The only surprising thing about Formula 1's arrival in Las Vegas is it didn't happen sooner. Sport and city are spiritual kin, dealing in money, melodrama, risk, champagne, sex appeal, more money, glamour and, in the case of Vegas, dealers. (Obviously I mean cards.) It's the equivalent of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton: two flawed icons, volatile as they are charismatic, whose union can only be box office. Sport's glitziest circus has taken residence in the world's most extravagant big top. Roll up, roll up and enjoy the show.
The inaugural edition experienced teething problems that were probably inevitable. By all accounts the locals were less than enamoured at having half the town shut down and the other half gridlocked for the better part of a weekend. (Bear in mind, a Vegas weekend lasts as long as a month in most cities - this is a place with no clocks and as such time works a little differently here.) However 2024 proved a smoother, slicker operation, the entire Strip injected with F1 fever whether it liked it or not. My impression was most people liked it a lot, and I suppose those who didn't like it would've known to book a weekend away to wherever Vegas residents go to blow off steam. (Rural Ohio probably.)
I've visited Vegas a few times in the past but F1 week offered a whole new experience. Most obviously, the Strip had been turned into a racetrack, and although traffic followed right up until Saturday night, crossing the road was an even greater challenge than usual – you quickly identified the nearest bridges to your hotel. The unavoidable logistical difficulties – and navigating Vegas on foot is never a picnic – were offset by the immense sense of occasion. World title fights, even Super Bowls, may bring the fans but only F1 changes the literal infrastructure of the city.
Every hotel on the Strip had its own adopted team, complete with full-scale replica cars in the lobby, portraits of the two drivers and copious merchandise available for purchase. Our hotel, the Aria, rode with Mercedes – a welcome sign given the team boasted two British drivers in George Russell and Lewis Hamilton. The boys ultimately finishing one-two merely confirmed our status as a portent of good fortune, although sadly this fortune ebbed somewhat at the roulette table. Can’t win ‘em all – as I sadly told my fellow journalist and Vegas newbie Simon after helping him lose his stake. Sorry, Simon.
Best gimmick goes to the Bellagio and its Shoey Bar, a temporary installation outside in the hotel entrance. Honouring the Australian driver Daniel Ricciardo and his trademark celebration of quaffing champagne from his boot, the Shoey Bar served tequila cocktails from replica racing boots for the princely sum of $150. If you think the price a bit steep, bear in mind each boot has its own unique serial number and you get to keep yours. The queues stretching round the Bellagio fountain on Saturday afternoon suggested the famously shrewd Vegas punters knew a good deal when they saw one. Whatever the price, the buyers got more mileage from their shoe than poor Ricciardo who hasn’t made a podium since 2021.
Throughout the week screening parties were popping off all over town. We watched the first practice at Giada restaurant in The Cromwell and qualification by the Boulevard Pool of the Cosmopolitan, the latter attracting a large crowd including two separate VIP events that refused to let me in. The race simulators were easier to access: Harry, the PR chaperoning Simon and I over the week, posted a cracking time that placed him on the overall leaderboard. I proved so useless the Americans waiting for their go on the simulator began offering words of encouragement: “Dude, you got this corner! Break! Break!”
We watched the race itself in the main grandstand. It’s been said no moments in sport are more fraught with anticipation than those before a heavyweight world title fight. I won’t dispute the statement but the moments before a F1 race aren’t lacking in the anticipation stakes. There are surprising similarities between the two: the pomp and circumstance, the way the site of the contest – be it racetrack or ring – goes from the most crowded place in the world to the loneliest as the moment of truth arrives and only the combatants remain.
Above all – and there’s no nice way of saying this – the knowledge that people are genuinely risking their lives here. Thus the complicated, almost contradictory relationship between the audience and those sports dealing in the highest of stakes. Just as boxing fans yearn for the knockout without wishing any lasting damage on its recipient, many watchers of F1 are secretly hoping for first-corner carnage, a multi-car pile up that every driver involved walks away from. There was no such chaos in Vegas but plenty of drama with Hamilton coming through the field to finish second and Max Verstappen securing another world title. (Officially his fourth, legitimately his third for those who haven’t forgotten the travesty of 2021.)
Maybe that’s enough motor racing: Vegas is hardly short of alternative attractions, and not merely the ones advertised in leaflets on the Strip. (Clue’s in the name.) We were taken to a Cirque du Soleil show staged almost entirely on water deep within the bowels of the Bellagio. A trippy, often breathtaking experience that left me very self-conscious about my inability to touch my toes. We saw the Las Vegas Raiders lose yet another match in their beautiful new stadium, the city’s NFL team enduring an 2-11 record at the time of writing. However the Allegiant is a veritable cathedral and I met a delightful elderly lady operating the lift – her husband operated the next lift along.
Any motorhead – yes, we’re back on cars – should head to Las Vegas Motor Speedway and drive a supercar around a track primarily used for NASCAR. I watched a NASCAR race at this very stadium a few years ago and I can confirm it’s very hot and very loud. The supercar experience was way better – even if my lack of driving licence prevented me from getting behind the wheel myself. (Vegas isn’t that rogue.) Instead a professional driver whizzed me round in what unquestionably ranks as among the most viscerally thrilling ninety seconds of my life. (Several of the others also happened in Vegas but we’ll save those for another day.)
The food scene is exceptional, with Michelin-starred chefs ensconced in every hotel and three separate In-n-Outs, the iconic West Coast burger beloved by the great Anthony Bourdain. During the trip we enjoyed hearty brunches at Bardot Brasserie and Sadelle's Café, French and American restaurants serving food that puts hair on your chest and exclamation points on your bathroom scale. My favourite was the breakfast bowl at Mexican restaurant Chica, a phenomenal feed including plantain, black beans and skirt steak, with the bonus distinction not causing me to Google ‘personal trainer London’ as I staggered from the table.
If you fancy a drink that doesn’t come with its own footwear, the cocktail circuit at the Cosmopolitan takes you to four different bars, including a hidden speakeasy. However nothing encapsulates Vegas quite like The Chandelier, a cocktail bar contained within, yes, a gigantic chandelier. Order the Verbena, their bestselling drink that isn’t even shown on the menu. (Neither is animal style fries at In-n-Out.) It’s served with an edible flower called a Szechuan button that should be consumed after your first sip. A genuine experience and an absolutely fantastic creation.
Fun, shiny and remorselessly OTT – thus the Chandelier bar, thus Las Vegas and indeed thus Formula 1. Expect their union to be making headlines for many years to come.
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We stayed at Aria Resort & Casino. Rates start at £92 per night (excluding resort fees and taxes). For more information, see Visit Las Vegas
