Senna

When someone asks me what Formula 1 truly is, what makes it different, what makes it special, I don’t talk about championships or even the cars. I say one word: Senna.

It’s not just a name. It’s instinct. Like a gear shift in my mind before I can explain anything else. For me, Formula 1 has always been about data, the lines, the limits, the milliseconds. And Senna? He was the outlier. The anomaly. The data point that didn’t fit the trend but redefined it.

Senna wasn’t someone who drove within boundaries. He was the boundary.

I once heard an argument over how far a driver could push the car’s wheels to the edge of the track. People debated what was “too much.” But Senna had answered that years ago: you use every inch of the circuit, and then some, if you know what you’re doing. His maneuvers weren’t reckless, they were calibrated.

And then there was the rain. Estoril, 1985. Most drivers backed off. Senna went full throttle, taking wide, unconventional lines through soaked corners, avoiding rubbered patches like he could see the grip beneath the surface. The telemetry didn’t make sense until you watched the lap. Lap after lap of late braking, perfect throttle modulation, no hesitation. While others spun out, he lapped everyone but one.

That wasn’t luck. That was mathematical aggression.

Senna never gambled. He calculated. He knew the car’s limit not approximately, but exactly. And while others backed away from that edge, he danced on it like he was born there.

Then came Imola, 1994. We know how it ended. But what stings is the data. Telemetry showed him compensating for instability, holding the steering longer, feathering the throttle through corners he usually dominated. He wasn’t giving up, he was saving the car, like he always did.

The broken steering column was blamed, but telemetry revealed more: even in his final moments, he didn’t let go.

Adrian Newey, one of the car’s designers, later admitted his guilt. Maybe the aerodynamics were flawed. And that’s what engineers and strategists must remember: when systems fail, responsibility is shared. Senna’s death forced the sport to change, with stronger cockpits, safer barriers, and real accountability.

But Senna himself remains irreplaceable.

He wasn’t just fast, he was different. His telemetry broke patterns. His racing defied expectations. He made speed look surgical.

I remember staring at Monaco ’88 data late one night. Senna was nearly 1.5 seconds faster than Prost in the same car. His throttle trace barely dipped. His steering input was smooth, composed. Through Casino Square and the tunnel, where others lifted, he didn’t. It wasn’t chaos, it was silence in motion.

That wasn’t pushing. That was perfection.

Senna didn’t defy physics. He made peace with it. And that’s why he set the benchmark, not just in speed, but in understanding, in control, in knowing.

Because sometimes, the most important data point isn’t the one that stands out.

It’s the one that changes everything after it.

Senna.