Time on my hands...

What Motorsport Can Learn from the US Masters

A few days after resigning from my role as Deputy President for Sport at the FIA, I found myself with something I hadn’t had in a while, a bit of time on my hands. No calls to prepare for, no politics to manage, no urgent fires to quietly put out. Just space. And, as it happened, the US Masters was on.

I’ve always enjoyed the Masters. But this year, with time to watch it properly — and reflect a little more deeply, I found it offered more than just brilliant golf. It offered a moment to pause and consider how a sport can hold onto its identity while continuing to evolve. That’s something motorsport could learn from.

I also have a small personal connection to this world. During my rallying days with Richard Burns, our assistant was Clare Caudwell, now Clare Fleetwood, married to Tommy Fleetwood. I’ve always kept half an eye on Tommy’s career, and seeing him at Augusta this year added a little extra personal resonance.

What really stood out, though, was their seven-year-old son Frankie, who quietly stole the show during the pre-event Par 3 competition. His interview with Sky Sports was a reminder that the Masters isn’t just about performance, it’s about family, memory, and presence. It was heartfelt, unscripted, and full of joy. That’s what makes events like this more than just sport.

The Masters is one of those rare events that feels like it exists slightly outside of time. The green jacket, the Champions Dinner, the layout of Augusta, it all speaks to deep tradition. But what struck me this year is how that tradition doesn’t feel stuck. It’s not about resisting change; it’s about knowing what to preserve.

Motorsport sometimes wrestles with this balance. We talk a lot about innovation — new formats, new technologies, new audiences. That’s all part of the game. But evolution without identity risks becoming drift. The Masters reminds us that tradition can be a strength, not a constraint, if you carry it with purpose.

Watching Augusta also got me thinking about something else: the structure of prestige in sport. In golf, and in tennis too, there’s a concept of the Grand Slam. Four major events, each with history, stature, and something just a bit more special on the line.

Motorsport doesn’t quite have that. Not in the same way. We have incredible events — Monte Carlo, Finland, Safari, but what if rallying introduced its own version of the Grand Slam? A small group of marquee rallies that stood slightly apart: longer formats, more points, added prestige. Wins that would become part of a driver or co-driver’s legacy. Achievements that would truly stand out in a career.

It wouldn’t need to replace the existing structure, just enhance it. Something to chase. Something that connects history with ambition.

One of the great joys of the Masters is how quiet it is. Not dull, just deliberate. There’s no wall of sound, no relentless hype. Just golf, played with intensity and poise, in a setting that allows drama to build naturally.

A big reason for this? No mobile phones on the course. None. It means everyone present is there to watch, to really watch, every shot, every swing, every shift in pressure. No one’s jostling for the best selfie or filming through a screen. They’re immersed.

It’s the kind of thing that sounds small but changes everything. In motorsport, the live experience is often diluted by a sea of phones held aloft. Yes, it captures the moment, but it takes you out of it. The visceral thrill of sport is diminished when we mediate it through a lens.

Motorsport, understandably, wants content. But maybe there’s a better balance to strike, one that encourages fans to feel more, not just film more.

One of the more moving elements of the Masters is how it honours its champions. The Champions Dinner. The ceremonial tee shots. The way history is always present, not as nostalgia, but as part of the living culture.

In motorsport, we could do more here. We have legends, incredible figures whose stories shaped the sport. But too often, we focus only on the now. We race forward, literally and figuratively, without stopping to look back.

Imagine a formal way to recognise past champions at key events. A way to connect generations. A way to remind everyone, drivers, fans, organisers, that what we do stands on the shoulders of those who came before. That history isn’t a weight, it’s a foundation.

Now, Augusta National is a unique place. Exclusive, precise, at times even controversial in its governance. But one thing it does not lack is clarity. The standards are clear. The expectations are known. The values are reinforced.

Motorsport has always faced the challenge of governance, across series, regions, and levels. That’s a conversation for another time (and one I plan to return to). But it’s worth noting that strong leadership doesn’t have to mean rigidity. It means purpose. And when that purpose is clear, whether you’re running a golf club or a world championship, the sport benefits.

There’s another kind of drama at Augusta, one that lives in the pressure. Watching Rory McIlroy chase his first Masters win isn’t just edge-of-your-seat excitement, it’s emotionally raw. You can feel the weight of expectation, the years of near misses, the desire to complete the career Grand Slam.

And that’s where sport transcends the technical. We’re not just watching swings or lap times. We’re witnessing the human side of high performance, the nerves, the resilience, the cost.

Behind every iconic moment, in any sport, is a level of commitment most people never see. The early mornings. The failures. The quiet sacrifice that fuels those few seconds when everything is on the line.

It’s the same in motorsport. We tend to celebrate the headline moment, the podium, the final stage time, but rarely the years of grit that built the ability to deliver when it counted. If we celebrated that more openly, I think we’d better honour the full story of what makes athletes great.

Despite its global audience, the Masters feels personal. You feel like a guest, not just a viewer. There’s something intentional about the way it’s staged, narrated, and shared. Every detail feels curated, not for spectacle, but for connection.

Motorsport can feel global but disconnected. Fans don’t always feel close to the sport, even when they’re passionate about it. The sense of intimacy is sometimes lost in the noise of the big show.

If we could make events feel more felt, more human, I think we’d find new ways to build loyalty, storytelling, and belonging. That’s not about making everything smaller. It’s about making everything matter more.

Stepping back from day-to-day responsibility has allowed me to reflect more freely on the sport I’ve loved for a lifetime. Watching the Masters this year reminded me of what great sport can feel like when it’s confident in itself, quiet, precise, meaningful.

Motorsport has so much going for it. Incredible talent. Iconic events. A truly global reach. But sometimes, to move forward, it helps to look sideways. To see how other sports create meaning and how we might do the same.

And perhaps, as rallying thinks about its future, a few Grand Slam moments wouldn’t be a bad place to start.