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I gave Isabelle a quick nod and wave and headed to my driver’s room to freshen up before the post-race media conference started. As I exited the driver’s room, I was met by Lizzie, my poor Media Manager, who had been saddled with what could only be her most challenging assignment to date. Still, even if I was likely a nightmare to manage at press events, she wore her assignment with the world’s bravest smile and most uplifting nature. I was sure the paddock could be on fire, and Lizzie would still announce, ‘At least we have free lighting!’
“Georgie!” Lizzie gave me a massive hug, practically strangling the upper part of my body. Lizzie was an impressive 6’0, so she always towered over me compared to my petite stature.
“Hi Liz, thanks! What a marvelous race at the end, fighting with Henri and Noah like that, just incredible.” I paused, seeing the tension in Lizzie’s eyes form as she started to open her mouth in response. “But now I assume it’s time to feed the vultures?” I asked with the best drawl I could muster, my voice dropping with the question.
“Yes, yes, time to go show the media that you are the star we all know you to be.” Lizzie gave me a big wink and shoulder squeeze, all while gently pushing me towards the garage entrance, like she wasn’t convinced that I would show up to the press conference without a little push.
When we arrived at the media center, I stared directly at the center chair. For the first time in my career, it was mine, a feeling so thrilling I didn’t even notice my brother walk in.
Henri reached out and gave my shoulder a squeeze, whispering, “Just grin it and bear it, Peaches. We’ll soon be out drinking to celebrate.” I smirked back and settled into my chair, nodding to Noah, who smiled at me from the third-place seat, whispering another congrats before the conference started.
I never understood why my body reacted this way, but no matter what the circumstance was, the moment I sat down in a press chair and the lights turned on, I immediately began to feel this rush of intense anxiety, and dizziness started to overcome my body. Here I was with a phenomenal, well-deserved win, but all I could focus on was the feeling of my profusely sweaty hands and blurring vision. To make matters worse, the words that tumbled out of my mouth never seemed to be quite what I wanted to say – or what the media wanted to hear.
“So Georgia, congrats on your first win with the new Valkyrie F1 Team. It must feel thrilling to be the second woman to win a Formula 1 race and the first in the last three decades. How do you feel?”
“Phenomenal, it’s truly a dream come true,” I replied, giving the journalist the biggest smile I could muster, hoping my response didn’t sound too curt. A few uncomfortable seconds passed, and I could sense that the journalist clearly expected me to say more. I let my eyes shift to Lizzie, who was standing in the back of the conference, her expression willing me to continue, but before I could muster another word, the journalist had already moved on.
“So Henri, I saw you and Georgia had quite the battle around lap forty. How did it feel to be beat out by your sister?”
“It was a great battle! My sister is an incredible driver, and that Valkyrie F1 car is fast as lightning. Disappointed I couldn’t keep up, but it’s hard to fight with that kind of talent. Plus, I knew if she beat me, she would have to buy the drinks tonight, not me, so it’s not all a loss.” With that, he turned and winked at me, getting several chuckles out of the crowd.
I rolled my eyes, leaning over to shove Henri's shoulder. These press events were always more manageable when Henri was there. He was undoubtedly my biggest fan, and his light-heartedness always made me feel more at ease.
As the press conference continued, most of the questions were targeted at Noah and Henri, leaving me with few questions to answer. While I should have been more offended that the media spent most of their time asking the 2nd and 3rd place drivers the majority of the questions, in truth, I felt relieved. Fewer questions asked meant fewer chances to screw this up for myself.
As the hour started to come to an end, I was feeling more confident. I had answered a few more questions with a little more ‘of my sunny disposition,’ as Lizzie would say, and felt like I was beginning to improve on my media relations – albeit as much as you could after an hour.
“So Georgia, now that you’re a race winner, I bet you’re beginning to see the World Driver’s Championship in your view. Do you think it’s time to see more women in racing?”
Ah, there it was, the stupid question every male journalist loved to ask all the drivers, especially me. They always asked this question as if they were trying to find me in a lie and get me to admit, “Actually, I think women should get back to the kitchen where they belong.” Unfortunately, before I could stop myself, I let out the most exasperated sigh, matched only by my rather noticeable eye-roll.
“I think we all know the answer to that question because you have all managed to ask it at every press event I’ve ever attended. What are you looking for me to say… No?”
I could see Lizzie waving in the background, her finger crossing her throat, signaling for me to quit before I said something I couldn’t take back.
But it was too late.
‘Sassy Dubois’ had been released, and the silence was deafening. I looked to Henri for help, but his face told me I should have listened to his earlier advice –‘Just grin it and bear it, Peaches.’But I hadn’t listened, so I opted for ‘door number two,’ an option not quite as grand as the first.
“Obviously, I want more women in the sport. If we had more women, maybe you would all stop focusing on ‘my love life’ or ‘my menstrual cycle’ or ‘what racing bra do I wear’ because Lily and I wouldn’t be the shiny, new toys to harass.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew it had been the wrong thing to say.
After a few more awkward moments, the F1 Media and Communications head came on the stage and thanked all the journalists for attending. Before Henri could say anything, I quickly jumped out of my seat and sprinted towards the exit, hoping to quickly escape before fans and journalists bombarded me.
Lizzie took off after me, her long legs allowing her to catch up quickly. As we walked back into the Valkyrie F1 hospitality suite, I could see the look of displeasure on Isabelle’s face. The smile on her face just an hour earlier was replaced with a disappointed frown. She pointed her finger at me, signaling for me to ‘come hither’ to her office.
“Look, before you say anything, I know. I should have dropped it and answered the usual answer, ‘Yes, of course, I want more women in motorsport, blah blah blah.’ But I couldn’t do it this time. It’s becoming morose, repetitive, and quite frankly rude,” I started to argue as I entered Isabelle’s office.
“Georgia, I appreciate that the press are morons,” Isabelle retorted, taking a seat at her desk, her piercing green eyes slicing me open, as if she was reading a book she had already read before but needed to re-read in case she had missed something important. “But unfortunately, the F1 journalist community isn’t going to change overnight, so it’s our job to help guide them to that change. It’ll be slow – youknowthis – and yelling at a reporter will only make you look like a hot head, something the press want toseeanddefinitelywant to write about for some God-forsaken reason.”
I knew Isabelle was right. Change in a male-dominated sport would be slow, and we had to be careful. Generations of racing women depended on our every move, and the fight wouldn’t be won after four successful races – it wouldn’t even be won after a successful season. Having the media hate me wouldn’t encourage the other teams to hire female drivers, lest they end up with their own ‘Sassy Dubois’ nightmare.
“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll work on it for the next race and get some answers prepped with Lizzie.”
Isabelle nodded, knowing there was no reason to further the conversation. She might be annoyed, but she didn’t want to dampen my day. I was now a Formula 1 winner, and the fight for the World Driver’s Championship was on.
After leaving her office, I saw the Head of Strategy, Fiona, and my Media Manager, Lizzie, slide into Isabelle’s office and shut the door. My gut told me I would hear about their discussion at the next race, but I didn’t care – tonight was for celebrating.
ChapterTwo
