The first car I ever raced in wasn’t built for me.
It was for my sister.
My dad wanted her to drive go-karts, like he used to. So, in our garage, he built her one — from scratch. The only problem was, she was an eight-year-old girl who had no interest in spending her weekends racing around the go-kart circuits of northern Spain.
So he put three-year-old me in there. The kart was a little big at first. I couldn’t quite reach the pedals, but we adjusted the seat, moved the pedals up and made it work.
I loved driving, but I loved just as much the time with my family. My mom, dad, sister and I would drive to different tracks and spend our weekends there. Every day I would race for a few hours and then play soccer in the Spanish sun with my friends. Those days are still with me every time I go to the track today.
I learned a lot about driving in those days, but just as important, I learned something about myself:
I love to race. Like really, really race. And that’s why on May 28, on the biggest weekend in motor sports, I won’t be with my Formula 1 team at the Monaco Grand Prix. I’ll be in Indianapolis. Racing at the Brickyard. Because I need to be. The Indy 500 is one of the greatest events in the sport. Drivers all over the world know this. I belong there. Because I’m a racer.
I always have been, and I always will be.
