What is your goal?

The rain was pounding heavily, each drop beating a tattoo on the cockpit of the racing yacht in which Alexi and I were sitting and waiting. According to the weather forecast, it was a beautiful and sunny day, with a light to medium Mistral, ideal for sailing. Yet, we were freezing, stuck and docked at Port Cap d'Ail. The silence was broken by a cell phone ping.

“Formula One is taking place in Monaco this weekend!” Alexi looked at me joyfully.

“And?” I asked without much interest.

“Sir Keith has let us know that invitations for Sunday are waiting for us. He says that we should relax for a little bit. You know, he’s a member of…”

Naturally, as a respected figure in high society, Sir Keith was a member of all kinds of organisations and clubs, and could have dealt with anything. Not only did he believe in Alexi more than he believed in himself, but he also believed in some other pretty bizarre things. Anyway, this was great news. It was still raining, but somehow the torrential downpour suddenly seemed much much less daunting.

On Sunday, I suggested an early start, thinking that if McLaren was going to host us, they would provide warm food and cold drinks. Living and training on a racing yacht excluded both, therefore Sunday would be a doubly pleasurable experience.

We were warmly welcomed. The receptionist handed us our passes and sponsorship goodie bags at the main reception desk. Then an attentive hostess escorted us to the McLaren Paddock Club and seated us at a table in pole position, right next to the terrace. Three tall leather chairs were placed around the table which was covered by a silk tablecloth embroidered with the restaurant emblem, and laid with tiny cutlery, more suited to the seven dwarfs. The track and boxes were right in front of us, and a table with food and drinks less than six feet away. We put on sponsor T-shirts and took our starting grid positions.

Life is beautiful!

With a little less than two hours until the beginning of the race, our bellies full and drinks in our hands, we sat and watched all of the pre-race activity in the pits and around the track. The remaining five tables were already occupied by the British jet set on a weekend in Monaco.

I noticed that among the old money, people greeted each other with careful restraint, nodding and bowing politely. The nouveau riche were much more ebullient, slapping each other on the back, air kissing and loudly calling each other ‘darling’.

Alexi was born into this life and as we emulated the more discreet greeting ritual, I started to feel at home. My late Granny used to say that it was easy to get used to the good things in life! I even passed a piece of cheese to a highly-groomed poodle belonging to a woman dripping in diamonds, sitting at the next table. I think she smiled at me, but it was hard to tell as not a muscle in her face moved.

Ah, the life of high-society Brits!

Gazing around the room I spotted a shy young fellow leaning against the back wall, as if glued there. He was wearing a pass that looked very similar to ours around his neck. I caught Alexi’s attention and nodded towards the young guy and then at the third chair at our table. Alexi beckoned the hostess, who immediately came over.

“My dear, would you be so kind as to ask that young chap over there to join us? We have a spare chair anyway and I see that the view is not particularly good from where he is standing.”

Apart from a slight raising of her right eyebrow to indicate she didn’t approve of this idea, our hostess was the consummate professional. No doubt she had been given different instructions, but the request came from a VIP guest, invited by none other than Sir Keith Mills himself. She approached the fellow, whispered something in his ear, after which he joined us with a polite greeting. Alexi offered him the seat, inviting him to watch the race with us.

“Young man, would you like a drink, maybe a ginger ale or a Martini?”

“Thank you very much, Sir, but I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Pineapple or pear juice, perhaps?”

“Pineapple please, thank you.”

While Alexi’s craggy, weather-beaten appearance could be a little overwhelming at first sight, he always exudes such a warmth of personality that within minutes people are drawn to his lively enthusiasm and positivity. In his company, the young chap soon relaxed and revealed to us that he liked racing as well as football and karate, that he enjoyed fish and chips, and the sunny weather here, and that his father called him every day to check up on him. He showed up at the Paddock Club because, as a member of McLaren’s Young Driver programme, he had been sent to watch the race from there. His instructions were to stay in the background, against the wall, and not to bother any of the guests.

Alexi shook his head and asked him about his driving progress and his plans for the future.

“Currently, I’m driving Formula 3. If that goes well, I might move one step further one day.”

I jumped in, looking the little fellow straight in the eye.

“Great! So tell us, what is your goal?”

He paused, first looked at his arms folded in front of him and then at his half-empty glass of pineapple juice. 

“One day I’d like to be a Formula 1 driver.”

He shrank for a moment, as if petrified at revealing his ambition.

“Hey, you can do better than that! Come on, lad, convince me!

He took a few moments, had a sip of the pineapple juice, smiled reluctantly and responded in a subdued voice.

“I’d like to hold the Formula 1 title.”

As the boy uttered these words, he lowered his eyes again, and started to fiddle nervously with his pass.

“Is that the best you can do?! Listen to my mate, Alexi here, telling us his goal!”

At that, Alexi’s mouth opened in a wide grin. He swelled up with pride and blurted out:

“I’m Alex Thomson and I’ll be the greatest ever solo round-the-world skipper!”

While Alex’s words resounded around us, the little guy took a deep breath, his eyes flashed and colour rose in his cheeks. He gave us the most beautiful look in the world.

“I’m Lewis Hamilton and I’ll be the best Formula 1 driver of all times!”