The life of Ayrton Senna has been documented, bound, printed, photographed, filmed and explored more than any other motor racing driver. Catalogs of material have been produced and are readily available for purchase or consumption online, making the 20th anniversary of his death at the San Marino Grand Prix on May 1, 1994, a somewhat challenging topic to explore.

With every angle and facet of his life having been covered in some capacity over the past two decades, there’s little in the way of mystery left with Formula 1’s most mercurial driver. But with the passage of time – and new generations of F1 fans who found the sport after his loss – I’m left thinking not so much about the life of Senna this week, but the personal impact May 1 had on my life. Maybe our stories, told by those who were touched by his death, can add new perspectives to what the world surrendered.

Like many others who still feel the exceptional weight of what it was like to live through that day and the foggy, surreal times that followed, the shock of witnessing Senna’s death – even from thousands of miles away – has yet to fade, to lose any color.

Remembering Roland Ratzenberger and Ayrton Senna

McLaren’s Ron Dennis on Ayrton Senna

McLaren’s video tribute: “Remember Senna”

Ferrari: We were chasing Senna deal in 1994

David Brabham on Roland Ratzenberger

Nick Wirth on Imola ’94

May 1 happened at a time before the Internet had become a readily available tool for most people, leaving motor racing news to be delivered in print or on television. As a young race car mechanic, my weekend was spent in Laguna Seca in Monterey looking after a sports car, and with Senna hoping to rebound after a fruitless start at Williams, I rose early Sunday morning to watch San Marino live on ESPN.

Living on the West Coast meant setting the alarm for somewhere between 3:30 and 4:30 a.m. to catch live Grands Prix, and with a long day of work ahead – a warm-up, race, plus packing everything away and driving three hours North to our base at Sears Point – I seldom chose to watch pre-dawn F1 races from my hotel room. My standard practice was to wait until I got home to view the videotape I set to record in my absence.

San Marino was different, and with the delayed state of news distribution, I first learned of Roland Ratzenberger’s death and Rubens Barrichello’s frightening crash when I turned on the broadcast. The room was dark, lit only by the small, microwave-sized TV, and despite the inhumane hour, I was awake and alert in an instant, digesting the gravity of what had taken place halfway around the world on Friday and Saturday.

It wasn’t long before the race got underway with Senna, starting from pole, and Michael Schumacher streaking away before a massive multi-car crash was triggered behind them. I sat impatiently on the edge of the bed, covered with a blanket, as the field trailed behind the safety car while the scene was cleared, then cheered on Senna at the restart and watched as he tried to build a gap to Schumacher.

My memory of Senna’s final, incomplete lap, returns the same sense of disbelief and surrender I felt 20 years ago. Schumacher’s in-car camera, Senna rocketing left around the bend toward Tamburello, Senna in the distance – tethered to the track – and watched as he was cut from that gravity-defying arc and sent on a different trajectory.

I’d seen Senna crash while leading at Monaco, his pair of clashes with Prost in Japan and saw his car flip at Mexico, but his crash at Imola had a certain finality to it. The cameras showed his car come to a rest, and with Senna slumped forward in the car – his head tilted at an odd angle – I knew he was gone.

I’d passionately fought and argued over Senna for years, championing his brilliance before and after he’d become World Champion, but other than shouting “F**K!” in my hotel room, most of what I remember afterward involves a mix of ice-cold emotions and a crushing sense of defeat. I think the commentators said something about Senna being taken to the hospital for evaluation, but I didn’t need to hear any more of what they had to say and switched off the TV. I also don’t recall the next hour or two, but I’m sure it involved getting ready and leaving for Laguna Seca.

It must have been around noon – during the lunch break – when the track announcer declared three-time Formula 1 champion Ayrton Senna had died. It sent a visceral shockwave throughout the paddock. Looking up from beneath our team’s awning, I watched as the wave of realization hit those around me like a stiff jab. Mouths wide open, pupils dilated, it seemed like I was in a trance as I watched such unfathomable news radiate outward across the paddock. When I close my eyes, I picture myself standing at the epicenter, emotionless and detached from the shared experience happening around me. I’d already gone through that process on my own hours before in a dark little hotel room.

I can’t tell you a single thing about how our team’s race went that day. I’m even struggling to recall the name of the driver I was tending to, which is embarrassing. The only item that stands out from the rest of May 1 was arriving home, hitting the “Eject” button on the VCR, writing “SENNA IMOLA 1994” on the videocassette label and tossing it into the box with my other tapes. Two decades on, I still have the tape, haven’t watched it, and as silly as it might sound, it just wouldn’t feel right to throw it away.

I think I broke up with my girlfriend sometime after Senna died, but it could have been before – I’m being honest when I say things were rather foggy during that period. Other than Penske Racing dominating the Indy 500 a few weeks after Imola, there’s a significant gap before other memories and milestones from 1994 appear on my mental timeline. I can only assume I was depressed, and it took months for a sense of normalcy to return.

F1 was quite popular in the Pruett household, and I’d grown up with it since Mario Andretti’s title run in 1978, but Senna was my primary attachment point. He was my man. I’d had other sporting idols before, mostly stick and ball stars I’d happened upon as a child. Senna was the only athlete I took on as an idol in my teens and early 20s. He was also my last.

I knew all of his stats, moved my allegiance to each new team he signed for, devoured every issue of AUTOSPORT and On Track to contextualize and expand upon what I’d seen during his races, tracked his progress in pre-season testing, marveled at an acquaintance who knew someone who knew Senna, read and re-read each Autocourse F1 annual and bought anything that bore his name or likeness. I even purchased a damn “Nacional” hat without having a clue as to what it meant or represented. Senna wore one, which was good enough for me.

It seems ridiculous now–as a grown man–to think of my rabid fandom for another human being. And the level of my devotion to Senna at the time surely speaks to an imbalance in my life and misaligned priorities in 1994, but that doesn’t change how deeply his death affected my world.

He filled the better part of a decade of my life with reverie and amazement, and since May 1, my appreciation for Senna has endured, albeit in a more mature form. My wife, who has come to enjoy F1 more than any other series, was introduced to the sport in the early 2000s when Michael Schumacher was at his peak. Senna was an unknown figure until I began explaining there was life before Schumi.

With no memories of her own about the Brazilian, she loved stirring the pot, insisting Schumacher was the greatest F1 driver of all time – far better than my beloved Senna. I’d do my best to avoid taking the bait, which rarely worked, and after watching Asif Kapadia’s tribute film “Senna,” her Schumacher-as-greatest-of-all-time comments quietly came to an end.

Although that videotape from Imola 1994 has been ignored, I have watched Senna’s 1988 Grand Prix season multiple times. I recorded every race that year and have managed to hold onto each cassette. They are among my most prized possessions. I’ve scoured Brazil and Japan for more Senna material – Laserdiscs, VHS Box Sets, CDs – and have built an extensive content archive, but it has been a while since I’ve added to the collection.

A psychiatrist would probably tell me I’ve yet to fully accept Senna’s death, which would also be embarrassing. It would also likely be true. Rather than dwell on the topic and explore its total impact on the 23-year-old version of myself, I’ve moved on, leaving it untended. I don’t foresee that changing anytime soon.

I will, however, try and remember the good times as we memorialize his loss on this 20th anniversary. By chance – because it can’t be anything else – I’ll find myself at Laguna Seca this weekend, just as I was on the same weekend two decades earlier. I’ll also be there working at a sports car race. I don’t believe in fate, but the planets have certainly aligned in a rather unique manner for a devout Senna fan.

Knowing how brutal the experience was in Monterey back in 1994, getting a second chance to say goodbye to Senna at Laguna Seca, this time on my own terms, could be exactly what I’ve been waiting for.​

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