Watching F1 as a Political Person: The Dissonance of Loving Something Flawed

With the return of F1 this weekend I am reflecting on the sport and the conflict I have in my love of it.

Formula 1 is more than just motorsport. It is a spectacle of speed, engineering, and human skill pushed to the absolute limit. It is also a billion-dollar industry, shaped by politics, corporate interests, and a history that often contradicts the progressive values many of its fans hold dear. To love F1 as a politically engaged person is to wrestle with a constant state of cognitive dissonance, an ongoing negotiation between admiration and critique, passion and ethical concern.

F1 is, in many ways, a contradiction in motion. It thrives on innovation but clings to deeply entrenched hierarchies. It markets itself as a global, inclusive brand while remaining financially and structurally inaccessible to all but the wealthiest. It champions sustainability while burning through fuel and resources at an astronomical rate. It celebrates diversity and inclusion yet continues to race in countries where human rights abuses are routine and dissent is suppressed.

For a politically engaged fan, these contradictions are impossible to ignore. There is the dissonance of celebrating drivers for their talent while knowing that many made it to the grid through generational wealth rather than merit. There is the discomfort of watching races in nations that use F1 as a tool of sportswashing, polishing their international image through high-profile events while repressing activists and marginalised communities behind the scenes. And then there is the broader existential question: How do you justify loving something so deeply when it stands in direct opposition to so many of your values?

For me, motorsport has always been impossible to avoid. Growing up in Brackley, where Formula 1 is the heartbeat of the area, the presence of the sport was inevitable. The culture of high-speed engineering, competition, and a relentless pursuit of perfection was all around me. Even if I had wanted to, there was no escaping it. This deep-rooted connection to the sport, its' presence in the background of my life, meant that even as I developed strong political convictions that seemed to clash with its structure, my fascination with it never faded. Perhaps this is why I cannot simply discard it, even when its flaws stare me in the face.

Perhaps my love for F1 is part of a broader pattern. I have always been drawn to things that are flawed, to contradictions that challenge my identity. My inclination towards so-called 'problematic women' speaks to this tendency, finding depth in things that are messy, contradictory, and not easily categorised. F1 is, in so many ways, the opposite of what I believe in. It is rich, male-dominated, overwhelmingly straight, and historically indifferent to diversity or ethics. And yet, there is something about that very exclusivity that makes me want to insert myself into it.

There is a tension in being drawn towards things that do not reflect your own values. It is the same dissonance that fuels the ongoing debate about separating art from the artist. Can you appreciate something while still recognising its faults? Does engaging with a problematic entity mean condoning its flaws, or does it provide an opportunity to demand something better? If culture is shaped by those who consume it, then the more people like me who engage with F1 critically, the more pressure there is for change. The greater the demand for inclusivity, accountability, and evolution, the more likely we are to see the transformation the sport desperately needs.

There is something about Formula 1 that sets it apart from other sports. It is not just a contest of physical ability but also of technological mastery, strategic brilliance, and the margins of human and mechanical possibility. It is an arena where the best minds in engineering meet some of the most exceptional athletes, where risk and precision must coexist, and where the difference between victory and failure can be measured in milliseconds. If the fundamental issues with F1, its exclusionary nature, its ethical compromises, its political blind spots, could be meaningfully addressed, it has the potential to be the best sport in the world. Few other disciplines balance such a perfect blend of artistry and science, skill and risk, history and innovation. That potential is what keeps me invested. If the structure of the sport changes, even slightly, it becomes something truly unparalleled.

Even in its current state, politics is inherent to Formula 1, even if not always in the traditional sense. Decisions around regulations, race locations, and corporate sponsorships are deeply political. The way drivers navigate their public platforms, whether by speaking out like Lewis Hamilton and Sebastian Vettel or choosing silence, reflects broader societal tensions. There is no such thing as a sport untouched by politics, and F1 is no exception. The power struggles between teams, the lobbying for rule changes, the negotiations behind closed doors, all of it is deeply entwined with broader systems of power and influence. Engaging with the sport means engaging with those politics, even when the conversations are difficult.

No sport is truly ethical under capitalism. The nature of elite competition means that money, influence, and political considerations will always play a role. Football, the Olympics, even supposedly ‘purer’ pursuits like athletics and cycling are deeply compromised by financial interests, corruption, and corporate influence. Disengaging from F1 would not place me in a morally superior position because the same structural problems exist elsewhere. Rather than searching for an unproblematic space, I choose to embrace the contradictions and challenge them where possible. To love something is not to be blind to its faults; rather, it is to see them clearly and still believe it can be better.

If there is another justification for my love of F1, perhaps it is this: loving something critically is more powerful than rejecting it outright. To love the sport despite its flaws is to recognise that something better is possible. To walk away would be easier, but staying engaged means pushing for something more. There is a unique energy in challenging a space from within, in refusing to let it remain the domain of those who benefit from its flaws. The presence of politically aware fans, of people who ask difficult questions, forces the sport to reckon with itself in ways that it never had to before.

At some point, however, you have to allow yourself to enjoy something. As an individual, I cannot single-handedly fix the structural issues within F1, nor am I responsible for every ethical failing within the sport. I am politically conscious in almost every other aspect of my life, and the impact of me watching races on the wider world is negligible. If I disengaged from everything with ethical complications, there would be very little left. It is not about abandoning critical thought but about recognising that absolute purity is neither possible nor sustainable. Instead of being consumed by guilt, I can embrace the aspects of F1 that are pushing for good, whether that is the drivers advocating for change, the increasing conversations about diversity and sustainability, or the sheer joy of watching human ingenuity operate at its peak.

Perhaps, then, this dissonance is not a contradiction but a necessary friction. It is easy to love something uncritically, just as it is easy to dismiss something outright. The harder path is to stay, to question, to demand better while still allowing yourself the joy of the thing itself.

The world is full of contradictions, and F1, with its high-speed glamour and moral compromises, is no exception. To watch F1 as a political person is to live in that contradiction, to hold love and critique in the same breath, to demand better while still feeling the thrill of race day. It is not about seeking perfect purity, but about grappling with the imperfections of what we love and refusing to let that love be unquestioning.