The past four weekends have felt like one of my legs had been cut off, and I was left walking in circles. Formula 1 wasn’t on my TV, and life felt strangely incomplete. Racing isn’t just entertainment for me, it’s family history, a ritual, and a bond that has spanned three generations in my household.

It all started with my dad. After my mom passed away, he built a house just six doors down from me. We only had a few months with him as our neighbor, but in that short time, I could count on my phone ringing bright and early every Sunday morning: “The race is starting.” That call wasn’t a suggestion; it was an announcement.

My boys quickly fell under his spell too, joining him on the couch to learn the difference between qualifying laps and tire strategy, and asking the age-old question: why couldn’t Ferrari win every race? Those mornings became sacred. Sunday mornings were for Formula 1, loud engines, pit stops that seemed faster than humanly possible, and commentary that often sounded like poetry when delivered with a British accent.

After my dad passed, I realized how deeply that tradition had rooted itself in me. My husband and son stepped right in to carry it on, and I rarely miss a race. But during the summer break? The void is brutal. Four weekends without racing feels like the world’s longest pit stop, one run by Sauber, no less. In desperation, I resorted to watching old IndyCar reruns. I knew every outcome, but the sound of engines filling the living room was enough to soothe the craving.

Cars were always the language my father and I spoke best. I was about six years old when he bought his first sports car, a brand-new 1983 Toyota Supra. It was sleek and black, with burnt-orange pinstriping and a sunroof. The stereo system was so clear it felt like the band was sitting in the back seat, and to make it sound like a concert hall, it even had an echo feature. The interior was soft tan leather that felt like butter. It was his pride and joy.

I remember one Sunday morning after a long night out with his employees, my dad came home… less than pristine. Maybe it was the kielbasa dinner, maybe the vodka, but either way, he tossed his cookies in the driver’s seat. Since my mom couldn’t drive a stick shift, she must have been the “eyes of the operation.” How they made it home was a miracle, but no miracle could save that car from the aftermath. Hungover and miserable, my dad wasn’t cleaning anything. The job fell to my brother and me. Well, mostly my brother. I don’t do tossed cookies. Somehow, he got the car back to factory shape, because when my dad handed me the keys at sixteen, it was in pristine condition.

That Supra wasn’t just transportation. It was independence, pride, and proof that he trusted me with something he loved. I treated it like my baby, oil changes on schedule, Saturday car washes that took hours, and rims scrubbed with Brillo pads until I could see my reflection staring back at me. It gleamed, and so did I.

Of course, the Supra and I had our… moments. The clutch was replaced more than once, and I always had a handy excuse: rough roads, railroad tracks, maybe even “bad weather.” My dad seemed to buy the stories, at least he pretended to. The truth? I was racing with my friends. Badly. I lost often and dramatically, but the thrill was worth every dollar I earned to cover each clutch.

Replacing the clutch meant another long, tiring afternoon spent in the driveway. My dad would slide under the car, barking orders for wrenches and screwdrivers while I crouched nearby, trying my best to look useful. He asked if I was paying attention so often that I started to wonder if he’d legally changed my name. As much trouble as I got in for handing him the wrong tool or losing a bolt that somehow rolled into another dimension, those afternoons were ours. No big conversations, no heart-to-hearts, just the two of us, a broken clutch, and a bond built on grease, impatience, and the rare gift of time together.

Eventually, my cover was blown. The day my dad told me to take the car to his friends Helmut and Marco’s auto repair shop, I knew he knew. I give him credit for playing along so well for so long. The man was patient (not really, but in this situation, he showed a tremendous amount of restraint). Losing the Supra for three days at a time was supposed to be punishment. Instead, it became a running joke. At the rate I was going, I was personally funding Helmut’s three kids’ college tuition and Marco’s daughter’s wedding. My dad never rubbed it in, never scolded me. He just gave me that look, the one father’s perfect, the one that says everything without a single word.

Fast-forward to today. My father is gone, but every race weekend still feels like he’s close by. Watching Formula 1 with my husband and son isn’t just about the sport; it’s about connection. It’s about carrying on something he started. And when the schedule suddenly disappears for a month, when Sundays arrive without the roar of engines, the loss feels bigger than racing. It feels like missing him all over again.

That’s why this weekend feels so monumental. Summer break is over, and ‘off we go!’ The first practice starts tomorrow, and I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve, restless, excited, and counting down the hours. The world will return to order: Friday practice, qualifying on Saturday, and Sunday race day! No more circles with one leg cut off.

The cars are back, the rituals are back, and the Ferrari flag in my heart is waving once again. “Lights out and away we go!”