It does not exactly flatter Vettel that Webber, one of the most fair-dinkum
Australians you could wish to meet, regards the younger man with such
thinly-disguised loathing. Their antipathy stretches all the way back to
2007, when a shunt off the track by the German at Suzuka prompted Webber to
seethe: “Kids, they f— you up.” Vettel’s psychological hold over his rival
has endured to this day, and now that he marches further into history while
his elder slides towards semi-retirement with Porsche, the two can hardly
bear to be in the same country as one another.
Within the fascinating inter-driver dynamic at Red
Bull lies the clearest riposte to the fallacy that Vettel’s four
titles are all about the car. Ludicrously, it is still argued that his
championships should have an asterisk beside them that reads “with thanks to
Adrian Newey”. While Newey might be the undisputed technical genius at Red
Bull’s Milton Keynes factory, the triumph is far from his alone. The record
of individual wins during 2013 – Vettel 11, Webber nil – tells you as much.
Forensic analysis of Vettel’s performances has proved his peerless driving
skill, where he routinely pulls out a second-and-a-half lead on the opening
lap and commits to the throttle earlier than his nearest challengers would
dare. Plus, nobody ought to forget that his maiden win at Monza in 2008 came
not in one of Newey’s delicately-tuned machines, but a Toro
Rosso.
He is, by his own admission, an “extreme professional”, and with looming
regulation changes in 2014 do not expect that attitude to soften any time
soon. Vettel derives a pride not solely from his supremacy on Sundays but
from his ability, as in India, to crush the competition with the perfect
weekend, where he tops the timesheets in all three practice sessions, takes
pole, and throws in the fastest lap of the race for good measure. Such is
the culture of perfectionism he has helped to foster at Red Bull that this
year, he and Newey had a lengthy preseason meeting about how they could
improve upon their Friday long runs.
As a driver Vettel directs his cars, which he affectionately names anything
from ‘Luscious Liz’ to ‘Kinky Kylie’ – in honour, he assures, of their
aesthetic beauty – as precisely as a surgeon’s scalpel. It follows, then,
that his anonymity off the track is just as carefully cultivated. Scorning
any playboy excesses in Monte Carlo, he has made his home with long-time
girlfriend Hanna Prater in the tiny Swiss village of Walchwil, and you are
as likely to see him subscribing to Twitter as necking a foaming stein of
lager. Where Lewis Hamilton burnishes his global image through a management
company, Vettel uses only everpresent confidante Britta Roeske to conduct
his public relations. Such understatement, in his latest hour of glory,
defines his character. But it masks a good deal of devilment and an even
greater dose of consummate brilliance.