I went to pits at Jarama in 1965 or 66. I don't remember well, because I was 7 years old or something like that. I stand there, right besides the cars, astounded by the sound (I felt it in my guts, like nothing else I've felt before. The cars touched you, inside).
I had a picture of Jim Clark, that my uncle (crazy for bikes, as most spaniards) had gave me. During the race I ran up and down the benches, playing with a british girl, because, frankly, without TV, comments or replays, the thing was kind of boring.
Her mom, a british lady, saw me at the exit, still with Mr. Clark picture clutched in my hand. She asked me if I wanted the picture signed. I said yes, of course. She crossed the tarmac, went into pits, talked with someone, then with Mr. Clark. She came back, after a while. She gave me the picture back, signed. She gave me a kiss in the cheek and left. My uncle swore her eyes were the most beautiful he had seen. Me too.
She is, to me, Formula One.