Montoya

And since it is Tuesday again, laundry time,  I remember something.

At the time my children were born, hope came back to Formula 1. Hot, Columbian blood by the name of Juan-Pablo Montoya. Hope for emotions, hope for some good races and fights. And as expected, Colombian hot blood  was not too easy to handle (and I guess still not is).  But there was it again, my fever for Formula 1.

It has become boring, boring not only because of the dominance of Ferrari but dominance of a certain driver whom I personally was fed up with, no matter how good and how many wins. It was the kind of behaviour, the words, the language, the appearance, the arrogance. It was really time for some South American accented English - at least for me.

By the time my girls were around three, four years old they started to watch Formula 1 races with me - I think it was the last two seasons of Juan-Pablo Montoya with McLaren in 2005 and 2006. Must be. And they heard like "oh no, Montoya, what are you doing?", "no please, don't do that, look what you have done!!", Montoya, can you drive at all?? and worse. Logically to the girls, Formula 1 was Montoya, no doubt about that. None at all.

And it was the year also of David Coulthard with Red Bull Racing in 2005 and the year the team came to a town in Switzerland  to sign autographs at the occasion of the re-opening of a big, famous toy store. I heard it on the radio by accident and it was very clear that I willl go there and finally at least see some of the drivers including Vitantonio Liuzzi, Christian Klien and the one and only Mr. David Couldhard  - most importantly - in person. It was of course no race but at the least, well, some kind of small history.

I told the girls some days before that we are going there and catch some autographs (as far as I could explain to them as young as they were) and it was like a warm-up for a GP. And finally, the day came. We went.

As expected, quite a bunch of people, lining up but not as many people as I thought. I could see the heads of the drivers in front and we came closer and closer (to be honest: I had the girls, two cuties to push in front of me and kind of - I am only here because of the girls - but actually I dragged the girls there I have to confess).

An then, finally,  standing in front of David Coulthard, who was first. Greetings, saying the names of myself and the girls for the cards. One of my daugthers took it and moved forward to Vitantonio Liuzzi, my other one: looked at the card, looked at David, looked at me - puzzled. And the moment I saw her face expression, I thought: no, please, do not say it, please don't. But there it was, loud and clear: and now, where is M O N T O Y A? Laughter. Of course she said in in German, but Montoya was understandable, loud and clear. I tried to explain, blushed, stammered, all went out wrong, ground was shaking. Nothing further to add. But we had our autographs, names misspelled  (not by Mr. Coulthard, has to be pointed out) but who cares?

But the truth is: my poor little girl did not want to have authographs, she also did not want to have one of Montoya. Montoya simply means up until today Formula 1. She wanted to see the cars, to hear the motors and - according to Gerri Halliwell - smell the fuel. That was all my little girl was asking for. Montoya.