The Las Vegas Strip was illuminated by thousands of floodlights, and I was tracing its course high above in a helicopter. We were flying in between resort towers while Formula 1 cars screamed around the streets below. It was the first practice of the newly revived Las Vegas Grand Prix, and despite sitting in a vehicle that could travel at 150 m.p.h. there was no way we could keep up with them.
As we looked down, the scarlet Ferrari of Carlos Sainz Jr. emitted a puff of white smoke and a shower of sparks as it tore past the Bellagio fountains and Paris Las Vegas’s faux Eiffel Tower before grinding to a halt. The huge aerodynamic forces that these cars create to generate grip through the corners had dislodged a drain cover, and Sainz had hit it at 200 m.p.h. Ferrari later reported this had caused millions of dollars of damage to the vehicle, destroying its state-of-the-art hybrid power unit. On the way back from the heliport, my Uber driver joked about the state of the city’s roads: “Now the whole world gets to feel our misery.”
Due to the crash the first practice session was canceled after just eight minutes, as maintenance crews checked on all the other drain covers around the 3.9-mile circuit. The second practice session was delayed and eventually took place so late that even in Sin City most people were asleep—or at least they were until the 15,000-r.p.m. cacophony struck up again. Fans who had paid a small fortune to see some track action were sent home having experienced next to none.
It was an inauspicious start to an event that was equal parts hype and horsepower. With grandstand seats selling for a minimum of $1,000 each, some hotels charging up to quadruple their usual nightly rates, and F1’s official Paddock Club hospitality package (where spectators are wined, dined, and entertained above the pits) beginning at more than $20,000, there was a feeling it might become a Fyre Festival with a whole lot more riding on it.
Las Vegas last hosted a Formula 1 Grand Prix 41 years ago, in the featureless parking lot of Caesars Palace. Back then the drivers’ championship, which has always been big box office in Europe and South America, was struggling for a foothold in North America. It wasn’t until the commercial rights were sold to American media company Liberty six years ago for $4.4 billion that F1 made a pivot from expanding in Asia to developing more races in the United States. Recognizing it had a different audience from the blue-collar NASCAR and IndyCar events, F1 focused on more glamorous and wealthy playgrounds, with Miami and now Las Vegas joining Austin on the Grand Prix calendar.
Much of the sport’s growth in the last few years has been credited to the Netflix show Drive to Survive, which packages each season’s most dramatic storylines, engaging characters, and hell-for-leather action into 10 digestible, hour-long episodes. F1 began attracting an audience who’d never shown much interest in motor racing before—metropolitan teenagers, flashy money, women—and this in turn has caused something of a clash between new fans and old.
Max Verstappen, the 26-year-old Dutch driver who has dominated the last two seasons, sided with the traditionalists when he called the Las Vegas Grand Prix “99 percent show, 1 percent sport” at the official pre-race press conference. He went on to describe the accompanying concerts, celebrity guests, and V.I.P. parties as a distraction. “Most of them just come to party, drink, see a D.J. play or a performance act,” said Verstappen. “They want to have a crazy night out, but they don’t actually understand what we’re doing and what we’re putting on the line.”
Most other drivers—including seven-time champion Sir Lewis Hamilton—were more supportive of the ancillary entertainment. So too, one suspects, was Red Bull Racing, which reportedly pays Verstappen $55 million a year not only to win the weightiest silverware but to sell cans of its Red Bull energy drink.
The race divided locals too. Some moaned of traffic disruption and unaffordable tickets. A gas-station owner claimed that road closures had caused him to lose $3 million worth of business that year. Taxi drivers complained they were getting far fewer fares than usual. Demand for hospitality and accommodation off the Strip was less than what had been originally envisaged.
“99 percent show, 1 percent sport.”
But venues on the Strip itself, and those catering to a five-star clientele, saw a huge economic boost. The track-facing hotels were largely sold out. Every marquee-name chef was celebrating full bookings and serious champagne spends. Musicians-in-residence like Kylie Minogue, Nile Rodgers, Travis Scott, and Rod Stewart saw packed nights at their shows, while superstar D.J.’s Steve Aoki, Tiësto, and Martin Garrix played sets on the track itself before heading to their usual gigs at the Omnia in Caesars Palace.
Sports Illustrated spent a reported $1 million converting the three-story Margaritaville restaurant at the Flamingo into “Club SI,” hosted by David Beckham and Shaquille O’Neal. Meanwhile, F1 team and supercar manufacturer McLaren had Mark Wahlberg serving cocktails to its guests after the checkered flag. At the Bellagio’s pop-up Shoey Bar, I was treated to a “shoey,” a $135 rum-and–Red Bull cocktail served inside a real Italian racing boot, which reproduced Australian driver Daniel Ricciardo’s trademark podium celebration of drinking champagne out of his own shoe.
“Normally this would be a quiet weekend [in November]. It’s now the best weekend on our calendar,” Andrew Lanzino, V.P. of citywide events for MGM Resorts, tells me. We were standing on the roof terrace of the Bellagio’s pop-up Fountain Club, which hosted 3,600 guests with a view of the main straight, at $12,000 per ticket. “To put it into perspective, it’s two and a half to three New Year’s Eves.”
“Not even counting the revenues that will go to Formula 1, this will be the highest ticket-sales event in Las Vegas’s history,” says Steve Hill, the C.E.O. and president of the Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Authority. “By far, this will be the biggest gaming week Las Vegas has ever had. The city stands to make an additional $1.3 billion this week as a result.” If proof were needed that the high rollers were in town, Hill revealed they’d run out of places to park private jets.
If one place epitomized the dizzying sums being spent, it was the Wynn. The casino and golf resort had sold a number of four-night packages, which included a three-bedroom duplex, access-all-areas badges, and as much Michelin-starred fare and vintage champagne as you could consume, for $1 million each. In the Wynn’s Awakening theater, an RM Sotheby’s auction saw a bidding war take place over a 10-year-old Mercedes F1 car previously driven by Sir Lewis Hamilton (although it only accounted for one of the Englishman’s record 103 wins). It eventually sold for a staggering $18.8 million, including the buyer’s premium. When I texted Hamilton’s press officer with the news, he was dumbfounded. “Bloody hell,” he replied, “[that’s] Vegas for you!”
The race attracted scores of celebrities, most of whom wouldn’t have made the trip to, say, Belgium’s Spa-Francorchamps circuit. For the first time, the paddock area, in which the teams base themselves, had a red carpet and an Oscars-style gauntlet of reporters.
They’d run out of places to park private jets.
There were Vegas stalwarts Donny Osmond and Wayne Newton; regular race-goers Will.i.am, Gordon Ramsay, and George Lucas; Ferrari customer Zlatan Ibrahimović; banned Ferrari customer Justin Bieber (the Prancing Horse does not take kindly to unofficial car customization); actor-racer Patrick Dempsey; Usain Bolt pulling poses for selfie-hunters; Paris Hilton taking pictures of herself. Axl Rose was chowing down at the McLaren team buffet. Rihanna was watching from the Ferrari pit, team headset and dark shades on, next to A$AP Rocky. Brad Pitt was ducking into all the garages, still in the middle of producing his untitled F1 movie.
Elon Musk’s brother, Kimbal, was wandering around in a cowboy hat, unrecognized, alongside a group of Elvis impersonators. One of them was available to sing “Here Comes the Bride” at a small neon-lit wedding chapel that had been erected next to the team hospitality units, just in case anyone wanted to put a ring on it. One did: 1997 F1 world champion Jacques Villeneuve tied the knot with his partner, Giulia, and got his old race engineer to be his best man.
When the race eventually took place, Max Verstappen won yet again, but it was tight between him, Charles Leclerc, and Sergio Pérez all the way to the final turn. There was also a big crash, with Lando Norris losing the back end of his car between the Sphere and the Venetian and finally coming to rest near Treasure Island’s valet counter.
The triumphant Red Bull drivers, Verstappen and Pérez, were whisked to the podium in a Rolls-Royce Phantom while wearing their Elvis-inspired racing suits replete with fake gold belt and gaudy sparkles. Upon crossing the finish line, the victorious Dutchman had sung “Viva Las Vegas” to his engineers over the in-car radio. Former F1 driver Jolyon Palmer noted that there’d been a noticeable change in the world champion’s attitude to the race once he’d claimed the spoils: “You can’t say it’s a shambles, then 50 laps later you’re singing ‘Viva Las Vegas’ in an Elvis suit. Come on.”
Adam Hay-Nicholls is the author of Charles Leclerc: A Biography and Smoke & Mirrors: Cars, Photography and Dreams of the Open Road