was Vegas’s ultimate show. Spectacle or sporting event, it was fueled by exhilarating adrenaline — the roar of a car zooming past, tire bits and gas slapping fans in the face, the gloss of a newly polished Mercedes, the puffed pecks of a man in a Palace/Kappa x Alpine racing jacket, all under the blazing lights of the Vegas Strip.
Vegas is honest when it comes to its search for immediate gratification — for money, sex, power, glory. F1 is not far off, pumped up on its own status symbols, it too searches for the rush. The two are not that different, but in fact, made for one another.
