I was fortunate to have my travel budget extended by the Inchident.com overlords, which allowed me to travel to, meet, and interview some F1 drivers. My pitch was that I’d use the budget to write a series of posts that paint these modern-day charioteers as the deeply ordinary men that they turn out to be. I start with Sergio “Checo” Perez. Perez has somehow faded from the spotlight, and I was keen to understand what it was like during the last year at RedBull and then at his new gig with Cadillac.
My itinerary was to fly to Miami before his race at Silverstone, catch him for half a day, then fly on to my next driver. I had heard so much about his luxurious condo in Miami and was very excited that his PR team had agreed to this interview. Sergio had very graciously said that he would pick me up at the airport and that we would head directly to one of his favorite restaurants for lunch, then drive back to his condo, where I could continue my interview. I was to take the late evening flight back out of Miami.
Checo, leaning against his Cadillac OPTIQ-V
Stepping through the exit of the airport, I see him leaning casually against his Cadillac OPTIQ-V SUV. The first thing you notice about this man in person is that he is quite good-looking. The next thing you notice is that he is not tall. He greets me enthusiastically, immediately calling me by the wrong name. I shake his hand, ignoring his faux pas and thanking him profusely for agreeing to do this.
“It’s my pleasure!” he smiles widely. Good looking man.
We get into his beautiful gunmetal-grey chariot and head to his favorite restaurant, The Mexican. It’s about 15 minutes from the airport and supposedly just 7 minutes away from his condo. It didn’t seem odd at all when he qualified that he was always within four-tenths of a second, depending.
“Depending on what?” I ask him. He smiles, turns on the air conditioning, and pulls out of the airport, ignoring my question.
I was looking forward to being driven in an amazing machine by a Formula 1 driver and was expecting some very spirited driving through the streets of Miami, but that’s not really what I got. Sergio was extremely defensive in his driving. Almost as if every other car on the road had once been his teammate. He religiously checks his rearview mirror and often swerves sharply to the left or right, allowing the car behind, way behind, to pass us. I ask him if everything is alright, and he mumbles something about needing to “get off the racing line,” with a momentary, terrified look in his eyes. After he completes the manoeuvre, he reverts to his charming smile. There’s a Honda Odyssey about 4 car-lengths back with a kayak on the roof. He checks his mirror again and says, “Gap behind is 1.4 seconds.” I ask if he knows them. He says not personally, but he’s “letting them through to avoid the undercut.” The Odyssey pulls into a Chipotle. I switch gears and ask him how long he’s lived here. “I’m currently in 21st, but there’s pace in the car.” He says. I tell him that I meant the city. He nods enthusiastically and says that the city has been “very supportive during a difficult stretch.”
We pull up to The Mexican and get out. The valet seems to know Sergio. He tosses the keys to the valet and says, “I think we try Inters next stint.” The valet doesn’t bat an eyelid. The restaurant is gorgeous. Dark, earthy tones, stone grottos for booths, tastefully decorated. Light clinks of glass and cutlery are heard over hushed conversation. A very upmarket place. The staff all know Sergio and treat him like royalty. They usher us to a booth a little away from the crowd. He is unusually zen-like. We dine on some superb steak and seafood. Sergio orders, and I eat. I try to get a little more out of him. I ask him about his time at RedBull and the 2024 season. He describes the season as “a year of growth.” I ask him to elaborate. He says the team gave him “a lot of feedback.” When I ask what kind, he says that the radio was “very consistent.” I ask him what it said. He goes quiet, smiles, and tells me that he really likes the Coliflor Asada here. We finish the meal, stand up, and just walk out of the restaurant. No one tackles us to the ground on the way out. I guess he has some sort of “tab” with them.
We drive quietly to his condo. I am still trying to comprehend this person who straps himself into a carbon-fiber deathtrap and drives it at over 200mph on a track. Surely he has a personality. Something’s off. The drive back to the condo took 7 minutes, give or take four-tenths. The elevator ride up to his condo was cordial. The building was light, airy, on the beach, and one I could never dream of living in. It was magnificent. His wife and kids are back in Mexico, so it’s just his maid who takes our coffee order. When she returns and serves us, Sergio thanks her and waits for the moment when she tells him the coffee could have been faster. It never comes. The maid excuses herself after an awkward silence.
I ask him how his time at Cadillac is going. He tells me a story about how an engineer once patted him on the shoulder after a particularly tough practice session. Sergio had said instinctively, “I understand the team’s decision.” The confused mechanic had then explained to Sergio that he was just comforting him. Then he debriefs Austria’s DNF with a look of pure confusion because someone had told him, “Great job out there!” It had been eight races since anyone told Perez he was the reason — a personal best for him.
I jot down some final notes and thank him profusely for his time and hospitality. He walks me to the door and stops by the window. It is very quiet. Almost as an aside, he tells me that the Cadillac is the first car in a long time to have actually been built around him. He says it plainly, without a smile, and for a moment, he is just a man who spent years of his career getting out of the way. Suddenly, he grins again and tells me not to worry about the traffic on the way back to the airport. He’ll take a slower line because there’s no undercut this late in the day.