I still remember the smell of that espresso. Strong, Italian, served in those tiny cups that make you feel like you're holding a thimble. That was my ritual with Michael Schumacher back in the early 90s - casual coffee chats in his motorhome that felt almost... normal.

Until they weren't.

When a Racing God Decides You're Not Worth His Time

It was 1993 when I first bumped into Michael. I was just a mechanic at McLaren, hands permanently stained with oil and grease, while he was this rising star at Benetton with that intense stare that could melt carbon fiber. We clicked somehow. Don't ask me how or why - I'm still puzzled by it myself.

We'd talk about stupid stuff. Girlfriends. Weekend plans. The normal crap that makes you realize even future legends sometimes worry about whether they said something awkward on a date. I saw the human behind the helmet - Michael outside the cockpit, with actual feelings and insecurities.

God, I was naive.

Because when success came knocking, our little coffee club membership got revoked. No warning, no explanation. One day we're chatting about life, the next I'm invisible. Ghosted before ghosting was even a thing.

The Villain Origin Story Nobody Asked For

Looking back now from my home in Australia (where I escaped to after years in the F1 pressure cooker), I can see the transformation happening in real time. Every trophy, every podium, every championship point seemed to recalibrate something in Michael's brain. His focus narrowed. His personality... shifted.

It was fascinating and terrifying all at once.

I watched him transform from just another talented driver into something else entirely. He became like one of those Spider-Man villains that absorbs energy and gets stronger. Each win made him more focused, more ruthless, more... Schumacher.

My editor bet me £50 I wouldn't compare an F1 legend to a comic book villain in print. Well, mate, I just did. Pay up.

Was He Actually a Jerk? It's Complicated...

Here's teh thing about Michael that most people don't get - underneath all that calculated ruthlessness was actually a lovely bloke. His heart was in the right place. But when that helmet went on and the visor came down? Different person entirely.

I've spent countless nights at bars trying to explain this duality to people who only saw the headlines about him ramming Damon Hill in '94 or that mess with Villeneuve in '97. Or parking at La Rascasse in Monaco that year. The evidence against him isn't great, I'll admit.

But I saw both sides.

Did I Take It Personally? (Spoiler: Maybe a Little)

I tell myself I didn't. That's what I've been saying for years anyway. "Oh, he just got busy." "He needed to focus on people who could help his career." "It wasn't personal."

Listen. When someone you've shared coffees with for months suddenly can't remember your name, it stings. I'm human. But I also understand the insane pressure cooker that is Formula 1. Success changes people - some more than others.

We're seeing it now with younger drivers like Norris and Piastri. The moment they start winning, the walls go up. The personality gets locked away. The PR machine takes over.

The Shadow He Left Behind

It's been over a decade since that horrific skiing accident. Michael hasn't been seen publicly since 2013, living in a £50million custom-built fortress on Lake Geneva with only his closest family and a handful of trusted friends knowing his true condition.

I sometimes wonder if he remembers our coffees. Probably not.

His wife Corinna has created this protective bubble around him - and who can blame her? The man gave everything to the sport, including parts of his humanity.

Last week there was that flicker of hope when he apparently signed his initials on Jackie Stewart's helmet. MS. Just two letters that sent the racing world into a frenzy of speculation.

I'm not part of his inner circle anymore - haven't been for decades. I don't know if he can walk or talk or remember. I just know that somewhere in Switzerland, the man who once ghosted me after I thought we were friends is fighting a different kind of race now.

What Would I Say If I Could Have One More Coffee?

I've played this scenario in my head about a thousand times. Would I mention how he dropped me when fame came calling? Would I ask about those controversial racing moments? Would I just talk about the weather and pretend nothing happened?

Probably none of those things.

I'd just say thanks. Thanks for showing me what absolute dedication looks like. Thanks for demonstrating that sometimes greatness requires sacrifice - even if that sacrifice is your own likability.

And then I'd probably make some awkward joke about how he still owes me an espresso.

Because that's what humans do. We forgive, we move on, and we desperately try to pretend we weren't hurt when someone we admired decided we weren't worth their time anymore.