The Car Park
The other side of the glamour
Not everyone who works at a Formula One team is a car enthusiast. To some people a car is just a mode of transport. Of course there are plenty of enthusiasts too, and among a sea of Vauxhalls and Nissans, there are often some impressive bits of metal.
Working in F1 can pay well, but the people come from all walks of life and all situations. The car park reflects this in ways that aren’t obvious unless you know what you’re looking for.
Contracting or freelancing is common in the industry, particularly because of the historically seasonal nature of the work. The winter build is especially hectic and teams recruit contractors to manage the workload without adding permanently to the headcount.
Contract work pays well - extra remuneration to cover the lack of holiday pay and the job security that can disappear with a week’s notice. I contracted for many years and genuinely loved the honesty of it. If you’re good, you stay. If you’re not, you go. You don’t ask permission for holidays, you don’t get drawn into workplace politics. Clock in, do good work, clock out and go home.
Some people don’t go home though.
The contracting world has a dark underbelly I’ve never quite made my peace with. A combination of being away from home, a fairly large wage arriving weekly, and the knowledge that you can pick up your tools and leave on a Friday and start somewhere else the following Monday. It’s a recipe for instability.
It’s extraordinary when you think about it. The cars you watch hurtling around circuits on a Sunday are built not only by bright and sensible engineers but also by people carrying enormous personal problems - people whose lives look nothing like the glossy image of the sport they’re helping to create. Some of the most experienced contractors I’ve worked alongside have been doing this for twenty or thirty years. They are genuinely exceptional at their jobs. They are also struggling with everything outside them.
And a genuinely shocking number of them sleep in their cars outside the factory. Sometimes a camper van. Sometimes just a reclined hatchback seat and a jacket for a blanket. The signs are there if you know what to look for. A familiar face in the locker room at 6am with a toothbrush, a microwave meal spinning in the canteen at nine o’clock at night, or a knackered old 5 series with steamed up windows.
I once nearly ran out of fuel on the way home from a trip to the seaside and had to sleep outside a Sainsbury’s in King’s Lynn until the petrol station opened the following morning. It was deeply uncomfortable and I’ve never forgotten it. I have a strange respect for people who do this as a regular feature of their working week. And alongside that respect, a genuine sadness.
The ability to show up for a fifteen hour shift having spent the previous evening in the pub until last orders and the rest of the night in a car park is, objectively, impressive. I couldn’t do it. I know I couldn’t do it.
The substance misuse, the alcohol dependency, the broken marriages, the unusual sleeping arrangements - they’re all more common than the sport would ever acknowledge. One place I’ve worked has a name for what happens to people who stay too long in the wrong version of this industry. They call it the Carbon Curse. It deserves its own post and it will get one.
Contractors are some of the best workers I’ve ever stood alongside. No team gets a car to the grid without them. But there’s a sentence I keep coming back to when I think about this world: they keep Formula One afloat while their own lives are slowly sinking.
I fell into some of the easy money traps myself, spending freely on things I didn’t need, enjoying the freedom of weekly pay without thinking too hard about what came next. I managed to stay out of the pub after shifts and I’ve never slept outside a factory. But I understand how it happens. The industry makes it easy.
Contracting is an excellent way into a fulfilling career in Formula One. My honest advice if you go that route is to treat it as a stepping stone, not a lifestyle.
And whatever you do, don’t bring your sleeping bag.
Next time: What happens on The Night Shift.
— David Whitmore