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- [00:00]
David Brown
Audible subscribers can listen to all episodes of Business wars ad free right now. Join Audible today by downloading the Audible app. It's June 19, 2005. Race day at Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Inside a plush motorhome in the paddock, Formula One supremo Bernie Eccleston sits in a leather chair watching a television mounted on the wall. Outside, more than 100,000 fans pack the grandstands for the United States Grand Prix. The cars circle the circuit on their formation or warm up lap. The atmosphere is electric, but Eccleston knows something the fans don't. This race is about to become one of the strangest spectacles in motorsport history. For the last three days, Formula One has been in chaos. Emergency meetings, heated arguments, last minute negotiations behind closed doors, all over a single component tires. Teams running on Michelins discovered something terrifying during practice. The high speed final corner is simply too much for the tires to handle. Cars return to the pits with the rubber shredded after just a few laps. One driver even crashed into the wall. And when they race today, every car will take that corner more than 70 times at speeds of 200 miles an hour. A blowout wouldn't just end a driver's race, it could end their life. But despite the risk, F1 officials have refused to install extra curves to slow the cars at the crucial turn. They reason that doing so would penalize the teams that don't use Michelin. So the track is staying the same. Eccleston leans forward in his seat as the cars approach the end of the formation lap. 20 cars sweep toward the final corner. Then one car peels off into the pit lane. Another follows. And another. And another. In total, 14 cars drive into the pits. Mechanics roll them straight into the garages. Every team using Michelin tires has withdrawn from the race. Out in the grandstands, a dawning realization spreads through the crowd like a shockwave. Cheers turn to boos. Some fans hurl drinks and programs towards the track. Others simply stand there in stunned disbelief. The starting lights flicker above the grid. Just six cars remain sitting alone on the vast straight of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. The starting lights go out and the race is on the smallest grid in Formula One history charges toward the first turn. Eccleston watches his screen for another moment. Then he shrugs. The race has started so he won't have to pay out for a cancellation. He stands, straightens his jacket and walks out of the motorhome. The boos from the grandstand echo across the paddock as he heads for a waiting car. In a few minutes, he'll be on his private jet. Formula One has stumbled in America before, but to Eccleston, this feels different, like the final straw. For years he's fought to crack the US Market, but America already has its racing king, nascar. With packed speedways every weekend, celebrity drivers and massive television audiences, NASCAR owns American motorsport. Formula One may be the world's most popular racing series, but in the US it's always been the outsider looking in. As his car pulls away from the speedway, Eccleston makes a decision. He's done chasing America. Formula One doesn't need it. NASCAR can have it. But Eccleston's decision won't be the final word. Formula One will try again. And when it does, it won't just challenge nascar, it will threaten everything NASCAR has built. You know that moment when you order food and suddenly everyone around you gets very interested in your dinner? Yeah. That's what GrubHub does. Gives you deals so good you'll have to guard them. Gold Days of grubhub is here for four weeks of grubhub's best offers all month long in May, only for grubhub plus members. And if you're not a member, you can sign up now for just 99 cents a month for six months. That's 90% off Grubhub plus membership. Auto renews and terms apply. Sign up now on the app or@grubhub.com plus gold. Don't miss it. This message comes from Betterment. Dan Egan, VP of Behavioral Finance and Investing, explains how Betterment takes the time consuming work out of smart investing. I grew up learning about finance and investing myself and realizing that I needed to reinvest dividends and rebalance my portfolio and if there was an opportunity to
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Raza Jafre
tax loss over time.
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David Brown
And then I realized that I was doing all of these things that were pretty straightforward to implement.
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Raza Jafre
I just needed to spend my time doing them.
- [05:50]
David Brown
Betterment automates those same good practices so that I know I'm doing portfolio management and goal based planning in a way that makes sense and is responsible without me having to spend hours of my life doing it. Learn more@betterment.com investing involves risk performance not guaranteed. Betterment does not offer tax advice. TOH may not be suitable for all customers. Learn more at betterment.com TLH-terms. From audible originals. I'm david brown and this is business wars. On any given Sunday, millions of fans tune in to see which driver will take the checkered flag in America's favorite motorsport, nascar. For decades, it's been the undisputed king of the track. Loud V8 engines, packed ovals, drivers trading paint at 200 miles an hour. But outside the United States, another racing series reigns supreme. Formula One. It's glamorous, high tech, wildly popular around the world. Yet while the rest of the globe thrills to Grand Prix, the US has long seemed immune to its appeal. Until now. Boosted by a hit Netflix show, Formula 1 is exploding in popularity, selling out races in Austin, Miami, and Las Vegas. Its drivers are now as recognizable as their NASCAR peers. But how did F1 change gears and finally start challenging NASCAR's dominance? To understand, we need to go back to where this battle all began. Back to a time when. When racing wasn't about glory or fame, but about survival. This is episode one. Start your engines. It's a still night on the back roads of rural North Carolina in the late 1930s. A lone Ford V8 barrels through the darkness, its suspension rattling over rutted dirt and loose gravel. The trunk and back seat are packed tight with bottles of liquor. Prohibition ended nationally in 1933, but across the south, hundreds of counties remain dry, which means there are still plenty of thirsty customers ready to pay for alcohol smuggled across county lines. Suddenly, lights flare in the rearview mirror. A sedan surges out of the gloom, its engine howling as it closes the gap. The the bootlegger has no doubt who's inside. Federal agents, and they're not here to play nice. A muzzle flash bursts from one of the windows, and a gunshot echoes through the night. The bullet tears into the dust behind the Ford. The bootlegger floors the gas pedal, and the Ford's engine roars as the car lunges into the next bend. The driver wrenches the wheel through a tight turn, tires spitting gravel into the ditch. The Feds try to follow, but they're outmatched. The Bo Legger knows every blind corner, every ditch, every hidden turnoff along these rural roads. Behind him, the headlights begin to fade. Then suddenly, the bootlegger veers off the road and pulls into a weathered wooden garage. A man steps out of the shadows and slams the heavy doors shut. Seconds later, the Feds roar past, chasing a ghost down that empty road. It's another clean getaway across the dry counties of the South. Scenes like this one are routine, but the bootleggers high speed driving is becoming more than just a way to evade the law. At night, they smuggle alcohol, but during the day, they gather on remote farms, dusty fields, even on coastal beaches. And they race. The tracks are rough, the rules are loose. The crowds are growing. And among the spectators is a Young mechanic from Florida who thinks he might be a pretty good driver himself, Bill France Sr. It's September 5, 1938 and morning light spills across the wide, hard packed sand of Daytona Beach, Florida. 29 year old Bill France senior, a broad shouldered mechanic known around town as Big Bill, stands beside a low dune with a hammer in his hand. With three powerful blows, he drives a wooden stake deep into the sand, then nails a warning sign to the top. Beware rattlesnakes. France steps back, wipes the sweat from his brow and looks down the long stretch of beach road. He spent all morning placing these signs along the dunes that separate the row from the beach. But there are no rattlesnakes here. France has organized a stock car race on the beach this afternoon and he doesn't want any freeloaders taking shortcuts over the dunes to avoid the 50 cent admission fee. By midday, paying spectators crowd along the sand eager to watch battered coupes and sedans roar up the beach and thunder back along the adjacent highway. Today's prize is worth chasing. $240 in cash plus a case of beer, a bottle of rum, a case of motor oil and a box of cigars. Even France himself is competing for the purse. When the race ends, he crosses the line in second place, just behind a gun toting bootlegger named Smokey Purser. But instead of pulling in to celebrate, Purser speeds away shouting that he'll be back later to collect his winnings. France watches him go, suspicion creeping in. Modifications to cars are strictly forbidden and Purser's sudden exit looks a lot like a man trying to hide something under the hood. Hood. So France strips Purser of the victory and declares himself the winner. Protests erupt from the other drivers who claim the whole thing's a fix to calm things down. France quickly rules himself out too, and awards the win and prize to the third placed driver. But France is still the day's biggest winner. His race has drawn 5,000 paying fans. When he counts the cash later that night, France has cleared nearly $2,000, which is over $45,000 in today's money. Along the way, he's learned something important. There's money to be made in stock car racing. Nine years later, December 14, 1947, at the streamline Hotel in Daytona Beach. Cigarette smoke curls beneath the ceiling of the hotel's top floor cocktail lounge. The room is packed with stock car racing pioneers, champion drivers, car owners, mechanics with grease under their fingernails. At the center of it all stands France, who is now one of stock car racing's leading promoters. He calls the meeting to order. Fellas, what we've got right now ain't a sport. It's a mess. A few men nod. France sweeps a hand across the room. Promoters skipping out on prize money, drivers getting cheated. Every track making up its own rules. A driver near the front raises his hand. Hell, that's racing, Bill. Always has been. Bad eggs don't last long. We run them out of town. France shakes his head. We shouldn't have to. We got the drivers, we got the cars and we got the fans. Ordinary working folks who love this kind of racing. What we don't have is somebody running it right. Someone near the back of the room calls out, hey, what about the American Automobile Association? Triple A? All they care about the Indianapolis 500. To them, we're just a bunch of hillbillies racing junkyard cars. No, we don't need those uptight northerners. We need our own association. One set of rules, guaranteed purses. A real championship. You really think we can pull that off ourselves? Well, all we can do is try. Let's break into groups. Drivers over here, owners at that table. Mechanics, y' all go by the bar. Let's figure out what it'll take to make this thing work. The conversations stretch on for three long days. Rules are debated, schedules argued, prize guarantees hammered out. But slowly, something new begins to take shape. The national association for Stock Car Auto Racing. Nascar. But while most of the men in the room are focused on when and where races will run, France is focused on securing control of the new organization. The others barely notice. They think they're building a cooperative, but France knows better. And by the time anyone realizes they've handed the future of stock car racing to one man, it's already too late to stop him. France may be an autocrat, but he's also a visionary. When the first NASCAR sanctioned race takes place on Daytona beach two months later, it's still a rough and ready affair. Around 14,000 fans line the beach to watch battered coupes Thunder along the 2.2 mile sand and highway course. But France is imagining something far bigger. Throughout the 50s and 60s, he moves NASCAR away from improvised venues and toward purpose built speedways. Grandstands hold tens of thousands of fans and steep banking allows cars to reach breathtaking speeds. Teams become slick, professional operations with full time drivers supported by mechanics and pit crews. To attract big money sponsors, NASCAR also needs respectability. So France buries its bootlegging past. And in 1971, he strikes a groundbreaking deal with tobacco giant R.J. reynolds. Its Winston cigarette brand becomes NASCAR's biggest sponsor, injecting millions of dollars into the sport. More companies follow, all eager to get their brands in front of race fans. Every race car becomes a moving billboard. Sponsor money is plowed back into the sport, modernizing tracks, building comfortable facilities to increase its appeal to middle class fans. And that in turn attracts even more sponsors. In 1972, France Hands leadership of NASCAR to his son Bill France Jr. Almost immediately, France Jr. Takes the next big step in the sport's evolution. Television. He strikes deals with ABC and CBS to broadcast some NASCAR races nationwide. ABC only shows the sports start and end of races and CBS doesn't air them live. But the broadcasts do introduce millions more Americans to the Sport. And in 1978, CBS signs a deal to broadcast entire races live. It's February 18, 1979 at Daytona International Speedway in Florida, and for the first time ever, a NASCAR race is being broadcast live across the nation. In the Northeast, a massive snowstorm has blanketed much of New England and New York. Millions of Americans are stuck inside flipping through the channels. And an estimated 15 million households land on CBS's coverage of the Daytona 500. For many viewers, it's their first taste of NASCAR. And it's a spectacular introduction. As the final lap begins, the cameras track a tight battle. At the front, Donnie Allison leads. Cale Yarborough follows. Engines scream down the long back straight at nearly 200 miles an hour, neither driver is willing to live. The cars drift closer. And then they collide. Kale hits him. He slides. Donnie Allison slides. They drive. In the turn, they're hitting the wall. They're head off the wall. They slide down to the inside. Let's watch those third place cars. They're out of it. Who is going to win it? As the two leaders spin onto the grass, the rest of the field blasts past in a blur of noise and speed. At the front of that charging pack is Richard Petty. Those watching at home are now on the edge of their seats as Petty storms over the line with Darrell Waltrip practically glued to his rear bumper. But the drama isn't over. Back on the track, Allyson and Yarborough are out of their wrecked cars and trading blows. There's a fight between Cale Yarborough and Donny Allison. The tempers overflowing. They're angry. They know they have lost. And what a bitter defeat for millions of snowbound Americans watching at home, this is their first real look at nascar. It's messy, dramatic, raw and full of unfiltered emotion. And long before the age of social media it becomes the perfect viral moment. But across the Atlantic, the drama at the Daytona 500 barely registers because while stock car racing is conquering the United States, another racing empire is taking shape overseas. Its name is Formula One, and the man behind its rise is every bit as cunning as Bill France Sr.
- [20:47]
Leon Neyfak
I'm Leon Nayfak, best known as the host and co creator of podcasts Slow Burn, Fiasco and Think Twice Michael Jackson. I'm here to tell you about my show, Final Jerry Springer, whose name is synonymous with outrageous guests, taboo confessions and vicious onstage fights. But before the Jerry Springer show became a symbol of cultural decline, its namesake was a popular Midwestern politician and a serious minded idealist with lofty ambitions. Through dozens of intimate and revealing interviews with those who knew Springer best, I examined Springer's lifelong struggle to reconcile his TV Persona with his personal political dreams and aspirations. Named one of the best podcasts of the year by the New Yorker and Rolling Stone, Final Thoughts Jerry Springer is a story about choices. How we make them, how we justify them to ourselves and how we transcend them. Or don't Listen wherever you get your podcasts or binge the whole series ad free right now on Audible. Start your Audible subscription in the Audible app.
- [21:48]
Raza Jafre
I'm Raza Jafre and in the new season of the Spy who, we tell the story of Dr. A Q Khan, the spy who sold nuclear secrets to Iran. He was the scientist spy who stole nuclear technology from the Netherlands and used them to give Pakistan a bomb. But he didn't stop there. He became a black market atomic salesman, the fix it man for rogue states seeking nuclear weapons including Iran, Libya and North Korea. And that left the CIA and MI6 in a race against time to put him out of business before the world's most wayward regimes get hold of the world's most destructive weapons. Follow the Spy who now wherever you listen to podcasts you can also listen to the full season of the Spy who Sold Nuclear Secrets to Iran early and ad free on Audible.
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David Brown
It's September 5, 1970 and the qualifying race is underway for the Formula One Italian Grand Prix at Monza. Standing in the paddock, 39 year old Bernie Eccleston reads his newspaper. He's a self made man who made a fortune selling used cars. Now at this time he's not head of Formula One, far from it. But he's using his wealth to indulge his love of fast cars by carving out a place in Formula one as a business advisor who helps guide drivers careers. All morning the circuit has been alive with the screams of cars running flat out as drivers chase the fastest qualifying time. But as Eccleston flips the page, he pauses and looks up from his newspaper. Something feels wrong. Takes him a moment to realize what it is. The engines have stopped. The track has fallen eerily silent, which can mean only one thing. An accident. Someone nearby mentions the driver who's crashed is Yoakin Rent, the Austrian driver who's on the brink of becoming World Champion. Eccleston doesn't wait for details. He pushes past officials, slips through a police cordon and sprints onto the track, his heart hammering as he runs. Eccleston is Rent's business advisor, and in quiet moments between the races, the two have talked about starting their own team. When Eccleston reaches the crash site, his heart sinks. An ambulance is already pulling away, lights flashing. What's left of Rent's shattered race car sits on the grass. The front half has been obliterated by the fence. Marshall stand nearby in stunned silence. Then Eccleston notices something lying in the grass. Rent's helmet. He bends down and picks it up, the smooth white shell smeared with blood. A race official catches Eccleston's eye and slowly shakes his head. No announcement will come until the race is finished, but the message is clear. Rent is gone. Death is never far away in Formula One. In just 20 years, more than 30 drivers have lost their lives. Still, the loss of his friend leaves Eccleston reeling. He walks slowly back to the pits, the blood stained helmet still in his hands. The memory of this day will stay with Bernie Eccleston forever. Eccleston and Rent had a vision for the future of Formula One. But he won't let that dream die with his friend. Eighteen months later. March 1972. It's evening at the Ranch Hotel near Johannesburg, just outside the circuit hosting the South African Grand Prix. Inside a small meeting room, the bosses from Britain's Formula one teams crowd around a long table cluttered with ashtrays and teacups. At the head sits Colin Chapman of Lotus, talking animatedly between puffs of his cigarette. A few seats down, slightly apart from the rest, is Eccleston. He rises quietly and circles the table, pouring tea. Several men nod their thanks without even looking up. To them, Eccleston is just the used car dealer who recently bought the Brabham racing team, a newcomer who still needs to earn his place. When Formula One began in the 1950s, it was dominated by continental Europe's great car manufacturers. Alfa Romeo, Ferrari, Maserati, Mercedes Benz. But in the 1960s, small British outfits like Lotus And Brabham began winning championships with just a fraction of those manufacturers budgets. The British may be brilliant engineers, building fast cars in cramped workshops, but they are terrible businessmen, spending every season teetering on the brink of bankruptcy. Eccleston listens as the complaints pile up from the other team owners. Promoters slow to pay up. Bad contracts, travel costs, swallowing their meager prize money. Finally, he clears his throat. You all negotiate separately with the race promoters? Chapman shrugs. Of course we do. And you accept whatever they offer? It doesn't seem like we have much choice. Eccleston sets the teapot down. That's bad business. The room falls silent. You lot build brilliant cars. Best engineers in the world. But financially, you're amateurs. We're not bankers, Bernie. We're racers. Exactly. And that's the problem. You negotiate alone. Promoters play you off against each other. Half of you are practically paying to race. Chapman exhales a stream of smoke. So what's your solution? We form a cartel? Negotiate as one? A promoter deals with all of us or none of us. The team owners exchange puzzled looks. Chapman waves his hand dismissively. Sounds like a lot of paperwork and endless meetings. Maybe. But I don't mind doing it. Really, I don't mind. You handle the racing, I'll handle the business. Chapman raises an eyebrow. What's your price? 4% commission. Four? That all? Yeah. 4% seems fair. Chapman glances around the room. Most of the team bosses are already nodding. Well, frankly, I thought you'd ask for 10%. All right, Bernie. You got the job. The team owners relax, relieved to hand over a tedious business chore. To them, it feels like a minor administrative decision. But Eccleston knows the truth. Without realizing it, they've just put him in the driver's seat. What's happening here isn't about racing, folks. It's about bargaining power. The other team owners see Formula one as a racing championship. They're obsessed with beating each other on the track. It never occurs to them to work together, which means the race promoters can easily play them off against each other. But to Eccleston, Formula one is something else. It's an underexploited commercial opportunity. He understands why these teams are living on the breadline. And he knows that if they act together, they'll control the sport and the money. After becoming chief negotiator for the British teams, Eccleston begins facing down the promoters who organize each Grand Prix. When promoters try playing hardball, Eccleston threatens to pull the British teams from their race. The promoters cave they depend on the British team teams to Bring the fastest cars and the biggest stars. Without teams like Lotus, McLaren and Williams, there will be no crowds to sell tickets to. See, Eccleston doesn't own the cars, the tracks, or the sport itself. Think about that. He controls access to what everyone needs. The teams. That's the choke point. See, once you identify where value has to pass through, you don't need to own everything, just the gateway. In his first full year in the role, Eccleston pressures race organizers to quadruple prize funds to more than $100,000 per race. By 1978, he'll be forcing promoters to pay more than $360,000 in prize money to host a grand prix, almost 20 times what they paid a decade earlier. But Eccleston isn't all about the money. Mindful of the tragic death of his friend Jochen Rindt, he pushes hard for stronger safety standards across the sport, especially better medical provisions at tracks. Circuits that drag their feet on safety improvements encounter a familiar threat. The British teams won't race. Bit by bit, Eccleston shifts control of Formula One away from traditional organizers and toward the teams he represents. But not everyone welcomes his growing authority as boss of the Formula One Constructors Association. Eccleston represents the British teams, but the continental European teams stand outside the cartel. And Nunn resents the British power grab more than Ferrari. Its iconic red race cars have competed in every Formula One season since the championship began in 1950, and its aging founder, Enzo Ferrari, views Ecclestone as an interloper in his domain. Then there's the motorsport governing body, fisa, led by the autocratic Frenchman Jean Marie Balestre. Balestre sees himself as the ultimate authority in Formula One. He destroyed trusts the independent seeking British teams, and he despises Eccleston's growing influence. And he and Eccleston are about to plunge Formula One into civil war. It's May 1980. A heat wave shimmers above the asphalt at Jarama circuit just outside of Madrid, ahead of the Spanish Grand Prix. Inside the circuit's administrative building, a narrow corridor leads to a small office. The door swings open and Eccleston steps inside. Behind him walks Max Mosley, Boss of the F1 team. March. Mosley has become Eccleston's closest ally. Inside the Formula One Constructors association, they make an unlikely partnership with Eccleston is the son of a trawlerman. Hardened by a tough working class childhood in London's East End, Mosley comes from the opposite end of the social scale. He's the son of Oswald Mosley. The controversial former Member of Parliament who founded the British Union of fascists in the 1930s. Whatever baggage his family name might carry, Mosley is a barrister with a sharp legal mind. And that's exactly what Eccleston needs right now. Across the room sits Jean Marie Balestre, the imposing president of fisa. A confrontation has been building between them all week. Before the race weekend even began, FISA fined several drivers from the British teams for failing to attend mandatory briefings. To Balestre, it was a routine disciplinary mission measure. To Eccleston, it was a display of political muscle. Eccleston threatens a British boycott. For years, this tactic has worked. When Eccleston threatens to withdraw the British teams, circuits usually fold within hours. But Balestre is not a race promoter, and he does not fold. The discussion escalates quickly into raised voices and angry gestures. Each man believes he is defending the future of Formula One. Then Mosley snaps. He lunges forward and shoves the heavy desk. It crashes sideways, scattering Balestre's carefully arranged files across the floor. Papers drift through the air like confetti. The following day, Spanish police show up at the circuit. Eccleston controls the rights to hold the Spanish Grand Prix here. He's also friends with the King of Spain. So, at Eccleston's urging, the police escort Balestre and the FISA delegation from the venue at gunpoint. The race goes ahead. But it's no ordinary Grand Prix. Ferrari, Alfa Romeo and Renault side with Balestre and refuse to race. FISA declares the event unofficial. The results will not count toward the World Championship. Championship. Over the following months, Formula One spins toward chaos. Sponsors threaten to withdraw their money unless order is restored. The British teams begin planning a breakaway Formula One series independent of FISA. Yet Balestre remains confident. Most circuits still recognize FISA's authority. Ferrari and the other major European teams stand firmly behind him. Against that, Eccleston's alliance of British teams looks isolated and vulnerable to collapse. But Eccleston and Mosley aren't finished. After the Spanish Grand Prix, they quietly travel to Athens, Greece, where Balestre is gone, for a meeting at his hotel. They pay a member of staff for copies of every telex that Balestre sends during his stay. Those messages reveal Balestre's strategy. He's attempting to break the British alliance. One message hints that FISA will amend Formula One's technical regulations in a way that would benefit Lotus, but only if Lotus boss Colin Chapman defects to Balestre's side. Eccleston realizes if Chapman takes the proposed deal. The fragile unity of the British teams could collapse within days. He talks with Chapman and convinces him he's being played. Chapman reassures Eccleston of his loyalty. The struggle for control of F1 settles into a tense stalemate. On one side stand Eccleston and the British teams. They control most of the competitive cars on the grid. On the other side stands Balestre and fisa. They have the backing of the continental European teams and most of the promoters and circuits that host the races. Neither side can destroy the other without destroying the sport itself. But if a compromise isn't found and soon, the outcome could be just as dangerous. Because if no one backs down, Formula One itself could be finished. It's March 1981 at the Hotel de Crillon in Paris, France. Inside the hotel restaurant, a few doors down from Visa's offices, the men who have spent the past year tearing up Formula One share a tense breakfast. On one side of the table sits FISA president Jean Marie Balestre. Across from him sits Bernie Eccleston, the shrewd leader of the British teams in the Formula One Constructors Association. After months of boycotts, canceled races, corporate espionage and threats, there's finally been a breakthrough. Enzo Ferrari, exhausted by the endless conflict, has helped push the rivals back to the negotiating table. Now an agreement lies before them. Under its terms, FISA retains authority over the sporting and technical rules of Formula One. It will oversee the regulations governing the cars, the drivers and everything that happens on the track. But the business side of the sport is going elsewhere. The Constructors alliance, led by Eccleston, will control negotiations with race circuits, promoters, sponsors and broadcasters. As the breakfast plates are cleared, Eccleston and Balestre each sign the document. Balestre rises first, extending his hand across the table. Eccleston takes it. Balestre beams, savoring the moment. Then he asks Eccleston for one final favorite. He wants the text they've just signed to be known as the Concord Agreement, after the name of FISA's headquarters. Eccleston nods. If Balestrae wants to spend the deal as a victory for the governing body, so be it, because Eccleston knows that the balance of power has really tilted in his favor. Balestre may control the rulebook, but from this moment forward, Eccleston controls the money and with it, the future of Formula One. With the business now under his control, Eccleston moves quickly to exploit what he believes is the sport's greatest untapped asset television. He begins negotiating with Europe's broadcasters, offering them live, uninterrupted coverage of entire races. But there's one crucial condition. Television networks can't cherry pick the most glamorous events. If they want Formula One, they have to broadcast every race from the jewel of the season, the Monaco Grand Prix, to lesser known stops like the Swedish Grand Prix. Broadcasters aren't thrilled about this. Each race runs for close to two hours, far longer than the highlight packages most networks prefer. They doubt that full races will hold viewers attention, so Eccleston slashes the price. His goal isn't immediate revenue, it's reach. Every televised race means millions of people watching cars circle the track for nearly two hours. It's an uninterrupted advertising platform. With Formula One on tv, sponsors won't just pay to be seen by fans sitting in grandstands. Their logos will streak across screens for 90 minutes or more, week after week, for a cut price fee estimated at just over $2 million. The European network strike a three year deal to show Formula One in its entirety. And once the TV airtime is guaranteed, the sponsor money follows. What Eccleston understands is that attention compounds. He deliberately underprices his product because the real money doesn't come from the first deal. It comes from what that exposure unlocks next. Sponsorship. The extra exposure is especially good for tobacco companies. Cigarette advertising is increasingly banned from television. But thanks to Formula One, brands like Marlboro and Camel can get on TV by plastering their logos across the cars, driver's suits and trackside banners. With more money flowing in, teams can afford to race across the world. In 1985, they transport their cars to Australia for its inaugural Grand Prix. The following year, they go behind the Iron Curtain for the Hungarian Grand Prix. With Formula One booming, Ecclestone sells the Brabham racing team so he can focus on running the sport as a whole. He paid almost a quarter of a million dollars for Brabham in 1971. In 1988, he sells it for $9 million. The increase in value is no surprise. By 1990, Formula One commands a worldwide television viewership of more than 1.2 billion people. But few of those viewers are in the United States. For all its global success, Formula One keeps spinning its wheels there. It's not for a lack of trying. There's been at least one Grand Prix held in the US every year since 1959. For two decades, the United States Grand Prix took place at Watkins Glen in upstate New York. But over the years, the speedway's become one of the least favored stops on the F1 calendar. Drivers complained about the circuit's aging Bumpy surface teams grumbled about cramped, outdated pit facilities. Security was lax. In 1974, rowdy spectators even stole a Greyhound bus and set it on fire near the track. Eccleston demanded upgrades to bring Watkins Glenn up to modern F160 standards. But the improvements proved costly, and in 1981, the promoter behind the race went bankrupt. Its replacements fared little better. A temporary street circuit in Long Beach, California, is a bust. The tight street layout produces awkward racing, and the event struggles to make money. In Las Vegas, drivers race around the parking lot of Caesar's Palace. But the flat, featureless circuit and searing desert heat produce sparse crowds and little enthusiasm. In Dallas, the brutal summer heat melts the track, and the race lasts just a single season. The Detroit Grand Prix run through the downtown street survives longer, until the crumbling road surface and inadequate pit facilities cause its downfall as well. Again and again, Formula One relaunches in America with fresh ambition. And every time it stalls. There's a lesson here, and Thesis learned it the hard way. Scale doesn't guarantee fit. Every market has its own culture, expectations, emotional hooks. Ignore those, and any product can come across as a losing proposition. If you want to win in a new market, it pays to understand that market inside and out. Because it's not racing that Americans find unappealing. Just look at what's happening with NASCAR. After the spectacle of the 1979 Daytona 500 electrified TV audiences, NASCAR's popularity goes into overdrive. Broadcasters that once ignored stock car racing suddenly want a piece of the action. In 1981, the fledgling cable network ESPN signs a deal to make NASCAR a cornerstone of its schedule. Week after week, its races air opposite Sunday afternoon NFL broadcasts. The effect is transformative. Once confined to largely southern states, NASCAR spreads across the country. New tracks appear far beyond the traditional strongholds of Florida, Alabama and the Carolinas. California's Sonoma Raceway is added to the schedule. And in 1986, NASCAR makes Watkins Glen, the former home of the F1 Grand Prix, a regular stop. Sponsors love NASCAR, too. Its fans are fiercely loyal not just to the drivers but to the brands that back them. Soon the tobacco and oil company logos on the cars are joined by brands like Folgers Instant Coffee and tide detergent. By 1990, NASCAR races are drawing massive crowds, television audiences to match, and their drivers are national celebrities. You know, it's hard not to sense a cultural difference at work here. Formula One carries an unmistakably Old World vibe. Scarlet Ferraris gliding through Monte Carlo harbor as luxury yachts bob nearby. It's aspirational Glamorous, refined nascar. NASCAR feels different. It's rooted in blue collar America culture. Loud, gritty, proudly unpolished. And that contrast is visible in the cars themselves. Formula One feels sleek, purpose built machines costing millions of dollars each. NASCAR's racers begin life as versions of the sedans sitting on dealership lots across the country. To many Americans, the choice feels obvious. Formula One looks distant and aristocratic. Nascar. NASCAR feels like home. It's March 1990 in downtown Phoenix, Arizona, and Formula One is attempting yet another American reboot. Bright sunlight glints off glass towers in fakes, the temporary street circuit laid out between them. The championship's biggest stars are here, including defending world champion Alain Prost and his great rival Ayrton Senna. The idea is simple. Running Formula One through downtown Phoenix will spark Arizonans curiosity. But the empty seats lining the sidewalks tell a different story. Barely 15,000 spectators have shown up on the track. Senna drives his car through the tight corners with surgical precision, eventually claiming victory. But the cheers that greet him are scattered and muted. What makes the moment even worse is what's happening just a few miles away on the outskirts of Phoenix, 75,000 people are watching a very different race at the Chandler Ostrich Festival. Crowds roar as the long legged birds thunder down a dirt track, riders clinging on as feathers fly and dust rises into the air. The world's most sophisticated motorsport has just lost out to an ostrich race, one that's drawn five times as many spectators. For Eccleston, the message is unmistakable. If Formula One is ever going to succeed in the US Fast cars and famous drivers won't be enough. But he doesn't have time to dwell on it. Formula One is facing a bigger threat than American apathy. Its biggest income stream is in danger. European governments are out to ban tobacco companies from sponsoring F1, and if Eccleston can't find a way to stop them, Formula One could lose the majority of its sponsorship money overnight. Follow Business wars on the Audible app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to all episodes of Business wars ad free by joining Audible from Audible Originals. This is episode one of F1 versus NASCAR for business Wars. A quick note about the recreations you've been hearing. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said. Those scenes are dramatizations, but they're based on research. And if you'd like to read more, we recommend the Formula by Joshua Robinson and Jonathan Clegg. Also no angel by Tom Bauer and the 200 mph billboard by Mark Yost if you'd like to hear more about the high stakes drama of F1, you can check out the audiobook version of the formula right now on Audible. I'm your host, David Brown. Scott Reeves of Yellow Ant wrote this story. Our senior producers are Ginny Blume and Emily Frost. Our producer is Tristan Donovan of Yellow Ant. Karen Lowe is our Producer Emeritus. Our Managing Producer is Desi Blalock. Research by Marina Watson Fact checking by Gabrielle Jolais Sound design by Joshua Morales Kyle Randall is our lead Sound designer. Executive Producer for Audible Jenny Lauer Beckman, Head of Creative Development at Audible Kate Navin, Head of Audible Originals North America Marshall Louie, Chief Content Officer Rachel Giaza Copyright 2026 by Audible Originals, LLC Sound Recording Copyright 2026by Audible Originals, LLC.