F1 Inspired Me to Take My Driving Test

I walked into F1 expecting a loud movie about cars I didn’t care about. What I got instead was a hyper-stylized, emotionally-charged adrenaline trip that made me question why I, a grown adult, still flinch during left turns and once parallel parked into a shrub. Somehow, watching men fly around hairpin corners at 300 km/h with laser focus made me want to get my license just to feel something again. I didn’t leave the theatre wanting to be a driver. I left wanting to redeem myself.

Let’s go back. I was 22 when I first tried to get my license. I was so confident that I was pissed I even had to do the exam. The instructor called my name as I was yawning, scrolling on Wattpad, and I leisurely showed her the car I’d be driving for this test, in a perfect backed-in position. I don’t know what, but something weird happened as soon as I got into the car.

She asked me to show her the hand signals to use in case my blinkers ever broke, and after doing the incorrect ones, I slammed on the accelerator with the emergency brake in place, frustrated as to why the car wouldn’t start. After a nervous chuckle and the instructor reassuring me that “aha, I’ve had a few students who always do this,” I drove forward calmly, wondering if those students ever got their license. The instructor, a very nice woman who wore aviators indoors, just sighed and quietly scribbled on her clipboard like she was writing my obituary.

The moment I failed was unmistakable. Two minutes into the test, she grabbed my wheel because I was supposed to go straight, not left (EVEN THOUGH GOING LEFT WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN ILLEGAL SO IDK WHAT HER PROBLEM WAS FR). I knew the test was over then and there, but she let me keep driving.

Once I felt comfortable, the irony of fate put an oversized truck next to me to merge with, and the rest of the test was a blur. All I remember was her telling me to go faster, go slower, don’t do that—like a driving instructor during lessons would—not a test examiner. Even though I knew my chances were over, it didn’t feel great. Before even getting to parking, she told me to pull over and said, “Let’s just head back.”

I thought the humiliation ritual was over until she turned to me and said her 16-year-old drives just like me.

Driving was supposed to be freeing and empowering, but it felt like the car was controlling me more than I was controlling the car. So I stayed in the passenger seat. Not complaining, passenger princess life has its perks, but eventually it stopped feeling like a choice and started feeling like I was just opting out. Every Uber ride to the grocery store was another reminder that I couldn’t trust myself to move in a straight line. F1 was my fantastical escape. Nothing makes you think you're driving against gravity like F1 Pov shots.

I walked into F1 expecting noise and testosterone. Instead, I got something weirdly personal. Sure, the movie has slick race cars, dramatic pit stops, and slow-motion crashes, but that’s not really what stuck with me. What hit hardest was everything happening in between. The obsession. The control. The way the tiniest mistake could ruin everything. Brad Pitt plays an aging driver trying to prove he’s still got it. He’s bruised, sweaty, and surrounded by a younger, faster generation that wants him out. His team yells in his ear as he takes impossible corners and dodges rivals. He mostly ignores them. Somehow, he becomes this machine, completely locked in. It reminded me, unfortunately, of trying to parallel park with my mom in the passenger seat screaming, “LEFT! NO, THE OTHER LEFT!”

But the movie isn’t all chaos. It lingers in the moments after a crash, in the stares between teammates, in the quiet dread before the next race. There’s one scene where Pitt’s character sits alone after nearly dying on the track. There’s glass in his arm. His hands are shaking. The team doctor says maybe he shouldn’t get back in the car. And then he does. Not because he’s fearless, but because fear isn’t a reason to stop.

That was exactly what I hadn’t done.

Before F1, the idea of driving again felt like a joke. Every time I even thought about getting behind the wheel, my brain played a humiliating greatest hits reel. Remember when you almost hit a cyclist? (deserved) Remember the examiner sighing? Remember crying in a Tim Hortons parking lot?

I hated being watched. I hated how everything felt like a test. I hated the way my brain short-circuited the second someone honked. One wrong sound and I’d forget which pedal was which and just sit there, stalled, like a confused Sims character. So I avoided it. I told people I was “urban by choice” or “environmentally conscious,” but really, I was a coward. Scared of messing up. Scared of being seen messing up. Scared that driving wasn’t something I’d ever be capable of. Then F1 slapped me awake. It reminded me that failure isn’t final. That fear isn’t some wall you crash into and never come back from. Sometimes it’s just a pit stop. Sometimes it’s the whole lap. But it’s not the end unless you let it be.

So I booked another test.

I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t sleep. I rewatched parallel parking videos on YouTube and pre-wrote texts to cancel just in case I bailed last minute. But I didn’t bail. I showed up. I adjusted my mirrors. I kept my hands at 10 and 2 like I was in a commercial. And yeah, I failed again. But this time, I didn’t freeze. I didn’t cry. I didn’t ghost the appointment. I drove like failure could be part of the deal, and that felt new.

I still don’t have my license. But for the first time, I want it for me. Not for convenience. Not because I’m sick of missing out on road trips or needing a ride to IKEA. I want it because I’m done letting fear dictate how I move through the world. F1 reminded me that control isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing up, even if you’re shaking. It’s about the moment when your brain screams, “You can’t do this,” and you do it anyway. The racetrack just looks better than the DMV parking lot, but it’s the same idea.

So maybe I’m not fast. Maybe I still suck at reversing. Maybe I’ll always sweat a little when someone changes lanes too close to me. But I’m trying again. F1 makes racing look godlike, but it never pretends these people are. Brad Pitt plays a guy with bruises, baggage, and a million reasons to quit. But then they get back in the damn car. And so will I.