I became a fan of F1 only after the movie. The cinematic experience—the Brad Pitt stardom, the adrenaline, the way the cars seemed to dance on the tarmac—just gripped me. It reminded me of why I love cars in the first place. The roar of an engine, the sleek beauty of a machine built for speed, the elegance of control amid chaos—it all came rushing back. It wasn’t just about the movie. It was about the feeling it unlocked.
Now every time I tell anyone that I started watching F1 after the movie, they immediately say, “Oh, so you started with Drive to Survive?” As if there’s a checklist you need to complete to prove your fandom. Of course, I did start watching Drive to Survive. Then I found myself deep in the F1 archives, watching those nail-biting moments, the crashes, the strategy, the heartbreaks, the victories. The movie served as a trigger, but the passion it woke up in me is very real.
And yet, every time I say I’m an F1 fan, there’s always that smirk. That condescending smile that seems to distinguish between the so-called “real F1 fans” and the “new ones.” It’s fascinating, isn’t it? Because so many of these “real fans” today also got hooked after Drive to Survive turned the sport into a global phenomenon. Netflix literally gave the sport a second wind. But somehow, acknowledging that doesn’t fit the hierarchy of “true fandom.”
There are, of course, the ones who’ve been watching for decades—the veterans who witnessed the golden eras of Michael Schumacher, Ayrton Senna, or Niki Lauda. For them, F1 isn’t a trend. It’s a legacy. And I completely respect that. But just because I arrived late to the party doesn’t make my excitement any less genuine. The beauty of fandom is that it evolves, expands, embraces. Or at least, it should.
This whole thing got me thinking about how we treat new hobbyists in general. It isn’t just in sports. It happens in everything—content creation, skincare, cars, interior design, even something as simple as movie appreciation. There’s always a line drawn between “us,” the experienced ones, and “them,” the newcomers. Somehow, we forget that everyone starts somewhere. You don’t just wake up one day a master of your craft or an expert on a niche. You begin with curiosity, a spark of interest, sometimes triggered by something as mainstream as a Netflix show or a trending movie.
And yet, we all have this little gatekeeper inside us. I know I do. I’ve rolled my eyes at readers who proudly claim to be “into literature” after finishing one or two overly commercial novels. I’ve thought to myself, “Oh, so you haven’t read Nabokov or Murakami yet?” In that moment of silent superiority, I became the very person I now find exhausting. The irony isn’t lost on me. We judge new fans because we crave a sense of belonging, of specialness. We want to believe our connection to the thing we love is deeper, more authentic.
But here’s the thing: fandom, like passion, exists in stages—beginner, intermediate, advanced. You don’t get to skip steps, but you also don’t get to own them. Nobody really has the right to invalidate someone else’s starting point. Being a new fan doesn’t make your enthusiasm less pure. If anything, it’s often more honest—a burst of unfiltered joy without the baggage of expectations and biases that come with years of expertise.
I’ve come to realize something else about how we interact with fandoms and communities. We tend to anchor ourselves at a comfortable level of identification. Not too high, not too low. Just enough to feel competent, validated, and understood. That’s how we end up with echo chambers. You’ll see it online—the advanced gatekeepers sneering at the newbies, the newbies feeling intimidated, and the entire community quietly splitting into micro-cliques that all love the same thing but can’t share it peacefully.
It’s one of the reasons I like watching F1 alone. When I’m alone, I get to be as excited, as clueless, or as loud as I want. I can scream when there’s a dramatic overtake. I can pause mid-race to Google what a “DRS zone” even is. I can marvel at pit-stop precision without worrying that someone will announce, “Oh, that’s basic stuff.” The solitude lets me experience the sport without the social performance of proving I belong.
So the next time someone tells you they’ve just discovered something you’ve loved for years, don’t dismiss them. Don’t smirk. Don’t pull out your encyclopedia of trivia to prove seniority. Instead, smile. Share in their excitement. Because at the end of the day, fandom isn’t about who got there first; it’s about how deeply you feel when you’re there.
We can all love things differently. Some people go deep into stats and history. Others simply love the vibe of it—the movement, the colors, the stories. That’s the beauty of shared culture. It’s big enough for everyone.
So yeah, I’m an F1 fan. I came late. The movie brought me here. But I stayed for the thrill, the strategy, the sound of engines roaring through my headphones. And honestly, that’s enough for me.