Lazy Thoughts from the Grass Line: Watching the United States Grand Prix Live

There’s not much to say about the United States Grand Prix races that hasn’t already been said. The McLarens taking each other out on the Saturday sprint received praise on social media, considering it karma after winning the Constructors’ Championship in Singapore. Max Verstappen delivering a near-perfect performance (only missing out on the coveted fastest lap) put the Dutchman back in serious contention for the World Drivers’ Championship— his 5th consecutive if he manages to pull it off. And so on.

So this week, I’m going to do something different. Why? Well, because this race was different for me. It was the first time I got to go to a Grand Prix in person. I didn’t have to rely on livestreams or Twitter or glitchy data updates— I could see the action in the flesh; the sound of engines shaking the air out of my body (and inverting my umbrella).

It’s a field report from the grass. A love letter for the sport. A review of the GA pass for the Circuit of the Americas. Whatever you think fits best. Let’s get it going:

I designated Friday as my “exploration day”— a day to see and experience as much of COTA as possible before the real chaos began. I arrived early, dust already clinging to my boots, weaving past overpriced merch stands and half-finished rides for the yet-to-be-completed COTALAND amusement park. Every person and party seemed to be in their own little world, decked in their Red Bull caps or McLaren shirts or even using their Ferrari flags as a cape.

By the time I reached the hill by Turn 1, the early afternoon sun was ruthless. But I stood in the Texas heat, observing the pre-free practice preparations. Track marshals moved like clockwork on the heavy asphalt, checking everything to ensure the circuit was in tip-top condition. And then at high noon, the sole free practice of the weekend was underway.

When you watch Formula 1 in person, it’s not the sight that gets you, but the sound. The first engine note slices through the air like a warning, and the vibration stays in your chest long after the car disappears. Without commentary or graphics, you rely on instinct and the crowd’s reactions: you cheer when someone nails a corner, gasp when someone hits the barrier, and murmur as the gravel flies. Everyone knows what they came for: some for noise, some for nostalgia, and some, like me, to feel it all firsthand.

As the session wrapped up, the cars returned to the pits one by one, leaving behind only the smell of rubber and heat distortion above the tarmac. The silence that followed was almost jarring, like waking up from a fever dream. But the day wasn’t over yet.

With time to kill before Sprint Qualifying, I took the long trek from Turn 1 to back where I started— Turn 11 by the parking lots. Why? Partly because I’d found a surprisingly good viewing angle there, partly because I had dinner plans and needed an easy exit. Naturally, that’s where I noticed how scorched the sun made me. I thought I had prepared with strong sunscreen and plenty of water, but I forgot how unforgiving the October Texas sun can be.

The little I saw of Sprint Qualifying, however, made the heat feel irrelevant. The crowd shifted from restless to electric the moment engines fired up again. Every cheer and jeer rippled through the stands like shared voltage. Even from my distant perch at Turn 11, I could feel the tension coil with each lap— trying to set the fastest time to get that advantage for Saturday.

Even when I was on the way back to the hotel, I was captivated by it. So much so I had a friend live-message me the updates as I wove through the parking lot traffic, half-watching the sunset burn orange over the circuit. Every ping on my phone carried the same energy I’d just left behind. And it was just the start of the weekend…

By the second day, the COTA crowds were greater. You could feel it the moment you entered the track. The sound of engines warming bled into conversation, into laughter, into the friction of movement. Every fan was a spark in a larger combustion.

The sprint format accelerated everything. It was like someone had taken the long, indulgent pacing of a standard race weekend and replaced it with caffeine. Even the air felt impatient, constantly threatening to blow the umbrella I brought to prevent my sunburns from getting worse away.

I watched from the hill at Turn 1 as the lights went out. The climb up that corner has kind of a mythic quality in person— steeper than you assume and the kind of incline that humbles even the most confident driver. And it was at that turn that Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri collided, taking both top two WDC front-runners out of the race.

The moment Lando’s McLaren limped to a stop, the crowd erupted in something primal. For a second, nobody seemed to breathe. But then the noise became something half disbelief, half bloodlust. Even I felt it. That electric pull that happens when the dominant team collapses in front of you.

People around me were already turning to each other, narrating theories before the debris had even cleared. A guy behind me joked that he could predict the future. And then, it hit me how different the sprint looks in person. The broadcast never quite captures it— the small hesitations, the twitch before a late brake, the invisible weight the drivers carry when the crowd’s roar isn’t for them. You realize the humanity beneath the machinery when you watch it live.

By the end of the sprint, the field had settled… but the quiet after was almost louder than the race itself. People lingered, as if waiting for some reversal that never came. I walked back toward the exit, sunburned and dizzy from the noise, thinking about that collision once again.

I got extraordinarily lucky with qualifying, at least in my opinion. The first session began right as I was in line to buy some more water, eager to avoid the continuously growing lines for bottle refills. And just as I twisted the cap open, the red flag was waved. Isack Hadjar had spun off the track.

I froze mid-sip. The timing was absurd— the moment I looked away from the track, the track looked away from me. And there I was, drinking water, while the circuit erupted. And all I could do in the moment was take the time to find a better view.

While waiting for the session to restart, the heat seemed to rise again. I scanned the sky and watched the track crews work under that orange-glow twilight. I felt an odd exhilaration. It was like I’d been given a moment of distance before the engines screamed again. And that distance helped me appreciate Max Verstappen’s pole position finish even more.

But the weekend wasn’t over yet.

I situated myself on Turn 15 for the race proper. I was told the patch of grass near the grandstands would give me both the high vantage and the crowd depth I needed. And it did. From there, I could watch the cars slice across the stadium section, see the back-straight feed into Turn 12, and sense the cars coming downhill. It was the perfect spot despite the harshness of the sun.

When the lights went out, I didn’t even hear them — I felt them. The crowd exhaled, and everything surged. I watched the field stream toward me, but I was watching more than them. I was watching my own reactions. And I was watching the crowd, how they cheered and booed whenever Charles Leclerc overtook Lando Norris and vice versa.

Halfway through, there was a subtle shift. A vibration behind the roar. A murmuring in the crowd as Red Bull Racing flashed into view ahead of their perfect schedule. I realized: this is less about the win. This is about the moment of victory— and how it resonates in the stands.

And I got to see that firsthand when I was one of the first to storm the track. The run from Turn 20 to the podium was grueling— I’m not the most in shape of people, and every step felt like it was digging even deeper blisters into my feet. But by God, it was worth it. It was worth it to see the podium rise in real time— gleaming, distant, then suddenly close enough to feel the champagne mist in the wind.

Max stood in the center. And for a brief second, before the anthems and the trophy lift and the shouting, he looked… human. Not invincible, not detached, just there. Sweaty, sunburned, caught in a storm of color and light. It was the kind of moment that dissolves television polish, revealing the man beneath the myth.

And in that instant, I understood why people chase this feeling. I understood why they stand for hours in the heat and memorize lap times and tire strategies. Because when someone like him looks that real, the whole illusion rearranges. You stop being an observer and start feeling like part of the event.

By the time I turned to leave, the podium lights were dimming and the crowd had started to thin. The grass where I’d stood was littered with empty bottles, every piece a trace of the delirium that had just passed. Somewhere, the sound techs were still dismantling speakers. Somewhere else, marshals were painting over the sponsored segments of the track.

When I finally started the long walk back to the parking lot, the evening had cooled enough for the first time all weekend. My shoes hurt. My voice was gone. But I felt full, like something in me had finally clicked into place. I had seen Formula 1 for what it really was for the first time: not just a race for glory, but a communion. Thousands of strangers caught in the same current, all chasing proof that the impossible still exists.

And that’s the beauty of it.

That’s all for now. I’ll see you in Mexico next week.

-F