<p>Broken limbs and not-yet-fully mended fractures and dislocations tell the tale of many a misadventure in my youth. Thrill and fulfilment came easily; the adrenaline rush needed no big push.</p>.<p>Growing up in Trivandrum (Thiruvananthapuram) in the 1970s, death-defying stunts were the farthest from my mind. For us, heroic challenges didn't require skydiving. Attempting to climb a coconut tree - <em>a la</em> Jahnvi Kapoor - epitomised courage! </p>.<p>Like most children my age, sports was equated to football and cricket, we always wondered what drew people to extreme sports. We were largely oblivious to the existence of Formula 1 — an extreme sport that challenges the limits of human capabilities. Our exposure was limited to glossy photographs of tiny cars and drivers in full-body race suits in foreign magazines. Niki Lauda or Alain Prost were virtually unknown. All this changed when the charismatic Brazilian Ayrton Senna took the world by storm in the late eighties. </p>.<p>India waited until the mid-nineties for the live telecast of Formula 1. Slowly, small pockets of urban India — by then I had moved to Bengaluru — developed a taste for the thrill of the sport. In Bengaluru, on race day, many thronged pubs and sat transfixed to screens showing cars doing relentless laps at blinding speeds. It wasn't egalitarian like football — there were technical details and technology to absorb. By and large, it was a rich man’s sport, and watching it, the pastime of the well-heeled. It also required some learning, which didn't excite me much. </p>.<p>Estimates today put the F1 fan base in India at a staggering 60 million, with three-fourths under the age of 35 — a far cry from the nineties. </p>.<p>The answer to why some take to an extreme sport, risking their lives and limbs, evaded me — until last week, when I heard Pedro De La Rosa, one of the most experienced test drivers ever. </p>.<p>Pedro, a Spanish veteran of over 100 Grand Prix across fifteen years, insists he has never retired from the sport — once a driver, always a driver, or so he says — and at 54 remains ready to zip just in case anyone needs him to burn the rubber. So who better to look back and tell us the draw of the sport? </p>.<p>“If I would have known so much as I know now when I started, I would have never become a Formula 1 driver. I think you have to be a bit naive to become a Formula 1 driver in the sense that you are very brave. You don’t see anything as a problem.”</p>.<p>Lance Stroll, the promising young talent less than half Pedro's age, who sat by his side, threw his head back, and laughed heartily, saying the older man couldn’t have said it better. </p>.<p>The reason transcends generations — a certain inexplicable courage wrapped in naivety that nothing could go wrong is what it takes.</p><p><em>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.</em></p>
<p>Broken limbs and not-yet-fully mended fractures and dislocations tell the tale of many a misadventure in my youth. Thrill and fulfilment came easily; the adrenaline rush needed no big push.</p>.<p>Growing up in Trivandrum (Thiruvananthapuram) in the 1970s, death-defying stunts were the farthest from my mind. For us, heroic challenges didn't require skydiving. Attempting to climb a coconut tree - <em>a la</em> Jahnvi Kapoor - epitomised courage! </p>.<p>Like most children my age, sports was equated to football and cricket, we always wondered what drew people to extreme sports. We were largely oblivious to the existence of Formula 1 — an extreme sport that challenges the limits of human capabilities. Our exposure was limited to glossy photographs of tiny cars and drivers in full-body race suits in foreign magazines. Niki Lauda or Alain Prost were virtually unknown. All this changed when the charismatic Brazilian Ayrton Senna took the world by storm in the late eighties. </p>.<p>India waited until the mid-nineties for the live telecast of Formula 1. Slowly, small pockets of urban India — by then I had moved to Bengaluru — developed a taste for the thrill of the sport. In Bengaluru, on race day, many thronged pubs and sat transfixed to screens showing cars doing relentless laps at blinding speeds. It wasn't egalitarian like football — there were technical details and technology to absorb. By and large, it was a rich man’s sport, and watching it, the pastime of the well-heeled. It also required some learning, which didn't excite me much. </p>.<p>Estimates today put the F1 fan base in India at a staggering 60 million, with three-fourths under the age of 35 — a far cry from the nineties. </p>.<p>The answer to why some take to an extreme sport, risking their lives and limbs, evaded me — until last week, when I heard Pedro De La Rosa, one of the most experienced test drivers ever. </p>.<p>Pedro, a Spanish veteran of over 100 Grand Prix across fifteen years, insists he has never retired from the sport — once a driver, always a driver, or so he says — and at 54 remains ready to zip just in case anyone needs him to burn the rubber. So who better to look back and tell us the draw of the sport? </p>.<p>“If I would have known so much as I know now when I started, I would have never become a Formula 1 driver. I think you have to be a bit naive to become a Formula 1 driver in the sense that you are very brave. You don’t see anything as a problem.”</p>.<p>Lance Stroll, the promising young talent less than half Pedro's age, who sat by his side, threw his head back, and laughed heartily, saying the older man couldn’t have said it better. </p>.<p>The reason transcends generations — a certain inexplicable courage wrapped in naivety that nothing could go wrong is what it takes.</p><p><em>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.</em></p>
