Everyone knows F1 is for the girls. I wandered into the Las Vegas desert to find out why.

LAS VEGAS — The middle-aged woman wearing a Ferrari hat at gate C60 in the Denver Airport altered the course of my weekend. As we were commiserating about the Southwest Airlines seating system, a man approached her husband to ask who he was rooting for to win the Las Vegas Grand Prix, the Formula One race to which most of the weary travelers around me were headed.

“She’s into it. I inherited it from her,” the man explained, gesturing to his wife. She turned quickly to the stranger, explaining that this was her fifth grand prix. Her name is Carol; she’s obviously a Ferrari stan, and Lewis Hamilton, perhaps the most instantly recognizable F1 driver, is her guy. She fanned herself a bit with her hand as she said his name. She urged me to join her in Ferrari standom. The cars are fast, the guys are hot and everyone looks good in red.

Sure, I thought. I could be a Ferrari fan.