The air in Dorna's offices could be cut with a knife. The graphics on the giant screen did not lie: while Formula 1 rose like foam thanks to television series and a luxury aesthetic, the interest in the two wheels was getting stuck in a niche of nostalgics.
"We need new eyes," said the commercial director.— We don't need telemetry experts, we need people who turn a tire change into a global trend.
The order was clear: "Digital Infiltration". The teams, some more reluctantly than others, received the guideline of seeking "partnerships" with content creators. And in the Repsol Honda garage, the news fell like a jug of cold water, or at least for half of the box.
Nicky Hayden threw the statement on the tool table, making a metallic noise that resounded throughout the box.
—An influencer?Are you telling me that I'm going to have a guy with a phone stuck to his face while I try to set up the suspension? -Nicky ran a hand through his hair, frustrated-. This is a motorcycle race, not a fashion show.
Valentino, sitting on his usual stool, watched the scene while playing with the visor of his helmet. A mocking smile was drawn on his face. He didn't mind the change, he was amused by Nicky's indignation.
"Dai, Nicky... don't be so old," Valentino blurted out with that dragged Italian accent. —It's the future. In addition, they say that the boy is a phenomenon. If it makes us look prettier on the internet, welcome, right?
"Don't laugh, okay," Nicky growled. — It's Marc Márquez. The guy has more followers than the two of us combined. The PR says it has "an armored contract." He will be stuck in our kitchen, in the hospitality... even in the box during the qualifiers.
Valentino raised his eyebrows. — I had heard the name. I knew that Márquez was not the typical guy who took pictures with designer clothes; he was a fast-minded guy, a creator who had started recording his life in a lost town in Spain and was now a media giant.
"Márquez..." Valentino repeated, savoring the name.— Well, if he's as smart as they say, I hope he knows when to shut his mouth and when to turn on the camera.
The next morning, the Jerez paddock didn't talk about anything else. Marc's deployment was not discreet. It did not arrive with a SLR camera and a cheap microphone; it arrived with a minimal but elite technical equipment, moving with the confidence of the owner of the place.
Marc walked towards the Repsol Honda box feeling that his heart was going at 300 per hour, faster than any 1000cc engine. He had rejected offers from other brands, even contracts that paid triple, just for being there. Because, although he wouldn't say it in front of his millions of followers to maintain his image of "cool and objective boy," Marc was a fan of "46".
He stopped in front of the box entrance. He took a deep breath and turned on his front camera.
— What's wrong, people?— Marc said to the lens, with that smile that had captivated half the planet. —Today begins the biggest challenge of my career. I'm not going to record a travel video, nor a 24-hour streaming. I'm going to try to survive the fastest team in the world... and see if Valentino Rossi is as nice as they say, or if he kicks me in the first chapter. Let's go inside!
Marc came in just as Valentino was finishing talking to his mechanics. Silence was made in the box. Nicky didn't even look up from his data, but Valentino turned slowly, leaning his back on his motorcycle.
Marc held the camera firmly, although inside he wanted to ask him for an autograph.
— Valentino, Nicky... I'm Marc. A pleasure,— he said in a firm voice, extending his hand.
Valentino didn't shake his hand right away. He looked at him from top to bottom, with that analytical look he used to study his rivals on the track. Then, he let out a short and sarcastic laugh.
— So you're the one who's going to save us from oblivion, huh?— Valentino took a step towards him, invading the frame of Marc's camera. — I warn you something, Marquito: here the only one who gives a show is me. You just make sure I don't come out with my eyes closed in your videos.
Marc smiled, recovering his usual mental agility.
— Don't worry, okay."With what you like to attract attention, the problem will be to edit so much nonsense so that it fits in ten minutes.
Nicky let out a disapproving snort, but Valentino froze for a second before his smile widened. He liked the nerve.
— Good,— Rossi said, giving him a hard pat on the shoulder that almost made Marc throw the camera. — Let's start the show, then. But if you bother me while I work, I'll record you... crying while I take you out of the paddock.
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