What the 2022 Regulations Removed — and What Replaced Them
As Formula 1 prepares to embrace another full regulatory reset in 2026, it’s worth revisiting the last one—not for what it promised, but for what it quietly changed.
There’s a familiar experience many of us have had: a restaurant reopens after a renovation.
New logo. New décor. New plates. The menu looks mostly the same, but the descriptions are updated, a few new items appear, and there’s just enough novelty to signal a fresh direction.
The wait staff hasn’t changed. Same people. Same rhythm. Same friendly competence you remember.
From the customer’s point of view, ordering feels identical. You choose a dish, the waiter writes it down, and the night moves on.
Behind the scenes, however, something fundamental has changed.
Orders are no longer handed directly to the kitchen. They’re routed through a new ordering system—one designed to improve efficiency, consistency, and flow. When it works, everything feels smoother. Some dishes arrive faster than before. Timing is tighter. Execution looks cleaner.
But when it doesn’t work, the margin disappears.
Meals that once tolerated small delays now fall apart if the timing isn’t perfect. Dishes that were forgiving suddenly aren’t. The same order, placed the same way, can produce very different outcomes depending on how precisely the system behaves.
Nothing about the act of ordering changed.
Everything about how the order is processed did.
That distinction—between what changes on the surface and what changes underneath—is a useful way to think about the 2022 Formula 1 regulations.
They were sold as a visual and aerodynamic reset. In practice, they rewired how errors behaved—and how recoverable they were once they appeared.
Most of the early conversation focused on what was visible: new bodywork, simplified wings, and a dramatic shift in how downforce was generated. And, of course, porpoising—the word every Formula 1 fan learned on the first day of testing in 2022, as cars bounced down the straights like they’d been sent to Pimp My Ride and fitted with hydraulics.1
What received far less attention was how those changes altered the act of driving itself—how much information drivers received, how forgiving the cars were at the limit, and how much imbalance could still be managed through technique alone.
The reset didn’t just change performance.
It changed feedback.
A Narrower Window (and What That Looked Like in Practice)
Under the previous generation of cars, drivers operated within relatively broad operating windows. When a car drifted slightly out of balance, drivers could usually feel it early and work within that instability through steering, braking, and throttle inputs. The car communicated progressively. Mistakes were often recoverable.
Think back to the restaurant.
Before the renovation, a dish could sit under the heat lamp a little too long and still arrive intact. Timing mattered, but there was slack in the system. Small delays were noticeable, not fatal.
The 2022 cars narrowed that margin.
With downforce increasingly generated by the floor—and with fewer aerodynamic tools available to manage instability—performance became tightly coupled to platform stability. Small changes in ride height or pitch carried outsized aerodynamic consequences. Feedback that once arrived gradually now appeared abruptly—or not at all. Instead of warning signs, drivers encountered thresholds.
In restaurant terms, the kitchen workflow changed.
Dishes were now designed to be served exactly when ready. When the system worked, execution looked sharper. When it didn’t, there was no buffer. The same order, placed the same way, could arrive perfectly plated—or collapse entirely—depending on timing.
Balance became less something to work with and more something to protect. When the platform fell outside its operating window, there was little room for recovery through technique alone. The cars weren’t undriveable—but they were far less negotiable.
Across the grid, this showed up the same way: tighter setups, higher risk, and fewer opportunities to save a lap once something started to go wrong. Traits that once helped mask instability—late braking, sharp rotation on entry, assertive throttle application—were simply less effective when the underlying system wasn’t behaving.
Performance shifted from extraction to preservation.
The fastest laps weren’t necessarily the most aggressive ones. They were the cleanest.
A Narrower Window, Quantified
You can see this shift not just in driver commentary, but in how lap times behaved within a single race stint.
Under the previous regulations, imbalance tended to surface gradually. Under the 2022 rules, it arrived abruptly—and once it did, the lap unraveled quickly.
The difference shows up not just in anecdotes, but in variance
| Regulation era | Lap-time spread | Driver feedback profile |
|---|---|---|
| 2019–2021 | ~0.6–0.8s | Progressive, recoverable |
| Early 2022 | ~1.2–1.5s | Threshold-based drop-off |
| Late 2023 | ~0.7–0.9s | Wider, more stable window |
Lap-time spread refers to the difference between a driver’s fastest and slowest representative laps within a single race stint, excluding pit in/out laps.
This isn’t a precise statistical model. It’s a representation of a pattern widely discussed by teams and drivers throughout 2022—and one that aligns closely with how the cars were described from the cockpit.
The point isn’t the exact number. It’s what those numbers imply: a system that warned later, punished imprecision more harshly, and offered fewer opportunities to recover once the window was missed.
Prescription, Not Freedom
What replaced that lost tolerance wasn’t freedom, but prescription.
Unlike previous regulation cycles, the 2022 rules didn’t merely constrain dimensions. They prescribed behavior. By limiting not just size and shape, but the number and type of aerodynamic devices teams could deploy, the regulations removed many of the tools historically used to stabilize cars across varying conditions.
Teams weren’t solving problems so much as optimizing within a narrow framework. Solutions that once added robustness were no longer available; balance had to be achieved by staying precisely within the intended envelope.
The result was a field where differences between cars became more subtle—and more fragile. Efficiency replaced adaptability. When everything worked, performance looked cleaner than ever. When it didn’t, there was little margin to absorb error.
A Familiar Driving Style in an Unfamiliar System
One way to understand what the 2022 regulations removed is to look at how they interacted with a driving style the sport already understood well.
Lewis Hamilton’s approach on corner entry has been remarkably consistent over his career. He gains time through aggressive, late braking and trail braking—loading the front tires to rotate the car while trusting the rear to remain stable. At the limit, that approach often produces small slides, historically managed through precise steering and throttle inputs rather than avoidance.
That style depends on feedback. It requires a car that communicates early, responds progressively, and allows correction before balance is fully lost.
The 2022 cars disrupted that relationship.
With performance tightly coupled to platform stability and prescribed aerodynamic behavior, the margin between “working” and “not working” narrowed sharply. Feedback arrived later. Thresholds replaced gradients. When the platform fell outside its window, recovery became far more difficult—regardless of experience or technique.
Hamilton’s experience is useful here not because it was exceptional, but because it was legible. It made visible a broader shift in what the cars allowed drivers to do—and what they no longer could.
A useful comparison might be the NFL quietly reshaping how the pocket behaves for quarterbacks. Not by changing playbooks or banning scrambling, but by narrowing protection, reducing warning, and limiting recovery once pressure arrives.
Quarterbacks who thrive on subtle movement, late throws, and improvisation wouldn’t suddenly lose skill. But the environment would stop rewarding those instincts. Pressure would arrive faster. Escape routes would disappear sooner. Correction would be replaced by consequence.2
The 2022 Formula 1 regulations worked the same way. They didn’t remove talent from the grid. They changed the conditions under which that talent could be expressed.
Why the Effects Weren’t Evenly Distributed
One of the more confusing aspects of the 2022 reset was how uneven its impact appeared across the grid. Some teams and drivers settled in quickly. Others took far longer to find stability.3
That gap led to familiar conclusions about execution or ability. But the more important explanation was structural—and financial.
Cars that achieved early platform stability benefited immediately. When the floor behaved consistently, the narrow operating window became manageable. Drivers could rely on predictability rather than constant correction. Teams that struggled with correlation—between simulation, wind tunnel, and track—spent far more time outside that window, with little room to recover.
Under previous regulation cycles, those teams might have brute-forced their way out. The 2022 rules arrived alongside the cost cap, and that option largely disappeared.
Early mistakes became expensive. Producing revised floors, suspension components, or structural updates required trade-offs elsewhere in the budget. Accelerating fixes often meant sacrificing future upgrades. Teams that missed the window early tended to stay there longer.
This is why early-season performance gaps were often misleading. The difference wasn’t always about having the “right” idea, but about who could afford to correct the wrong ones fastest.
As the seasons progressed, convergence became more visible. Understanding improved. Correlation tightened. The cost cap, which initially magnified early mistakes, began to enforce discipline instead—slowing the leaders while allowing the field to compress.
In hindsight, it’s clear the regulations didn’t permanently favor certain teams or drivers. They temporarily amplified the cost of missing the window, then gradually narrowed the field as learning replaced iteration.4
Why This Matters Going Forward
The lesson of 2022 isn’t about who adapted fastest. It’s about how deeply regulation changes can reshape the relationship between car, driver, and performance—and how long those effects can take to surface clearly.
Regulation resets don’t just alter lap times. They change what is rewarded, what is punished, and how errors propagate once they occur.
Which brings us back to the restaurant.
The renovation didn’t change how customers ordered. It changed how orders were processed. When the new system worked, everything felt sharper and more precise. When it didn’t, there was no slack to hide behind.
That’s the shift the 2022 regulations introduced. Not a different menu—but a different kitchen.
As Formula 1 approaches its next major reset, that distinction matters. The 2026 regulations promise visible change. But the most consequential shifts may again happen beneath the surface, in how systems behave at the limit.
The stories we tell early will almost certainly miss that.
Understanding what was removed in 2022—and what replaced it—offers a more reliable way to think about what comes next.
- In retrospect, porpoising was both a genuine safety concern and the least subtle aerodynamic education program the sport has ever run. ↩︎
- No analogy survives contact with the internet. This one is meant to clarify incentives, not equate sports. ↩︎
- This unevenness was felt most sharply by drivers early in their Formula 1 careers, where limited feedback left little room to learn progressively. ↩︎
- The early dominance of Red Bull and Max Verstappen made this period feel more decisive than it ultimately was, reflecting organizational execution as much as regulatory advantage. ↩︎
- The full 2022 Formula 1 Technical Regulations are available via the FIA. They are comprehensive, prescriptive, and not especially forgiving—much like the cars they produced. ↩︎
- If Formula 1 were a restaurant, it would insist nothing had changed, blame the kitchen anyway, and raise prices while assuring everyone this was for their own good. But I digress. ↩︎
What Formula 1 Car Launches Are — and Aren’t
Apple product launches are meticulously produced. The language is careful. The stakes are framed as transformational. The videos are tightly edited, the production flawless. And when the reveal finally comes, the product looks familiar—polished, refined, and improved at the margins, but not fundamentally different from what came before.
Formula 1 car launch season borrows that same structure: a moment designed to signal confidence more than disclose substance—especially when the product itself is still evolving.
The difference, of course, is that Apple can ship what it shows.
Formula 1 teams often can’t show you much—and what they do show won’t be what you see when the season starts.
Why Launch Season Still Matters
It’s easy to dismiss that dynamic as marketing. But doing so misses why Apple still holds these events—and why launch season still matters in Formula 1.
Apple keynotes aren’t just about announcing products. They’re about closing one cycle and opening another: signaling direction, resetting expectations, and giving people a framework for what comes next—even when the product itself is evolutionary rather than new.
Across sports, the start of a season serves a similar purpose. Drafts. Training camps. Opening nights. These moments function as resets: the end of one narrative and the beginning of another.
For Formula 1 fans, car launches play that same role. They’re about more than shapes and specifications. They represent a clean slate. A chance to believe that this year might be different—even if the underlying realities change more slowly.
That expectation—of novelty, of meaning—is precisely why launch season has evolved the way it has.
Communication, Not Disclosure
Today, Formula 1 car launches are less about disclosure and more about communication. They’re designed to project confidence, continuity, and competence—while revealing as little as possible about the underlying technical reality.
That’s why the cars so often look familiar. More often than not, you’re seeing last year’s car in a new livery, with updated sponsors and—if you’re lucky—some very subtle bodywork changes. Launch season has shifted away from technical explanation toward signaling stability, momentum, and commercial strength.1
In that sense, Formula 1 launches have followed a similar trajectory to Apple events. Live demos and deep post-event Q&A have given way to tightly controlled narratives. What’s emphasized is readiness, not experimentation.2
This isn’t unique to Formula 1, nor is it particularly deceptive. No sports team would reveal its offensive playbook at a press conference before the season begins.3
Car launches occupy that same middle ground: public-facing moments designed to communicate preparedness, not strategy.
What looks like restraint is, in practice, a competitive necessity.
When Secrecy Became Expensive
For much of Formula 1’s early history, secrecy wasn’t especially valuable. Teams often ran the same car concepts across multiple seasons, development moved at a manageable pace, and visible ideas took time to propagate. Talking openly at launches carried limited downside.
That changed as aerodynamic performance became increasingly sensitive in the late 1990s and early 2000s—and as Formula 1 steadily reduced variables elsewhere, from tire suppliers to power unit architectures. Small visible details began to matter more. Annual car cycles became standard. Iteration accelerated. Margins shrank.
Advantages that once lasted seasons could now be copied—or neutralized—within weeks.
Openness stopped being harmless. It became expensive.
At the same time, Formula 1’s commercial footprint expanded. Launches evolved from technical briefings into global media events, with teams expected to project ambition and stability to sponsors and partners. Saying something became mandatory. Saying too much became risky.
The cost cap turned that pressure into policy. Under earlier regulations, teams could recover from early missteps by spending their way out—manufacturing alternatives, running parallel concepts, discarding failed parts. With budgets capped, early exposure now carried real consequences. Showing your hand too soon meant committing resources before fully understanding the trade-offs.
Mistakes didn’t just cost lap time. They consumed development capacity.
In that environment, discretion became less about hiding brilliance and more about preserving flexibility. Marginal gains didn’t disappear—but they became harder to afford.
Why Big Regulation Changes Reveal Less
It’s tempting to assume that major regulation resets produce greater openness. New rules should mean visible innovation, fresh ideas, and clear differentiation.
In practice, the opposite is usually true.
When regulations reset fundamentals—as the 2026 rules do for aerodynamics and power units—the value of early interpretations increases dramatically. Competitive advantage is defined before performance converges. Revealing even small details can hand rivals weeks or months of free learning.
The presence of new manufacturers only heightens that risk. With Ford joining Red Bull Powertrains, Audi entering as a works team, and Cadillac joining the grid while working toward building its own power unit, launch season becomes a monitoring exercise as much as a presentation.
Under those conditions, launches drift further toward abstraction. Concepts are hinted at, not explained. Confidence is communicated, not performance.
The paradox is familiar by now: the more transformative the regulations, the less informative launch season tends to be.
Where the Real Reveal Happens
That’s why, regardless of what a launch date signals on social media, the first meaningful reveal of a Formula 1 car happens during pre-season testing.
Unlike launch events, testing forces teams to put real hardware on track—under scrutiny from competitors, regulators, and their own data. Even within the limits of restricted testing days, those sessions represent the first moment when months—often years—of development are exposed to reality.4
Teams will still manage information carefully. But testing narrows the space for abstraction. Real hardware must run. Systems must integrate. Design decisions meet physical constraints.
In modern Formula 1, that constraint is the point. Testing doesn’t eliminate secrecy—it forces commitment, turning concepts into consequences.5
How to Watch Launch Season Productively
So should you watch car launches at all? Absolutely—but not for the reasons they’re often framed.
Launch season is most revealing when you stop treating it as a technical unveiling and start reading it as communication. Listen less for what’s shown and more for what’s emphasized. Pay attention to how teams talk about timelines, process, and internal structure.
Team dynamics matter here too. Who speaks first. How expectations are framed. Whether challenges are described as solved, ongoing, or carefully avoided. Even small details can offer clues—if not about performance, then about priorities.
And still, enjoy it.
Like Apple events, Formula 1 launches aren’t meaningless simply because they’re curated. They’re rituals—markers of transition. Signals that speculation is about to give way to reality.
Apple can ship what it shows.
Formula 1 teams can’t show everything they plan to ship.
But in both cases, the reveal isn’t the end of the story. It’s the moment that tells you the next chapter has begun.
- Which, to be clear, is not a criticism. Teams are rational actors responding to the incentives in front of them. ↩︎
- With occasional exceptions—most recently the announcement and “live demo” of Apple Intelligence, which remains, for now, more aspirational than shippable. ↩︎
- If they did, it would be a fascinating press conference—but a short season. ↩︎
- Teams still manage run plans, fuel loads, and data release carefully. “Exposed” here doesn’t mean revealed in full—it means constrained by reality rather than presentation. ↩︎
- For weight-saving purposes, launch colors have a habit of fading into exposed carbon as the season progresses. Sponsor logos, notably, do not. ↩︎
- For those who want to see how technical concepts actually evolve year to year, Giorgio Piola’s aerodynamic detail drawings are an invaluable resource.
Red Bull Powertrains, Explained
Kiss’ “Detroit Rock City” is not a subtle song.
It’s loud. Industrial. Self-aware. Less a melody than a declaration. It exists to announce where you are before you explain anything else.
It’s the song that came to mind watching Red Bull and Ford unveil Red Bull Powertrains in Detroit ahead of the 2026 regulations.
This wasn’t simply a follow-up to their 2023 partnership announcement, and it wasn’t about geography in the way it first appeared. The location was Ford’s; the power unit, notably, remained rooted in Milton Keynes.
That distinction matters, because the real story wasn’t what Red Bull added by partnering with Ford — it was what they stopped outsourcing.
The event didn’t signal a transfer of authority or a change in direction. It signaled alignment. Ford’s presence was visible; Red Bull’s operation was unchanged.
This wasn’t about Motor City heritage.
It was about structure.
To understand why that matters, you have to go back to how Red Bull ended up here in the first place.
Honda Proved the Ceiling — and the Risk
Honda’s arrival in 2018 changed everything for Red Bull.
After years as a customer team reliant on Renault — competitive, well-run, but structurally constrained — the Honda partnership finally aligned the power unit with Red Bull’s philosophy. The results were immediate. Wins returned. Titles followed. Doubt evaporated.
But the most important lesson Honda taught Red Bull wasn’t how to win with a works engine — it was how fragile that success still was.
Honda could leave. And eventually, it did.
In October 2020, Honda announced it would exit Formula 1 after the 2021 season, not because the project failed, but because Honda’s incentives changed. Corporate priorities shifted. Formula 1 stopped making internal sense.
For Red Bull, that was the warning shot.
They had proven they could win at the highest level and still have the ground pulled out from under them.
That’s when Red Bull Powertrains stopped being a contingency plan and became the strategy.
“Honda’s withdrawal forced Red Bull to confront the reality that success alone does not guarantee continuity.”
That line understates the problem.
Red Bull didn’t lose an engine supplier.
It lost predictability.
And in a cost-capped era, predictability is the real currency.
Power Units as a Control Problem
Red Bull Powertrains is often described as Red Bull “becoming a manufacturer.”
That’s technically true. It’s also beside the point.
This wasn’t about wanting to build engines for the sake of it. It was about owning the system that determines everything else: development cadence, packaging freedom, staffing continuity, and long-term planning under a cost cap.
In modern Formula 1, power units aren’t just components.
They’re constraints.
Whoever controls them controls the calendar, the compromises, and the future roadmap.
Red Bull didn’t want another supplier.
They wanted the constraint to be internal.
Honda showed them the performance ceiling.
The cost cap exposed the structural risk of dependency.
Red Bull Powertrains exists because Red Bull learned both lessons at once.
What Ford Actually Does (The Interface, Not the Core)
Ford’s role in Red Bull Powertrains is often misunderstood — usually in ways that dramatically overstate it.
Ford is not designing the combustion architecture. It’s not running the factory. It’s not setting the development roadmap.
Those decisions live in Milton Keynes.
What Ford brings is interface, not ownership.
Their contribution sits where modern power units overlap with Ford’s real strengths: electrical systems, energy management, software, simulation, manufacturing processes, and validation workflows. The connective tissue — not the beating heart.
“Ford’s involvement is focused on electrification, software and advanced manufacturing techniques.”
This is not Ford “returning” as an engine builder in the traditional sense. It’s Ford plugging into Red Bull’s system where external expertise adds leverage without introducing dependency.
Red Bull didn’t want another Honda.
They wanted insulation from ever needing another Honda.
Ford’s value isn’t that they could leave someday.
It’s that if they did, Red Bull Powertrains would still exist.
Why the Cost Cap Makes This Unavoidable
Before the cost cap, engine dependency was inconvenient.
After the cost cap, it became dangerous.
Under the old rules, supplier relationships could be managed with money. If development slipped, you spent. If correlation was off, you iterated. If priorities conflicted, you compensated.
That escape hatch is gone.
The cost cap doesn’t just limit spending; it limits recovery. Mistakes cost time, not just money — and time lost in power unit development compounds faster than almost anything else on the car.
Outsourcing the slowest-moving, most complex system in the sport became an existential risk.
“Bear with us in the first months… we are not naïve about the challenge.”
This isn’t hedging.
It’s an admission that the risk is structural, not seasonal.
Red Bull Powertrains isn’t a flex.
It’s a hedge against irreversibility.
In a capped era, control isn’t about dominance.
It’s about survivability.
Why This Isn’t Mercedes or Ferrari
It’s tempting to frame Red Bull Powertrains as Red Bull “finally becoming Mercedes or Ferrari.”
That framing misses the point.
Mercedes and Ferrari are manufacturers first, racing teams second. Their Formula 1 programs live inside corporate structures with incentives far beyond the paddock.
Red Bull is the opposite.
Formula 1 isn’t a marketing arm of Red Bull Racing.
It is the business.
Red Bull Powertrains doesn’t exist to justify a product portfolio or align with a road-car strategy. It exists to serve one customer, one objective, and one competitive window.
No road cars. No dealer network. No heritage obligation.
Just lap time, reliability, and control.
This isn’t Red Bull catching up.
It’s Red Bull exploiting a gap the manufacturers can’t close.
Horner → Mekies Is a Signal, Not a Headline
Leadership changes invite narrative inflation.
Christian Horner out. Laurent Mekies in. Cue the speculation.
There are almost certainly factors behind Horner’s departure that won’t be fully public — and some that may never be known at all. Formula 1 has always been better at producing results than transparency.
But regardless of personal opinions, or whatever combination of circumstances led to his exit, Horner’s era at Red Bull is clear in hindsight.
It was an era of consolidation.
Championships. Political leverage. Organizational scale. Horner presided over Red Bull proving it could win with a supplier — and then ensuring it would never again be exposed to that dependency. Under his leadership, Red Bull Racing became not just successful, but structurally formidable.
Mekies’ arrival points somewhere else.
This isn’t a caretaker hire or a stopgap. And it isn’t about optics.
Mekies is a systems builder — process-first, comfortable inside regulatory frameworks and technically complex organizations. His background spans FIA governance, Ferrari’s internal machinery, and Red Bull’s own operations. That’s not accidental experience. It’s preparatory experience.
As Red Bull shifts from exploiting competitive advantages to operating infrastructure, the leadership profile changes with it. Less politics. More execution. Less persuasion. More process.
This isn’t about tone or personality.
It’s about phase.
Horner helped build the structure.
Mekies is there to run it.
Red Bull Powertrains isn’t a project anymore.
It’s infrastructure.
And infrastructure rewards leaders who make systems behave — especially under constraint.
What This Means for 2026
By the time the 2026 regulations reach the grid, Red Bull Powertrains won’t feel new.
That’s the point.
Pre-season testing is about to begin. Real hardware will run. Assumptions will collide with reality. And while others are still finalizing supplier relationships or reconciling internal priorities, Red Bull will already be operating the system it intends to race. The learning curve won’t be theoretical; it will have been paid for.
This isn’t something competitors can fast-follow.
Power units aren’t modular. You can’t bolt on independence. Control has to be built—organizationally, technically, culturally—over years. Once a regulation cycle starts, those systems are already in motion, and inertia matters more than intent.
Red Bull didn’t wait for the 2026 rules to force the question. They answered it early, while the cost cap still allowed room to build quietly.
And here’s the quietest part of the strategy: it doesn’t require immediate dominance.
Red Bull Powertrains doesn’t need to be the best engine on Day One. It needs to be predictable, controllable, and aligned. Under a cost cap, those traits compound faster than peak performance ever did.
Which brings us back to Detroit.
The event wasn’t about celebrating an arrival. It was about signaling readiness—about making clear that the structure was already in place.
If Formula 1’s next era is defined less by raw speed and more by systems that behave well under pressure, then Red Bull isn’t betting on a power unit. They’re betting on ownership of the process that decides how mistakes propagate—and who gets to fix them.
That’s not flashy. But in 2026, it may be decisive.
Why Compountary Exists
The last thing Formula 1 needs is another American who discovered the sport through Drive to Survive, has watched every Formula 1 season since, and now thinks he’s an expert.
And yet—here I am, writing the first entry on Compountary.
So what is Compountary?
I don’t fully know yet—but I do know what it isn’t.
This won’t be breaking news, and it won’t be published on a rigid schedule. It will be links, commentary, and original pieces about Formula 1—focused less on what happened and more on why it matters.
This won’t be rumor-chasing or outrage farming. I’m less interested in declaring heroes and villains and more interested in understanding incentives, trade-offs, and second-order effects.1
You won’t agree with everything I write, and that’s fine. My hope is simply that you’ll find more insight than noise here.
I love Formula 1 not just on race weekends, but in the spaces between: how teams think, how strategies are formed, how regulations shape behavior, and how the sport’s history informs its present. The technical details, the marginal decisions, the long-term consequences—those are the things that keep me engaged.
Compountary is meant to be read slowly. Some posts will respond to current events; others may surface weeks or months later and still matter. Think of it less as a feed to keep up with and more as a place to return to when you want context—like DVD commentary for a movie you’ve already watched.
Formula 1 is a sport of marginal gains.
Compountary is built on the same idea.
1 This does not mean I won’t occasionally comment on a driver’s performance. I’m human. ↩