Motorsport can be glamourous, very glamourous indeed if one is in the right place at the right time.
It is best noted, however, that much of the glamour foisted upon television screens is merely a sexy cover – a pretty dodge to deflect.
Dazzling models are neatly draped across cars and broadcasts in a misplaced effort to sell motorsport as sex with legs; old time misogyny living in the modern world, although that is no surprise. One does not have to look far to point the misogyny finger at other professional sports.
Glamour is rarely the rule of course. Behind every great victory is a mechanic checking tyre pressure or an engineer poring over some body panel or aerodynamic piece. Rarely do these tasks occur under bright lights and glitter and they are often far away from the scantily clad, the rich and the beautiful.
These tasks are so often tough, filthy and tiring, requiring long hours and dedication and when one is washing wheels at two in the morning, you know the passion stretches beyond shades of champagne. There are no five-star hotels here, nor is one surrounded by trophy girlfriends or well-made acquaintances in impossible clothes, who laugh politely at poor jokes.
In the shade and in the cold is where some of the true love for motorsport resides, because passion never requires glitter and it certainly does not need glamour.
