Helter Swelter

We know that many HT readers are racing fans. Judging from some of the surveys we've done and the emails we get, HT readers follow sport compact drag racing, World Challenge-type touring car racing, some Indy Car and motorcycle stuff. We also know many of you follow Formula One and are well aware of Honda's place in F1 history.

Even if you're not a huge motorsports fan, if there's one thing you gotta do before you die, it is to attend an F1 race. The atmosphere off the track is not unlike what you'd find at an IRL or NASCAR event, although with a distinctly international feel. You've got your vendors, food and flags, and fans of all nationalities flying their favorite driver or team's colors. It's the whole feel of a big motorsports party.

But unless you work on the flight deck of an aircraft carrier, the sound inside the grandstands, swelling from the circuit, is unlike anything you've ever heard. In an act of international public relations, the Malaysian tourist board invited Honda Tuning and a handful of other magazines to attend the grand prix in mid-March.

Our seats were dead on the start/finish line, and holy hell my friends-the sound of 20 high-strung V-8 motors at idle, waiting for the red starting lights to disappear, is exactly the type of racket you might hear if Satan were made technical director of a racing series. It is a dark and sinister sound and not one to disrespect. To watch the race without earplugs is to wonder whether the next lap may be your last with eardrums intact.

Now, watching an F1 race in person is, admittedly, a little less interesting than watching it on TV. On the tube, you have the advantage of multiple cameras and commentary. No matter where you sit on any circuit, not only at Malaysia's excellent and technical Sepang, you're not going to get a view of all of the action. And particularly sitting on the start/finish line, you're only going to get the unbelievable rush of the start action, followed by an hour of cars zipping past you at full boil as they charge to the next corner.

But that starting rush, man, it is worth it, at least just once in your life.

And for the F1 gearhead, sitting near the start line as the teams and cars prep 30 minutes before the race is an education in military efficiency. Mechanics roll out carts stacked with tires wrapped in heating pads, elaborate brake cooling fans and tanks of compressed air. Minutes before the race, team principals and other glitterati start walking the grid.

Here comes Renault team boss Flavio Briatore, clump of salt and pepper chest hair pouring forth from his team pit shirt, deliberately left halfway unbuttoned. If you've never seen this cat, he is the unashamed Italian old man I one day aspire to become: that is, worth millions, with a keen eye for driving talent, and still hooking up with models like Heidi Klum. Don't forget, this is the man who guided a young Michael Schumacher onto the scene, and is working on a second act with Fernando Alonso.

And over there is Ron Dennis, McLaren team boss, dotting his i's, crossing his t's. And soon F1 moneyman Bernie Eccelstone strides onto the grid, shorter than I imagined, strolling like some sort of hybrid of Bill Gates and Gollum.

HT contributing editor Rich Chang, also on the trip, leans over and says, "Imagine the total net worth of everything there on the grid right now."

I can't. Eccelstone is rumored to be worth a billion himself. Briatore and Dennis have bank statements that are the thing of fantasy for tax collectors. Factor in driver salaries, mechanics, crew and materials, then the cars and all of the R&D dollars behind each one-it's sickening actually, in a perverse way.