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The stopwatch.

That’s pretty much this whole racing journey to F1, in one single image. 

That bloody ’80s stopwatch. 

When I started racing as a young kid, we didn’t have any fancy data screens that would tell you the lap times like they do now. So my father had this stopwatch he would use to time me in practice in the karts.

I’d drive as fast as I could. I think it was fear that was pushing me. I wasn’t afraid of the kart, or the speed, or the track. No. I was afraid of that stopwatch. That stopwatch was like my mortal enemy. It was like no matter how much I stayed in control, my back against the seat, perfect grip, squeezing on the pedal going into the corner and easing off at the right time, no skid, no deceleration, just straight momentum through the lap … I’d look up at my dad and know. I’d know.

“How’d I do?”

“Nope. Not competitive. Do it again.”

Cold as ice. At first, going into race weekends, I seriously didn’t believe I could win. I thought, Surely I’m not the quickest out here. But then something strange would happen…. I’d go and win the races.

I was confused more than anything. On Thursday with my dad, I thought I was mediocre. By Saturday, I was holding a trophy. 

There was a three-year period where I won almost everything I could possibly win. 

Next day with my dad. Click. 

“Nope. Do it again.”

It took me probably six years to realise what was happening. Then I finally figured it out: My dad was purposefully clicking the stopwatch late. He was adding seconds to my time. He wanted me to always think I was just a bit slower than I was.

Even when I was winning everything, I could always push myself further. Always a little further.

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Sometimes I reflect on the success I had back then and think, Those must’ve been some really amazing times. I know there must have been plenty of happy moments along that journey.

But I can remember just twice ever seeing my dad with a tear in his eye. Once at my sister Cara’s wedding and the other in Sochi, in 2018. I’d just been told that I would be entering F1, with Williams. It meant the world to all of us, and I could see how much it meant to him, too. The smile and tears.

But it’s just the way that memory works … you don’t really remember all the times that put a smile on your face, right? 

You remember the times that made you cry.

I close my eyes, and suddenly I’m nine years old again. 

I’m in the kart. My dad’s standing on the straight on a bright hot day. And I’m not having a good race. 

He’s walking up and down this sort of grandstand fuming and waving his arms around. He’s furious. 

I’m under the helmet thinking, Shit. I’m f***ing up.

That’s one of my clearest memories of racing. I can access that feeling instantly.

For probably 10 whole years of my career, I looked on every single lap to see where my father was standing. I was always looking for the expression on his face, looking for his satisfaction. And I don’t know … it just seemed like he was disappointed more often than he was proud. He always wanted more from me. I think he knew what it takes to be in one of those 20 seats. 

It takes..... everything. 

Back then I was racing up and down England, so we had a little motorhome that we’d travel in to get to the races every weekend. When I did well we were like a big happy family. 

But let’s say I was overtaken on a corner or made a little mistake, that journey home would feel like the longest ride in the world. We’d pile into the van for our six- or seven-hour drive back to Norfolk and just be sitting in silence for a really really long time. Blistering silence. Picture like a tea kettle on the stovetop.

That was probably the hardest part. As a kid, you see and feel all that and feel like you’ve caused it. 

As soon as we got back to our house I would run up to my room. All this anger and anxiety would ball up inside me. I’d just get this itch like I had to go, you know what I mean? I had to get out of there, or I was going to spiral. 

We lived in the countryside, and so I’d get on my quad bike and drive in the fields, aimlessly. But sometimes I wouldn’t even get on the bike. I’d just go outside and run kind of wild. 

We had a chocolate Labrador, Alfie, who was basically my best friend. He’d see me running and start chasing me. Without him there, I probably would have looked quite mad. 

Literally just running around the garden.

Running as fast and as fast and as fast as I could.

Looking back on it, I spent my whole childhood on edge. I felt some anxiety around my dad and racing, but there was also something else…. We lived in the middle of nowhere. The closest village was four miles away, and it was tiny. There were little back roads that took you from one town to another, with houses in between acres of farmland. Combine harvesters were always rolling around cutting and cleaning crops in the fields.

My father worked in agriculture and ran his own business. He was working all day every day in order to support my racing dreams. He was gone to work before I woke up, and by the time he was back I was usually in bed. So whenever we weren’t at the track on the weekends, I was always kind of in my head wondering, Where is my dad?

I have a brother, Benji, who’s 12 years older, and my sister, Cara, who’s 13 years older. So growing up, it would really just be me and my mum at home. At night, the birds would always be chirping, but they didn’t sound like nice birds you know? It sounded like a haunted house. Every so often I would be watching TV by myself, and I’d just get scared.

Once the sun set, it got kind of eerie. If I saw a pair of headlights going by the window it was literally like, What’s going on?? One single car, and I’d be on edge. Any noise, any creak in the house, I’d think, Something’s happening.

I was afraid of my own shadow, basically. And I probably didn’t even realise it at the time, but looking back, I was a bit of a lonely kid. 

I didn’t have many friends at school because every weekend, when other kids had birthday parties or would go around to friends’ houses, I was at the racetrack. Eventually the invites stopped coming. I knew the reason of course, but my focus was just elsewhere. It didn’t mean that I had no desire having mates, as we all do. Of course I did. 

At first, I thought I could make friends with the other drivers, but I learned early on that you can’t really be friends with your rivals. And go-karting was pretty brutal, because you were racing wheel-to-wheel, and you were banging and bashing every other corner, so you ended up having fall-outs with half of the grid. And then the parents were having fall-outs between each other, and that trickled down to the kids. So it became quite an isolated life.

But I didn’t really think too much of school to be honest because even by that age I knew where I wanted to be. People always ask me how I felt when I was younger, missing out on all this fun stuff and sacrificing so much of my childhood. For me it was no sacrifice — it was a decision. I wanted to be on the racetrack. I wanted to be racing. I wanted to be winning.

I won my first major go-karting championship when I was 11. This was 2009. I remember I got invited to a big awards ceremony at the end of the season. There were Formula One drivers there, team owners, team bosses … guys who I’d only seen on television up to that point. Guys I idolised. 

The men of the night were a team called Brawn GP. Ross Brawn was the technical director of the Honda Racing team. He had this brilliant mind. The previous season, Honda’s Formula One team had been failing and at the back. Basically, they had almost gone bankrupt, and Ross bought the team at the end of 2008 for one pound. Over the 2009 season they did something incredible with the car design. And their driver, a British driver, Jenson Button, won the championship.

So that evening I’m dressed all smart in some wrinkly suit. And I’m walking through all these people at this humungous convention centre in Birmingham. It was nothing fancy, but it might as well have been the Royal Opera House to a kid, you know? It was major. I saw Ross and Jenson on the floor, and I was just in awe. They were like legends to me.

Us Brits are incredibly passionate about motorsport. I’ve seen up close what it means to the fans to have a British driver to get behind, to cheer on to victory. I’m proud of being from Britain. And I want to make them proud, too. 

There’s this moment from the night I’ll remember for the rest of my life. 

At one point, I went to the bathroom. And after like half a second, I realised that standing there next to me at the urinal was Ross Brawn. I froze like … midstream. Sorry, but it’s true! Keep in mind, I’m like 11 years old. When I was a kid, I used to look at these drivers and team bosses like they were superheroes. To me back then, they were larger than life.

In my head I was like, Wow, I can’t believe he goes to the bathroom, too. I couldn’t believe we were in the same room. It didn’t feel real. He didn’t feel real. It was the first time I realised that people I perceived to be superstars were just human beings. If I’d never had that moment, I don’t know … I probably wouldn’t be writing this today. I wouldn’t have thought my story would be worth anything.

And it might sound strange, but in a way, I think seeing Ross as ordinary, helped me see my father more clearly, too.

It’s only when I got older that I fully recognised the amount of stress he must have been under. I can look back now, putting myself in his shoes, and think like, if I’m working from seven in the morning till nine at night, and all of the money I’ve earned that week has gone straight into racing on the weekends … And I see my son isn’t taking it seriously or he’s messing around or he made a silly mistake or whatever, of course I’d be upset.

He was putting everything on the line.

Everything.

Growing up, we were comfortable enough to live a good life, which I’m very grateful for. But just being honest, we were not wealthy enough to have a career in racing. Altogether, my father probably spent over a million pounds on my racing career. That’s a hell of a lot of money. Sadly in motorsport though, that doesn’t even get you halfway to F1. And that’s basically everything we had. He was just so deeply invested in the dream. We all were. Me, Dad, Mum, Benji, and Cara. But that’s just what it was. All the chips were pushed in on me.

One day, I asked myself a question.

Would I rather have had this “pat me on the head and tell me everything is great” relationship with my dad growing up knowing what I know now, which is that the toughness he put on me has set me up for life? No, my dad didn’t give me all the traditional childhood cradling in the world.… But he put his hand in his pocket and gave me every available penny he had. He sold his business to fund my racing. And sacrificed something even more valuable. Time. Every waking second, he sacrificed for my dream.

And that means the world to me.

When I was 16, I realised I had to make my own way. I was in my very first year of cars, in British Formula 4, and my parents told me that they didn’t have the funds anymore to finance my career. In my head, everything shifted in that moment. At 16, two years from being a legal adult, you’re starting to feel like a man, you know? But in that moment, I realised how far I was from that. It was like, It’s time for me to step up and make this happen for myself.

At the time, I had the phone numbers of some Formula One bosses. So I started calling people, I was emailing people, talking to anybody who would give me the time. My manager had actually gotten Toto’s email from one of his other drivers, but he thought I should be the one to take it, so he gave it to me. He believed in me, so he was like, “Get an email sent off quick.” 

And listen, it didn’t exactly take a rocket scientist to work out … Had to have been something like totowolff@MercedesF1.com!

I actually remember it very well. It was the Tuesday after the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix 2014. I wrote something like:

Dear Toto, 

My name’s George Russell. I race in Formula 4. I’ve just won the championship this season. I’m progressing into Formula 3 next year, and I’d love to sit down with you to have your advice for my future career.

I didn’t want to send a big CV like, This is me, sign me, sign me, sign me. I don’t know why. I just said, “I just want to have your advice.” I thought that was the best way to get face time with him. 

He replied within 15 minutes.

I’d had some good conversations with McLaren, had prior contacts with Red Bull, but honestly, Toto was just … different. He seemed so genuine.

We met at the Mercedes headquarters near Silverstone, in January 2015. Toto always tells a story about me walking in in a suit and tie, carrying a briefcase … I don’t think it was quite as extreme as that. Might as well get that on the record. But I definitely had my nicest pair of shoes on. I always used to dress like an old man when I was younger, so I would’ve had a shirt on, and probably a V-neck jumper or something. I looked quite smart as a 16-year-old at the time.

Anyway, I walked into the room, and there were six other people there who were all the heads of the various departments. Basically, all the top dogs. The head of the junior program, who’d only just been signed, Gwen Lagrue. The head of the DTM, which was the German Touring Car Masters. A couple of other members of the F1 team. Then there was Toto himself.

And yeah, it was basically just a conversation for them to get to know me better, and decide whether they wanted to take a bit of a leap of faith doing something different and signing a young driver to, at that point in time, a program that didn’t exist. I think I’d already been on their radar. Basically, I wasn’t just a bloke off the street who sent a nice email. It wasn’t totally out of the blue. They’d already been talking about my potential, they’d just hired Gwen to head up the academy, and everything just clicked.

When I signed with Mercedes, I was their only academy driver on the books for two years. F1 teams now, they’re signing 10 drivers each, spreading their bets. Mercedes went all-in on me. They made it clear, “We believe in you. This is not a test now. We are here to fulfill your potential.” They literally said that word for word, and that was immense. When I look back now, it feels like a huge privilege that they had so much faith in me. They put it on me to perform, but they made it so simple.

And of course, in that crazy moment when my childhood dream came true, I thought of my father. I couldn’t wait to tell him every detail. And I don’t know what I expected, but his reaction was surprising in a way. He didn’t hound me with all these questions…. He didn’t even ask to come to the meeting. He just congratulated me, and we hugged. It almost felt like I’d been in a cage for so long, and he’d been taming me and making me who I am. Then as soon as Mercedes signed me, he kind of handed me over and let me fly.

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I’ll never forget this conversation I had with Toto one time. This was like a year after my signing. I was stressing about my future. I wanted to be in F1. I knew I couldn’t go straight in at Mercedes. That was a bit unheard of. Obviously, Kimi Antonelli’s done it now, but that was never going to be the route they took with me.

So I’m in Toto’s office asking him all these questions. 

“What do we need to do?? Who can I talk to??”

And the thing about Toto is, he’s so disarming. You don’t even realise how tightly you’ve got yourself wound up, until something he says makes you breathe a little easier.

Toto literally just said to me, “George, you perform. I’ll sort the rest.”

That was pretty simple, but I really internalised it. I’ve applied that advice to every step of my journey since. 

And I still am.

I’ve been in the Mercedes F1 family for nearly 10 years now. I don’t take that for granted one bit. While I’m excited for the 2026 season ahead, we still have six races left this year. That’s the only thing I’m focused on — the next race — because every single one matters. This has always been the case, from karting to now.

As much as there’s always talk of contracts in this sport, to be honest, I’ve never worried about them. Because I know that if I perform, everything gets sorted. Listen, we can talk all we want about how close everybody is on teams….. At the end of the day, this is transactional. This is a business. I know why I’m here. A team hires a driver to be fast.

I think that’s why sometimes I feel like my personality is a little misunderstood. Because I’m so focused on that part of it. Being fast. Everything else is just noise to me. I just want to perform. That’s my mindset: I want to win a F1 world championship. And when I do, I know I’ll want to win another and another … I learned that from being around Lewis and Toto.

I look at the GOATs, not just of my sport, but every sport. And I think, how can I be like that?

Actually, you know who really kind of opened my eyes?

Novak Djokovic.

Such an inspiring individual and athlete. One time I asked him about his fitness regimen and what he’s doing that’s enabled him to win titles in tennis for so long. He mostly said all the things you’d expect. Like, he’s obviously very meticulous about his diet and works very hard at training.

But then I asked him how he felt compared to his 20s. 

He laughed. 

Novak said, “George, during my 20s, everything was easier.”

He said he felt like he was doing more than he needed to back then. Like in retrospect, he could have probably missed a day or two at the gym, and he doesn’t think it would’ve affected his performance whatsoever at the time. But he would’ve been paying the price for it today.

When he said that, something clicked for me.

Our seasons in F1 are getting to be so brutal. The schedule. Going from Australia to Shanghai, to Tokyo. We’ve been in the Middle East. Back to Europe, Montreal, then back to Europe, Singapore, and now back to America. I’m in a place now where I feel fit. I feel fresh. It’s been a fatiguing seven months, but today I feel good. But I know in 10 years time, if I’m in my mid-30s, this is going to be pretty brutal. And I don’t have much time to ensure peak physical performance, to make sure that my mental health is in the right place.

And of course, there was a GOAT sitting right next to me for many years in my career that had a massive impact on my mindset as well……

I won’t lie, it all came as a bit of a surprise with Lewis leaving for Ferrari. 

I won’t speak for him, but I’ve sometimes wondered if within himself he could ever fully appreciate what he’s achieved in F1 because his vision is so much greater, further, and higher. Like, he’s aspiring to Michael Jordan, and from a sporting perspective he’s achieved it. But the way Lewis’s mind works, it’s like, Has Jordan been more successful commercially? Or, maybe another person has had a bigger social impact. His definition of greatness just keeps growing. But the biggest thing I learned from Lewis, I guess, is that the winning comes first. Then everything else.

Now, he’s given himself the ultimate gift … The gift of choice.

And that’s what I want one day. I’m trying to build a structural foundation for the future to ensure that when I’m 35, 36, closing in on 40, that it’s on ME to decide if I want to continue in Formula One or not. That it’s not because my performance has dropped or I can’t deal with the travel anymore or the time zone shifts. That will eventually happen. But you don’t fall off a cliff, right? You tail off. And nobody knows if you’re tailing off at 27, at 30, at 35, at 40. 

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I’m 27 now. It’s funny, when I first sat down to open up about my journey, a part of me thought: Wait, what journey? Am I retiring? I haven’t done anything yet. You know, I don’t really like to dwell on winning one or two races.

Then I remembered the magic of winning my first race. I’ll never forget that feeling. It was a moment I’d always dreamed about. You visualise it in bed at night as a kid.… Qualifying front row, leading the pack the whole way to a win. Or maybe, in the fantasy, there is some pressure, like in 2020, when Lewis got covid, and I got called up to take his spot. (I guess someone didn’t want me to win that day, for whatever reason).

I’d always wondered how it would feel. Something I never considered though, was how others would feel. 

When I won, in the pouring São Paulo rain, seeing members of my team crying with emotions, seeing my family crying, and seeing the pride in their faces…. That’s something I’ll never forget.

Ultimately every single one of those people impacted my journey so much. They’re the ones who got me to where I am today. So it was their win just as much as my own.

That’s why I really wanted to write this. For the people who opened the doors and believed in me: My father and my sweet mother, first and foremost. Thank you for giving me every single opportunity to get where I am today. I would also like to thank Gwen Lagrue, who believed in me from Day 1, four years before I was even on Mercedes’s radar. Thank you for always having my back, for believing in me from the age of 13.

And finally, to Carmen, who supports me through what is an unbelievably hectic life, thank you for understanding the dedication it takes to be where I want to be. 

There is a photograph at home of Carmen and me from the day I signed my F1 contract with Mercedes. We were in Holland at the time, at Zandvoort. That picture will always be something I cherish because you could see on our faces that a dream was becoming real. Carmen, you are my anchor, always.

Now, it’s like me and Dad have traded places. In a crazy way, when I am in the car, he’s right there with me. When I lose, I feel his frustration. Except now, his frustration is my own.

When racing is in your blood, everything is about time. It’s been the same since I was 10 years old.

Everything I do, from the minute I wake up in the morning, to the minute I go to sleep, is planned pretty much to the second in order to answer one question: Is this making me faster? 

This is the first thing I’ve done in years that hasn’t been about looking forward. But I’m glad that I finally put my thoughts on paper — my real story. My real journey to this seat. 

Honestly, I feel a bit lighter. A bit more free. 

I believe in myself and my team. I am prepared for what is to come. I am ready to be champion.