The Handshake at Hawk House
In the summer of 2023, a ninety-two-year-old man in a grey three-piece suit stood in Southwark Crown Court and said two words that, for anyone who had followed his career across seven decades, sounded almost physically impossible: "I plead guilty." Bernard Charles Ecclestone — who had built Formula One into a $8 billion global entertainment franchise through force of personality, an almost pathological aversion to losing, and a handshake agreement he considered more binding than any ink-stained contract — had admitted to concealing more than £400 million in offshore assets from HM Revenue and Customs. The settlement: £652.6 million, the largest individual tax fraud payment in British history. The sentence: seventeen months, suspended. The judge's rationale for leniency cited his age and "frail" health, though anyone who had watched Ecclestone work a Formula One paddock at eighty-nine, steering heads of state and hedge fund managers through a gauntlet of carbon fibre and ambition with the quiet authority of a man who had personally set the price of admission, might have questioned the adjective.
The fraud itself was almost banal — a trust in Singapore, decades of undeclared income, a 2015 meeting with HMRC investigators where he lied about structures he controlled. What made it devastating was the symmetry. Ecclestone's entire career had been built on an almost religious faith in the personal deal, the face-to-face negotiation, the principle that a man's word was his bond. He had turned down a CBE. He had turned down a knighthood. He had once boasted that around the world, "dealing with me, a handshake was enough." And it was precisely this handshake ethos — the insistence on operating through personal relationships rather than institutional structures, through offshore trusts rather than transparent corporate governance — that brought him to the dock. The same qualities that made him the most consequential figure in modern sports business also made him, in the end, a fraud.
But to begin with the fall is to misunderstand the architecture of the rise. And the rise began not in the paddocks of Silverstone or the boardrooms of Knightsbridge, but in a hamlet so remote that the boy who would one day own the world's most glamorous sport was delivered to primary school on a horse-drawn milk wagon.
By the Numbers
The Ecclestone Empire
£100,000Purchase price of Brabham F1 team, 1971
$8BEnterprise value of F1 at Liberty Media acquisition, 2017
~$4.1BEstimated earnings for Bambino Holdings from F1
40+Years as F1's commercial rights holder
£652.6MRecord-breaking HMRC tax fraud settlement, 2023
69Cars in his Grand Prix collection, sold in 2025
5 billionAggregate annual TV audience at F1's peak under Ecclestone
A Trawlerman's Son in a World Without Taps
Bernard Charles Ecclestone was born on October 28, 1930, in St Peter South Elmham, a hamlet three miles south of Bungay in Suffolk — the kind of place where geography itself felt like a constraint. His father, Sidney, twenty-seven, was a fisherman who scraped his living aboard the rickety trawler Elnet, sailing out of Lowestoft for herring and mackerel. His mother, Bertha Sophia Westley, twenty-three, ran the household at Hawk House with a discipline that bordered on the military. There was no running water. No indoor plumbing. Strict accounting for every penny Sidney earned — Bertha demanded he hand over his wages on pay day, a system of domestic financial control her son would later replicate on a planetary scale.
When Bernard was about two, Sidney gave up fishing to work as a farmhand. Around the same time, Bertha noticed something wrong with the boy's eyesight. With the infant strapped to her back, she cycled twenty miles to Norwich Hospital. The diagnosis was brutal: the boy was nearly blind in his right eye, and nothing could be done. It was the kind of early deficit that might have provoked self-pity in a different temperament. In Ecclestone, it seems to have sharpened something — a compensatory attentiveness, an instinct to see what others missed, a habit of watching more carefully than anyone else in the room.
The family moved to Bexleyheath in southeast London when Bernard was about eight, and Sidney found work at the local gasworks. The boy left school at sixteen. His formal education was over. His real education — in the mechanics of leverage, the psychology of the deal, the irreducible arithmetic of buy low, sell high — had been underway since he was a child trading buns to classmates. During the war, he had spotted that the local bakery rationed cakes. He bought as many as he could, packed them into a case, and sold them at school at lunchtime for a profit. On Sundays, he worked Petticoat Lane, buying and selling fountain pens. Later it was motorcycle parts, acquired during his lunch break from the gasworks, and then motorcycles themselves. He partnered with Fred Compton to form the Compton & Ecclestone dealership, eventually bought Compton out, and built one of Britain's largest motorcycle dealers.
"I've always been a bit of a dealer," Ecclestone would say decades later, the understatement calibrated for effect. "Every situation I've faced, I've faced as a dealer. You have to know the price of what you're selling and you've got to work out the price someone is willing to pay for it."
The leap to four wheels came naturally. He built a used-car business that made him his first million — a figure he mentioned with studied nonchalance: "The precise moment doesn't stick in my mind as it was just a few more zeroes in the bank account." He expanded into property, loan financing, and Weekend Car Auctions (later sold to British Car Auctions). By his late twenties, Ecclestone was wealthy. Not yet a billionaire, not yet even famous, but wealthy enough to be dangerous — a man with capital and appetite, looking for the next table to sit at.
Death as a Recurring Teacher
The motor racing came in waves, and each wave broke against grief.
Ecclestone tried racing himself in the late 1940s and early 1950s — 500cc Cooper-JAPs at Brands Hatch, where he won occasionally but crashed spectacularly, once flying out of the cockpit and landing in the public car park. He was a used-car dealer, not a racing driver, and he had the self-awareness to know the difference. He stepped away. Then stepped back.
In 1957, he returned as manager of Stuart Lewis-Evans, a promising British driver he had befriended. Lewis-Evans was quick, fearless, a natural — the kind of talent that made you believe in the sport's romantic premise. At the 1958 Moroccan Grand Prix, Lewis-Evans's Vanwall engine blew up, engulfing the car in flames. He was airlifted back to England with devastating burns. Six days later, on October 25 — three days before Ecclestone's twenty-eighth birthday — Lewis-Evans died at East Grinstead Hospital. Ecclestone, who had arranged the medevac flight, vanished from motor racing entirely.
He reappeared in the mid-1960s. The catalyst was Roy Salvadori — the veteran driver who by then was running the Cooper team and who introduced Ecclestone to a young Austrian of extraordinary talent and equally extraordinary recklessness. Jochen Rindt was everything Stuart Lewis-Evans had been, amplified: faster, funnier, more obviously destined for greatness. Ecclestone became his manager and business partner. "Jochen was the most talented driver I'd ever seen," he would say. "I looked after him and we shared the money. It was fun; Jochen was fun."
Rindt was on his way to winning the 1970 World Championship for Lotus when, during qualifying at Monza on September 5, his car slid under the guardrail at the Parabolica and slammed into the barrier. He was killed instantly. He became the sport's only posthumous World Champion. Ecclestone was at the circuit. "I was there," he said, decades later, the sentence compressed to something almost telegraphic. "It was not good. I walked away for a while."
Two friends dead. Two retreats from the sport. And then, each time, a return — not despite the losses but, in some way that Ecclestone himself may not fully understand, because of them. The deaths taught him something about the fragility of what he loved, about the difference between the men who drove the cars and the systems that organized the chaos around them. If the drivers were mortal, the sport itself needed a more durable kind of stewardship. It needed someone who could detach, who could look at the machine rather than the men inside it, who could build infrastructure where before there had been only improvisation and grief.
"I suppose really the things that stick in your mind were the things that shouldn't," Ecclestone reflected near the end. "Those sort of things stand out as something because it doesn't happen every day. But most of the other things in racing are things that happen every day of the week. Like going to the office, isn't it, really, that's how it is."
The £100,000 Key to the Kingdom
At the end of 1971, Ecclestone bought the Brabham Formula One team from Ron Tauranac for approximately £100,000. It was, in retrospect, the most consequential transaction in the history of professional sports — not because of the team itself, which was underperforming and disorganized, but because of the seat it purchased at the table where the future of Formula One would be decided.
Tauranac, the Australian engineer who had co-founded the team with Jack Brabham, told Ecclestone that a young designer named Gordon Murray should be among the first to go. Ecclestone's first act as team owner was to hire Murray and fire Tauranac. The instinct was pure dealer: ignore the seller's assessment of the inventory and make your own.
Over the next fifteen years, Ecclestone ran Brabham with the same relentless pragmatism that had built his used-car empire. He hired Charlie Whiting, Herbie Blash, and Colin Seeley — men who would later follow him into the commercial side of the sport. He signed Nelson Piquet, the brilliant Brazilian who won the World Drivers' Championship in 1981 and 1983. He signed Niki Lauda, already a legend after his near-fatal 1976 Nürburgring crash. He introduced the infamous Brabham BT46B "fan car," which used a massive rear-mounted fan — ostensibly for engine cooling, actually for generating downforce — to win its first and only race before being voluntarily withdrawn. It was a microcosm of Ecclestone's approach: find the edge, exploit it, then step back before anyone could stop you.
But the real action was never on the track. It was in the rooms where no cameras went.
Mr Ferrari taught me that the sport is on the table and the business is under it.
By the mid-1970s, Formula One was, from a commercial standpoint, a shambles. Races were organized ad hoc, sometimes started late because a star driver's car had broken down and no one would dream of beginning without him. There was no consistent television coverage because races could be cancelled at the last moment if there weren't enough cars to fill the grid. Each team negotiated separately with each race promoter — a bazaar of conflicting interests that produced unreliable schedules, wildly inconsistent revenue, and "starting money specials" (cars entered solely to collect the appearance fee). The fans, such as they were, were an afterthought. The sport was romantic, dangerous, and financially amateurish.
Ecclestone saw what no one else saw: the gap between what Formula One was and what it could be worth.
The Concorde Agreement and the Architecture of Control
In 1974, Ecclestone co-founded the Formula One Constructors' Association (FOCA), along with
Colin Chapman of Lotus, Teddy Mayer of McLaren, Ken Tyrrell, Frank Williams, and his friend and legal advisor Max Mosley. Mosley — the suave English lawyer, son of the fascist leader Sir Oswald Mosley, a man whose intellect and ambition matched Ecclestone's own — would become the other half of the duopoly that would control Formula One for three decades. Where Ecclestone was instinct and dealcraft, Mosley was procedure and statute. They were complementary organisms.
Through FOCA, Ecclestone led the teams into a battle with the Fédération Internationale du Sport Automobile (FISA), the sporting arm of the FIA, run by the bombastic Frenchman Jean-Marie Balestre. Balestre — a former journalist with a talent for self-aggrandizement and a gift for generating enemies — believed the governing body should control the commercial rights to the sport. Ecclestone believed the teams should, or rather, that he should, on the teams' behalf. The FISA-FOCA war, as it became known, raged from the late 1970s until March 1981, when the first Concorde Agreement was signed.
The Concorde Agreement — named after the Place de la Concorde in Paris, where the FIA was headquartered — was the Rosetta Stone of Formula One's commercial structure. It committed the teams to race at every Grand Prix (solving the reliability problem that had made the sport unmarketable). It gave FOCA — which is to say Ecclestone — the right to negotiate television contracts on behalf of all the teams. The revenue split was initially brutal in its simplicity: 49% to FOPA (Formula One Promotions and Administration, Ecclestone's company, later known as Formula One Management), 1% to the teams, and 50% to the FIA. FOPA also collected all the fees paid by race promoters and distributed prize money to the teams. The asymmetry was deliberate. Ecclestone understood something that the teams, in their haste to secure guaranteed appearance money, had failed to calculate: the value of the rights would grow exponentially, and whoever controlled the negotiation would capture most of that growth.
"In those days there were no hotels anywhere near Silverstone," Ecclestone recalled of the sport's primitive origins. "We slept in the car." By the time the Concorde Agreement was fully operational, the teams were sleeping in five-star hotels, traveling in private jets, and building factories that cost hundreds of millions. The question of who had paid for the beds — or rather, who had extracted the surplus that made the beds possible — was one that most preferred not to examine too closely.
Subsequent iterations of the Concorde Agreement — in 1987, 1992, 1995, and 1998 — progressively expanded Ecclestone's commercial control. The 1987 version was pivotal: Ecclestone ceased being a team owner (he sold Brabham for over $5 million) and established FOPA to manage the TV rights exclusively. The 1995 version granted the commercial rights to Formula One for fourteen years. In June 1999, the FIA's general assembly voted unanimously to extend those rights until December 31, 2110 — more than a hundred years — for a price of $360 million, most of it deferred. There was no auction. Ecclestone was the only bidder. The delegates were sworn to secrecy.
Let that sink in for a moment: the governing body of the world's most prestigious motor racing series sold the commercial rights to the sport for over a century to one man, at a price he essentially set himself, with no competing bids. It was either the most brilliant piece of deal-making in the history of professional sports or the most brazen act of regulatory capture. Perhaps both.
I've always been a bit of a dealer. I used to buy and sell fountain pens. I used to work on Petticoat Lane buying and selling.
The Television Alchemist
What Ecclestone did with the television rights was, by any reasonable measure, extraordinary. Before him, coverage of Formula One was sporadic, unreliable, and organized on a circuit-by-circuit basis. A race might be broadcast in one country and not in another. Starting times varied. The product — to use the word Ecclestone imported from the entertainment industry — was unpackageable.
Ecclestone grasped two things simultaneously. First, that worldwide television schedules demanded consistency: if you wanted global broadcasting deals, you needed races to start on time, every time, at a predictable hour, in a predictable format. Second, that the aggregation of rights was where the real value lay. A single race's television rights were worth something; the entire season's rights, sold as a package, were worth geometrically more.
He professionalized the logistics. No more late starts. No more cancelled races. No more eccentric local dignitaries — like the legendary Toto Roche, who had made the dropped flag an art form of theatrical hesitation — starting the proceedings. Ecclestone imposed discipline on a circus that had previously celebrated its own chaos. The parade lap, the standardized start procedure, the guarantee that every team would appear at every race: these were his innovations, and they were the preconditions for television's money.
The money followed. By the mid-1990s, Formula One's seventeen annual races were drawing an aggregate global television audience of approximately five billion. Ecclestone's salary of £58 million in 1995 made him the highest-paid executive in the world. His personal wealth, funneled through Bambino Holdings (the Ecclestone family trust, named not for any sentimental reason but because it was the Italian word for "baby"), accumulated in the billions. Forbes estimated his net worth at $4.2 billion at its peak. The Sunday Times Rich List placed him among the top hundred wealthiest people in Britain.
A banker examining a possible flotation of Formula One in the 1990s — when the business was valued at £2.5 billion and Ecclestone was earning £1 million a week — was surprised to discover that the enterprise owned just one building and a few vehicles. The company's headquarters, in Kensington, contained a handful of staff. There was no normal corporate organization. There was just Ecclestone, with his everpresent briefcase, controlling everything. He insisted contracts were written in English regardless of which country hosted the race. He negotiated personally with every race promoter, every broadcaster, every sponsor. The entire multi-billion-pound operation ran on handshakes.
"If you look at contracts," he once explained, "as soon as the ink is dry you've got a lawyer trying to find a way out of it."
The Ringmaster and His Ring
To understand Ecclestone's power, you have to understand the ecosystem he created and the position he occupied within it. The FIA made the rules. The teams built and raced the cars. Ecclestone's companies — Formula One Management (FOM), Formula One Administration (FOA) — sold the spectacle, collected the revenue, and distributed it according to agreements only he fully understood.
The genius was in the intermediary position. He was simultaneously the teams' representative (he had started as one of them, as a team owner) and their counterparty (he controlled the revenue they depended on). He was the FIA's commercial partner and its political antagonist. He was the promoters' negotiator and their banker. At every node in the network, Ecclestone was the intermediary, and the intermediary captured the margin.
Ferrari occupied a unique position in this ecosystem — and Ecclestone understood this with the intuition of a man who had learned his business lessons directly from
Enzo Ferrari. The old man in Maranello, who spoke no English but communicated through translators and an almost supernatural gift for political manipulation, had taught Ecclestone the fundamental lesson: "The sport is on the table and the business is under it." Ecclestone took this literally. He gave Ferrari a special annual "participation bonus" — reportedly around £90 million — that no other team received, in exchange for Ferrari's loyalty to him rather than to any collective bargaining effort by the other teams. It was a classic divide-and-conquer tactic, and it worked for decades.
His relationship with Max Mosley, who became FIA president in 1993, was the other structural pillar. As the FIA's president, Mosley controlled the regulatory framework. As Ecclestone's longest-standing ally, he ensured that the regulatory framework was broadly compatible with Ecclestone's commercial interests. The two men — both of them supremely intelligent, both of them contemptuous of the committee-based decision-making that dominated conventional corporate life — operated as a duopoly that was almost impossible to challenge.
"I'm not somebody who's super-enthusiastic about democracy," Ecclestone said, with characteristic bluntness. "By definition, it can't work. Look at England, the politics is 50-50, so which one is right? You need to have a boss. I always say, when I'm doing business with people, I want to deal with the people who can turn the lights on and off."
This philosophy — autocratic, personalized, allergic to transparency — produced extraordinary results for decades. It also produced the conditions for Ecclestone's eventual removal.
The Selling of the Circus
The financial engineering that accompanied Ecclestone's commercial empire was as intricate as anything on the technical side of the sport. In 1996, he transferred ownership of his Formula One businesses to his wife, Slavica — a six-foot-two former Armani model from Croatia whom he had married in 1985 — ostensibly for tax purposes, in preparation for a planned stock market flotation. The holding company was called SLEC Holdings. The flotation was abandoned after the European Commission launched an investigation into the FIA's relationship with Ecclestone's companies.
But the financial maneuvering continued. In 2000, Ecclestone sold 50% of SLEC to Morgan Grenfell Private Equity and Hellman & Friedman for over $1 billion. In 2001, he sold another 25% for $987.5 million. By 2002, the remaining 75% not in his control had passed to the Kirch Group, the German media conglomerate, which promptly fell into administration, passing its stake to a consortium of banks led by Bayerische Landesbank.
It was here that the story acquired its most sinister chapter. Gerhard Gribkowsky — a banker at Bayerische Landesbank who oversaw the F1 shares — received a payment of $44 million from Ecclestone. The shares went to CVC Capital Partners, a British private equity firm, per Ecclestone's wishes. Ecclestone publicly admitted the payment, insisting it was "a fee for services" and not a bribe. Gribkowsky was convicted of tax evasion and sentenced to eight years in a German prison. Ecclestone himself was indicted on bribery charges in Munich in 2013. In 2014, under German law, he paid a Munich court £60 million to end the trial — a mechanism that technically did not constitute an admission of guilt but that, in the court of public opinion, looked very much like the world's most expensive parking ticket.
CVC, for its part, was content to let Ecclestone run the operation. The private equity firm extracted an estimated $4.5 billion in profits from Formula One while investing almost nothing back into growth. Ecclestone remained CEO, managing the day-to-day business with the same small staff, the same Kensington office, the same briefcase, the same handshakes. The money machine hummed.
Then, in September 2016, Liberty Media — the American media conglomerate controlled by
John Malone, the "cable cowboy" who had quietly assembled one of the largest media empires in the world — announced it would acquire 100% of Delta Topco, the parent company of the Formula One group, for an enterprise value of approximately $8 billion. The deal closed in January 2017.
Chase Carey, the mustachioed former Fox executive whom Malone installed as F1's new chairman, offered Ecclestone the title of "Chairman Emeritus." Ecclestone, who had never heard the term, accepted. Then he was shown the door.
"I was told to go and keep out of the way," he said.
The [Cost](/mental-models/cost) of One Man's Vision
The case against Ecclestone — not the legal case, but the sporting one — was visible long before Liberty Media arrived. By the mid-2010s, Formula One was suffering from ailments that were, in many cases, the direct consequences of Ecclestone's own strategies.
Television viewership had dropped roughly 40% from its 2008 peak. The sport had no social media presence worth mentioning. Ecclestone had dismissed digital platforms with a contempt that sounded, even at the time, like a man standing on the wrong side of history: "I don't know why people want to get to the so-called 'young generation.' Why do they want to do that? Is it to sell them something? Most of these kids haven't got any money. I'm not interested in tweets, Facebook and whatever this nonsense is. I'd rather get to the 70-year-old guy who's got plenty of cash."
The move to pay television — which Ecclestone had aggressively pursued, most notably through an exclusive six-year deal with Sky from 2019 worth over £300 million that effectively ended live terrestrial coverage in the UK — maximized short-term broadcast revenue while gutting the sport's ability to recruit new fans. In March 2016, the Grand Prix Drivers' Association — led by Jenson Button, Sebastian Vettel, and former driver Alex Wurz — published an extraordinary open letter declaring that F1's decision-making process was "obsolete and ill-structured" and that recent changes could "jeopardise its future success." They did not name Ecclestone. They did not need to.
Ecclestone's response was characteristically wry. He wrote back, agreeing with the drivers — "It is not always easy to agree with you but you are correct" — and then added a needle: "You state that every individual acts with the very best intentions. I am not sure if this is a misprint. If not, it should read 'with their very best intentions.'"
It was vintage Ecclestone: concede the point, deflect the blame, insert a joke. But the structural critique was valid. The governance system he had designed — the Strategy Group of leading teams, the F1 Commission, the FIA World Council — was a hall of mirrors in which Ecclestone had once operated with near-total freedom but which, by the 2010s, had become gridlocked. Mercedes and Ferrari, as engine suppliers to more than half the grid, could effectively veto any change they didn't like. Ecclestone complained publicly that their stranglehold risked "destroying" F1. What he didn't say, or perhaps couldn't see, was that the system of preferential deals, bilateral agreements, and personal relationships that he had built over four decades was itself the source of the gridlock. He had created an empire that could not function without him and could not adapt with him.
Spygate and the Architecture of Suspicion
If you want to understand the world Ecclestone created — its intensity, its paranoia, its staggering concentration of wealth and ego — there is no better document than the transcript of the September 13, 2007, hearing of the FIA's World Motor Sport Council, convened to adjudicate the so-called "Spygate" scandal.
The details are byzantine but the essence is simple: Mike Coughlan, McLaren's chief designer, had received a 780-page dossier of confidential Ferrari technical information from Nigel Stepney, a disgruntled Ferrari engineer. The question before the Council was whether McLaren had used this information — a distinction that, in Formula One's paranoid ecosystem, was nearly impossible to adjudicate.
What the transcript reveals is not the answer to that question — the Council ultimately fined McLaren $100 million and excluded them from the 2007 Constructors' Championship — but the atmosphere. Here were two of the world's most technologically sophisticated racing teams, represented by teams of QCs, arguing over the content of text messages between engineers, the pitting strategy for the Bahrain Grand Prix, whether a driver named Pedro de la Rosa had understood a whispered description of Ferrari's brake balance system, and whether the functional manager of a drawing office could reasonably be expected to inject purloined ideas into a design process that produced engineering changes "on average every twenty minutes."
Max Mosley, presiding, was imperious. Ferrari's counsel was aggressive. McLaren's counsel was defensive. And somewhere in the background, unnamed but omnipresent, was the commercial infrastructure that made these fractions of a second worth fighting over — the television contracts, the sponsorship deals, the prize money distributions that Ecclestone controlled. The entire drama — hundreds of millions of dollars at stake over a sketch of a brake assembly — was only possible because one man had turned a sport into a commodity valuable enough to litigate.
Ecclestone himself appeared in the transcript only obliquely. Ron Dennis, McLaren's team principal, testified that "only Bernie" might have seen certain documents, that Ecclestone had been told about Fernando Alonso's threats. Ecclestone was the intermediary even here — the man everyone called, the man who knew things, the man whose involvement was assumed even when it couldn't be proven.
I am not really emotional, so I can't say that. I don't have that kind of emotion, where I sit back and think 'Oh, that was wonderful.' I am not that kind of person.
The Collection and the Reckoning
In December 2024, at ninety-four, Ecclestone announced he would sell his entire collection of sixty-nine historic racing cars — world championship–winning Ferraris raced by Michael Schumacher and Niki Lauda, Alberto Ascari's Italian GP–winning 375 F1, the Brabham BT46B fan car, decades of Grand Prix history sealed in a private vault that few had ever seen. "I love all of my cars," he said, "but the time has come for me to start thinking about what will happen to them should I no longer be here."
The collection was sold as a single lot to Mark Mateschitz, the son of Red Bull founder
Dietrich Mateschitz, through the dealer Tom Hartley Jr., who called it "the largest single transaction ever to take place in the collector car world." The value was estimated in the "hundreds of millions." Mateschitz promised to keep the collection together and make it accessible to the public.
There was something fitting about the sale — the ultimate dealer, the man who had spent a lifetime acquiring and controlling, finally liquidating. The cars had been, in their way, the truest expression of his identity: objects of mechanical beauty that he had owned for decades but, as he admitted, had never found time to drive. The collection was a museum of a life spent not experiencing things but arranging them — setting the price, controlling the access, ensuring that the value accrued to the intermediary.
In his interview with GQ, the one in which he received a Lifetime Achievement Award, Ecclestone had reflected on his relationship to Formula One with an honesty that was, for him, unusual. "I miss some of the deals," he said, "especially with the promoters at some of the circuits — a few might have gone under if we hadn't been involved and helped a little — and the deals with some of the big sponsors, who have renewed for decades." He paused. "And I still get the odd call for advice."
The odd call. The great disruptor reduced to a consultant. But this, too, was characteristic. Ecclestone had never been sentimental. He had walked away from motor racing twice — after Lewis-Evans's death, after Rindt's — and come back both times harder, more focused, more determined to build something that would outlast the fragility of any single human life. That the thing he built ultimately outlasted his control of it was, perhaps, the final proof that he had built it well.
By 2024, under Liberty Media's stewardship, F1 was generating $3.41 billion in annual revenue — more than double the figure under Ecclestone. Fan attendance had reached 6.5 million. The sport had 97 million social media followers. Netflix's Drive to Survive had done more to recruit young American fans than forty years of Ecclestone's promoter deals. Everything he had dismissed — social media, digital engagement, the so-called young generation with no money — had become the engine of growth.
He had been right about the product. He had been wrong about the audience.
In Gstaad, at the Hotel Olden — which he owns, naturally — Ecclestone receives visitors in a conservatory that overlooks the main promenade. Every few minutes, a horse-drawn sleigh rolls past, carrying tourists through the most expensive village in Switzerland. "All part of the act," he says. And then a grin, the same grin that has disarmed and unnerved people for seven decades, the grin of a man who set the price of the act and the price of the sleigh and the price of the hotel and who now, at ninety-four, watches the whole performance from the window of a building that bears his name on the deed.
Behind his desk, in his office, there is a large bronze bust. It is of himself.
