Relaxing after winning the inaugural F1 Grand Prix of Valencia by 30 seconds, it struck me how scary this time of the year is for racers possessing lesser skills than I. Here I am, sipping a '72 Chateauneuf du Pape (that's 1872) in the section of my ten thousand acre backyard that is a full-scale replica of Monaco, and wondering what World Championships next year will be graced by my otherworldly grasp of throttle, brake, apex and umbrella girl. My manager fills my inbox daily with pleading invitations from Ferrari, McClaren, Yamaha and Lloyd's HVAC Dirt Track Warriors. But what about the mid-packers? They'll be lucky enough to line up on one grid next year, let alone 5, like I plan to do. And knowing that no team will commit to another driver/rider until I have made my decision, the other guys are stuck waiting, missing testing, and missing mortgage payments.
Still, I have to do what's right for me and my organization. You know us as Two Micks Racing. We call it The Bank
Gotta run. Ron Dennis is dropping off his wife and a suitcase full of cash.
More later.
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