Max Verstappen may have felt an “incredible turnaround” from Red Bull’s Miami upgrades, but his verdict on Formula 1’s new rules remained pointed: the cars may be more driveable, yet the underlying power-unit philosophy still feels wrong.
Verstappen’s central issue is not just pace. It is driving feel. He argued that F1 needs to move away from the 55/45 split between combustion engine and battery power and return closer to the previous balance, where the internal combustion engine provided roughly 75 to 80 percent of the power. His concern is that drivers should not be punished on the straight for carrying more speed through a full-throttle corner.
That point cuts to the heart of the debate. A car that rewards bravery in corners but then leaves the driver exposed because of energy deployment is, in Verstappen’s view, undermining the basic rhythm of racing. The strongest reading of his criticism is that F1 has created a formula where the optimal lap can become less about being grip-limited everywhere and more about managing where not to spend energy.
That is why the discussion quickly widened beyond Verstappen. The removal of the MGU-H, the absence of front-axle regeneration, the influence of manufacturers, and the road-relevance argument all became part of the same conversation. The frustration is not simply that the rules are complicated. It is that the compromise seems to have pleased no one fully: too much electric deployment to feel natural, not enough recovery to sustain it cleanly, and too much politics around how the sport got here.
Verstappen was also clear that his criticism is not dependent on Red Bull’s form. Even with Red Bull’s upgrades making the car feel better in Miami, he said the core criticism remains. That distinction matters. The easy assumption is that drivers only complain when they are losing. Verstappen’s comments undercut that, because he separated competitive position from driving enjoyment. He can like the improved car underneath him and still dislike the direction of the regulations.
The Miami upgrade, however, immediately revived a very different Red Bull storyline: the second-seat curse. Verstappen said Red Bull’s update made the car “more driveable for me,” and the reaction was immediate. The bigger the gap grows between Verstappen and the other Red Bull, the more it looks like the car is moving in the right direction for Max and into more difficult territory for his teammate.
That does not necessarily mean the upgrade was designed only for Verstappen. A more convincing explanation is that when the car has a lower ceiling, teammates can look closer because there is less performance to extract. Raise the ceiling, and the driver best able to reach it suddenly looks far further ahead. Hadjar may still have benefited, but Verstappen appears to have benefited more.
Then Miami made Hadjar’s weekend even worse. His qualifying disqualification for a technical infringement relating to the floor sent him to the back of the grid or pit lane, immediately folding into the existing Red Bull narrative. The reaction was brutal: the curse had reactivated, the second driver had been sacrificed, and the only way for Red Bull’s second seat to stay close to Verstappen is for Verstappen himself to be stuck in the midfield.
The floor infringement also prompted a technical reading: if parts of the floor were outside the reference volume by a few millimeters, the likely explanation was not simply a setup preference, but an issue with the floor itself, whether manufacturing, assembly, or damage. Either way, it was treated as a team failure more than a Hadjar failure. For Hadjar, though, the effect was the same: after looking like he might be settling into the role, Miami turned into another example of how quickly Red Bull’s second seat can become a storyline of its own.
While Verstappen pushed for a different power balance, FIA president Mohammed Ben Sulayem pushed an even bigger future reset: a return to V8 engines, possibly by 2030 or 2031. The reaction split between enthusiasm, skepticism, and distrust.
There is obvious appetite for louder, simpler, more visceral engines. Fans want spectacle. They want cars that sound like events, not just machines. The V8 idea taps directly into nostalgia for an era when F1 felt lighter, sharper, and more raw. But there is also skepticism that a V8 alone solves anything. A turbo V8 with restrictive fuel-flow limits, heavy hybrid elements, or an awkward power split could easily disappoint anyone expecting a return to the past.
That is the key warning: “V8” is not a complete regulation. It is a label. The formula around it matters more than the cylinder count. If the cars remain heavy, over-managed, and shaped by the same political compromises, a V8 badge will not automatically restore the spectacle people are imagining.
There is also distrust around Ben Sulayem’s role in the messaging. Some see the V8 push as a convenient fan-friendly talking point from a controversial FIA president. Others argue that if the outcome is better racing, fans should care more about the result than the messenger. The split is less about whether V8s sound appealing and more about whether F1 should trust another major regulatory pivot to the same political environment that produced the current debate.
The broader engine conversation also exposed a tension in F1’s road-relevance argument. Some still see F1 as a place where hybrid systems, fuels, lubricants, combustion studies, and software management can filter into road-car thinking. Others see “road relevance” mostly as brand marketing: manufacturers want F1 to make their technology look cool, not necessarily to develop parts that end up in a normal commuter car.
That matters because the current formula seems to be caught between identities. It wants manufacturer relevance, sustainability optics, and advanced hybrid technology, while fans and drivers increasingly want lighter cars, simpler racing, and more visceral spectacle. The V8 debate is really a proxy for that identity crisis.
Away from the technical fight, McLaren and Red Bull also had their own political flashpoint. Zak Brown met with Red Bull team principal Laurent Mekies after tension between the teams over Gianpiero Lambiase’s move and the role he is set to have. The immediate reaction to Brown’s body language was pure wrestling theatre, with the meeting framed like someone sprinting in with a steel chair.
Underneath the jokes, the issue was more serious. If Lambiase’s McLaren move has been discussed externally as a future team principal path, that creates obvious sensitivity around Andreas Stella’s position. McLaren denying that interpretation does not make the rumor harmless; even unsubstantiated speculation can create internal noise. Red Bull, meanwhile, has every incentive to make a rival’s high-profile hire as uncomfortable as possible.
That is why the story has traction. It is not only about Lambiase. It is about how top teams weaponize messaging. A personnel move can be a transfer, a flex, a rumor mill, and a destabilization tactic all at once.
Taken together, the Miami conversation made F1 feel like a sport arguing with itself. Verstappen likes Red Bull’s upgrade but still dislikes the rules. Hadjar’s disqualification revives the Red Bull second-seat curse just as Verstappen finds more comfort. Ben Sulayem promises V8s while fans debate whether that is vision or distraction. McLaren and Red Bull trade tension over personnel while the paddock turns it into theatre.
The through-line is clear: F1 is not just debating what the next car should be. It is debating what kind of sport it wants to sell. More electric relevance or more combustion spectacle. More manufacturer influence or more entertainment-first regulation. More technical complexity or more driver feel. Miami did not settle any of it. It only made the fault lines easier to see.