The British summer can go one of two ways. Roasting heat, clear blue skies and scorched grass. Or thick, leaden clouds, a cool breeze with a persistent threat of rain.
On the banks of Silverstone's daunting corners, the hardy perennials make their July pilgrimage come rain or shine. Some years they are pink and shirtless; other times, sodden - battling the elements underneath a plastic poncho.
Bedecked in red, white and blue with a cool box of warm tinnies, their eyes are focused on the ribbon of asphalt in the distance, waiting for a glimpse of their man: the silver arrow sporting a tint of fluorescent turquoise.