MotoGP: My First Time on the Inside—and Why I Never Want to Leave

For as long as I can remember, Sunday at my house has meant just one thing: race day. Lunch was strictly with relatives, who arrived early to eat as soon as possible and then enjoy the race with dessert in hand.

I watched the Grand Prix with aunts and cousins, and I saw in them the agitation, excitement, and passion with which they experienced that appointment even just through the screen. I sensed that vibrant atmosphere and wondered why; then I started paying attention, and I was struck like lightning.

From then on, Sunday became for me an almost religious experience: the MotoGP race was the only thing that mattered, accompanied only by the countryside walk that punctually followed the checkered flag. I started rooting, getting passionate and emotional in silence, without asking questions, so as not to interrupt the chatter that accompanied every race.

One day, however, everything stopped. It was October 23, 2011: like every Sunday I was in front of the TV cheering for SIC, my favorite rider. It was the Malaysian GP. I will never forget those images, nor the emotions I felt at that moment. I still remember that at school no one talked about anything else, and I cried every time I thought about it.

I stopped following racing for a few years, distancing myself from that world. Then came Marc Márquez, the “young phenomenon from Cervera” who could give Valentino Rossi a hard time. That’s how I started watching the races again: the passion had never really left, I just needed someone to reignite it.

From that moment on I dreamed of experiencing a Grand Prix up close, of having the privilege of entering the paddock and breathing that air that I found electrifying as a child — and still do today. Being able to make this dream come true right at the circuit that bears the name of my first idol is something I will never forget: it’s also thanks to him that I am here today.

That dream, this weekend, finally took shape.

The paddock is a vast world: as beautiful and thrilling as it is closed-off and demanding. As with everything, there are two sides to the same coin, especially when you often find yourself among the few young women present in such an environment.

I cherished every single second spent in the MotoGP paddock, but I can say with certainty that it’s not an easy place: people don’t talk much, the circles are already formed and remain rather closed. Fortunately it’s not like that for everyone, and it’s wonderful to connect with people with whom you share only this passion: photographers, marshals, volunteers, other journalists. Anyone who gave me the chance to talk proved to be knowledgeable and kind, always available and eager to do well — and that’s probably what brought us closer.

I wandered through the paddock without a precise destination for several hours that weekend, looking for something amid what to me was pure chaos: in everyone’s faces I found pure normality. For those who work there, after all, it’s normal to run from one side to the other, move around by scooter to avoid being noticed too much, follow their favorites in the hope of a conversation. And that’s exactly what I managed to grasp: the normality of those who live that world every day, in the face of what I watched with bright, astonished eyes.

Thanks to this experience I met Raquel, a journalist who has been following the European races from the paddock for years. A very experienced, professional, and friendly person who welcomed me in the best possible way. In an environment where it’s easy to feel alone — especially on the first day, not knowing where to look or whom to turn to — she simply lent me a hand: she showed me where to stand, helped me understand the unwritten timings of the paddock, made me feel less of an intruder and more of a colleague. We had fun together, we worked — and ran — side by side, helping each other. In an environment that brings together such different cultures, it’s not easy to find someone you feel in tune with, which is why I feel lucky to have met her.

Having someone to share your emotions with after making your dream come true is wonderful: listening to the riders speak right after the race was something extraordinary, because I never would have imagined being able to stand next to them in those moments. The post-race, seeing them in a press conference just off the bike, being able to ask questions, catching unfiltered reactions, glimpsing what happens “behind the scenes” — all of this left me speechless.

What struck me most was their simplicity. I saw them patiently answer the same question asked by three different journalists, pause a second longer for a greeting, smile even with the helmet still in hand and the suit sweaty on their backs: small gestures, but ones that say more than a thousand statements about how, amid that absolute chaos, they remain approachable and patient people. They are men who have turned their greatest passion into a job, and who give their best. A kindness I noticed in them more than in many other people in the paddock, and which surprised me, especially considering how much they put on the line every weekend and the pressure they carry on their shoulders. I am truly proud to have met them, and happy to see how many children choose them as idols.

When Sunday arrives, the change can be felt in the air: everyone is more focused, intent, thoughtful. A greeting or a smile is never missing, yet the pre-race atmosphere is everywhere, as if the air itself were trembling even before the engines fire up.

The preparations on the grid are a beautiful ritual to experience up close: my favorite moment is when everyone steps away and the riders are left alone, lower the visor, and get ready. Hearing the engines roar at the start is an indescribable sensation, pure adrenaline running through anyone who is passionate about this sport. And then the crowd’s raw reactions: those who cheer and run toward the track to celebrate, those who curse, those who cry — a way to understand how much, for them, this sport truly means everything. One sore point, though: watching the race from the press room, and not from a corner in the stands, isn’t exactly my preference. I had already been to Misano as a spectator, and it’s a whole different experience.

And yet, being so close to the protagonists makes up for everything. Seeing them compare notes on the just-finished race, analyzing every second of the GP by rewatching the highlights on screen: it’s a privilege that’s worth all the rest.

At the end of the day, when the paddock empties and only the mechanics are left to dismantle the boxes, I pause for a moment to look back. I think of that little girl in front of the TV, eyes glued to the screen and heart in her throat at every overtake, and I realize that today I truly walked through it — no longer through a screen, but from the inside. And I understand that I don’t want to leave anymore.

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