When people dream of working in Formula One, they are generally fantasising about having one of two particular hardcards hanging around their neck.
The first, obviously, is that of one of the drivers, and I am willing to bet a 12-bottle case of first-growth Bordeaux that everybody who cares enough about racing to read this book review has, at least once, imagined themselves going flat through Eau Rouge. Everybody who likes motorsport wishes that they could do it, which is why the guys at Playstation and Xbox do so well out of racing games.
The other person that a lot of us would like to be is Jo Ramirez, even if we may not necessarily realise it. Sure, you might think that you want to be a journalist or something, but there is a marked difference between a job like that and being a genuine part of the machine.
Don't get me wrong, writing about motorsport for a living is a great thing, and after more than five years of doing it there has still not been a day where I have woken up and not wanted to go to work (mornings that have followed excessively festive evenings notwithstanding). But you are still on the periphery.