Spending a night out with Kimi Räikkönen, the legendary Finnish Formula 1 World Champion known as the “Iceman,” is an experience that burns into memory—despite (or because of) the staggering amount of alcohol consumed. For those lucky enough to witness it, it feels like encountering a mythical creature in the wild: rare, chaotic, and deeply unforgettable.
In 2010, Kimi stepped away from the Formula 1 spotlight and joined the World Rally Championship. It was a surprising shift at the time and paired him alongside another unconventional name in the motorsport world—Ken Block, the viral Gymkhana icon. I was managing marketing and creative for Ken’s rally team then, and it was through this unexpected twist of fate that I came into contact with the notoriously stoic Finn.
Kimi had a reputation—both for his ice-cold composure behind the wheel and for his off-track antics, especially in his early career. His reserved nature in press conferences and the paddock made him almost a mystery, even to those close to the sport. And yet, beneath the icy exterior, there existed a party legend. One hint of this came in the form of his own concoction: a cocktail of vodka, Red Bull, and champagne—a blend that guaranteed both a great night and a punishing hangover. I discovered this firsthand when Kimi handed me a glass and watched with amusement as I chugged it down.
During the WRC season, he lived up to the Iceman name: quiet, mumbling through near-invisible lip movements, rarely showing any signs of emotion. But things took a wild turn after the final race of the season—Wales Rally GB. That night, Kimi invited us out to dinner at Jamie Oliver’s restaurant. I expected a standard, low-energy meal and perhaps a few mumbled stories before calling it a night.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
At that dinner table, I met an entirely new Kimi. He laughed. He cracked jokes. He talked—at length. This wasn’t just the occasional outburst of personality; he held the floor like a natural storyteller, entertaining everyone with one hilarious anecdote after another. I kept looking at Ken Block in disbelief, silently asking: Is this the same guy we’ve been working around all year?
By the time dinner wrapped up, we were deep into our drinks and deeper into the night. Kimi suddenly remembered he was supposed to attend Citroën’s corporate party and, instead of calling it quits, insisted we all crash the event with him.
That party, hosted at a random pub in the British countryside, couldn’t have had a more different energy. It was stiff, corporate, and smelled of sponsor obligations. But the second Kimi arrived—with us trailing behind like his misfit entourage—he changed the entire vibe. He didn’t just show up—he took over. Beelining toward a table full of drivers and summoning a waitress, he ordered another round and turned to me with a suddenly serious tone: “Have you had a Kimi Special?” When I admitted I hadn’t, he shook his head with exaggerated disappointment. Moments later, I was drinking another of his infamous mixes. So were Ken Block, Sébastien Loeb, Dani Sordo, and half the WRC elite.
Kimi was a force that night—turning obligation into celebration. Wherever he went, the energy followed. We barhopped across town, turning heads in every pub as strangers struggled to process what they were seeing. A World Champion, drunk and dancing through sleepy British bars, turning the mundane into the manic. At one point, he even suggested chartering a plane to Ibiza that night to keep the party going. Whether or not that plan was serious remains a mystery.
Eventually, the night blurred. I stopped counting the drinks. All I knew was that if I kept pace with Kimi, I’d never survive to tell the story. Still, I didn’t stop. How could I?
The next morning was predictably brutal. I woke up groaning, barely able to move, with a head like a jackhammer. After violently throwing up what must have been a mix of energy drink and regret, I choked down some aspirin in a feeble attempt to prepare for our next obligation: a formal visit to the Goodwood Estate to meet Lord March himself. Fittingly, I ended up vomiting in the noble’s bathroom. That, too, became part of the legend.
I wouldn’t see Kimi again for nearly a year. I was dying to ask if he ever followed through with the Ibiza plan. But when our paths finally crossed again, he had reverted to his classic Iceman form—expressionless and quiet. He gave me a simple nod, no words. That was all.
And somehow, it was perfect.:
If you ever find yourself lucky (or foolish) enough to go drinking with Kimi Räikkönen, know this: it won’t be just another night out. It will be a whirlwind of drinks, unexpected detours, and surreal moments that blur the line between reality and legend. Whether you remember it or not, it will become a story you’ll tell forever—if only to remind yourself that yes, the Iceman really can melt.
