But that's more than enough on that subject.

The F1 Insider spent the mid-season mini-break with Michael Schumacher and I am pleased to be able to bring you this insight into Michael's private life.

The phone rang as I was on the way out of the door. It was my editor from Atlas F1. "Michael Schumacher has agreed to spend the weekend with you," she said. I was of course flattered but I didn't think my wife would be too happy. "Sorry," I said, "tell him that I just want to be friends. It's not him, it's me." Sometimes people can't tell when I'm being funny and when I'm being stupid and this was obviously one of those times.

"Just get over there, follow him around for a couple of days and write about it. Shouldn't be too hard for a writer, should it?" I couldn't help but agree and wondered whether it wouldn't have been better to ask an actual writer.

But what could I do? I had no plans for the weekend, my antique bottle cap collection was nicely alphabetized and the goldfish had been fed, walked and given a bath. I had nothing to lose and there was always a chance that there'd be some of those nice Swiss chocolates hanging around in delicate, crystal bowls. I decided to pack the jacket with the extra hidden pockets.

With bags packed, I set out for Switzerland going around the world in 80 days (but that's another story). I arrived at Michael's luxurious Swiss chalet around 8 o'clock in the morning. Corinna met me at the door and invited me in and gave me the grand tour. As you would expect, the house was the paragon of luxury (sorry, Ron) and was beautifully appointed. We met Michael in the kitchen, sipping orange juice and reading the owner's manual for a Jaguar XKR. He quickly hid the manual away and stood up to shake hands. "Good morning, dear," he said before turning to shake hands with me.

"So what do you want to do?" he asked, "I've got every episode of Speed Racer on DVD". Now I love Speed Racer as much as the next guy but the next guy doesn't like it very much either. "Why don't you just do what you normally do so I can report on a normal day in the life of Michael Schumacher?" I suggested.

After six episodes of Speed Racer, we were ready for a break. "How about some Wacky Races?" he asked. "That's OK," I replied, "I've been watching Formula One all season." He looked at me quizzically as if I'd just asked him what his pit strategy would be for the next race. He was obviously trying to figure out whether I was being funny or stupid.

Fortunately the awkward pause was broken by the phone ringing. He picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Yes, this is Michael."

"No, I want it washed and waxed."

"OK, and don't forget to clean the tyres this time."

"OK, thanks, Rubens. See you at the track."

The phone rang again but this time Michael checked the caller ID and let the answering machine pick it up.

"Michael? Are you there? Michael? Pick up if you're there……Michael, its Jean. Please pick up…… I know you're there. Michael, I miss you. Please call me. Please. I just want to talk to you. OK. I'll call you later. I miss you. Bye…….I love you."

Michael looks at me and rolls his eyes. "I get that all the time," he says. "It was nice at first but ….." He pauses and looks wistfully out of the window. "Sometimes I miss Flavio, you know?"

We went into the kitchen for lunch. Sixteen red-clad servants lifted Michael onto his chair, forced a bowl of soup down his throat and changed his shoes. He asked if I was hungry but seeing that the kitchen-crew was preparing another bowl of soup I claimed that I'd had a big breakfast. "But if you have any of those nice Swiss chocolates in delicate, crystal bowls……"

Michael ignored me. "Let's go work out," he said. As we walked across the living room, the eyes in the Heinz-Harald Frentzen portrait above the mantle seemed to follow me. "Isn't that…." I started to say as Michael turned to me with a look that seemed to say, "Go ahead, tell me Montoya's your favourite driver." I decided that the hard questions could wait until later. Right after I'd asked where the nice Swiss chocolates were.

We walked into the gym which resembled, to all intents and purposes, a large metropolitan branch of Gold's gym except for the fact that Michael had more equipment. Michael headed unswervingly for a lazy-boy in the corner and another team of red-clad attendants leapt out to extend the leg-rest, put a newspaper in his hand and mop his forehead. All sixteen then ran and jumped on a piece of exercise equipment and pushed, pulled, lifted and twisted for all they were worth.

Michael was concentrating hard. 3 down (nine letters, a word puzzle) was clearly giving him some trouble. I tried to help. "Crossword", I said. "Yes it is," he replied.

After half an hour of strenuous exercise, Michael suddenly suggested that we go for a drive. I readily agreed. This was going to be good. We went to Michael's capacious garage housing a dozen expensive cars and he quickly selected a set of keys from a row of hooks next to the door. We walked past a Ferrari 612, a Maserati MC12, a Lamborghini Diablo and many others, and finally arriving at a battered 1992 VW Golf.

Michael lovingly caressed the panels of the rusting VW as he moved around the car to the driver's door. "Isn't she a beauty?" he asked. I mumbled something about eyes of beholders and got in the passenger side. We pulled out of the driveway and pottered along at 28 mph with the indicator still blinking. Michael offered to turn on the radio but I immediately jumped to prevent him reaching for it. "I'll get it," I said.

After a half hour of Michael doing his Morgan Freeman impression, Driving Me Crazy, we encountered traffic at the intersection at the end of the street. I sat impatiently tapping my foot while Michael stared into space, a worried expression creasing his brow. "Em, Michael. We really should get a move on, you know. I have a deadline to meet."

Michael looked around seemingly surprised to find himself in a VW Golf next to an impatient Englishman. Whatever problem was on his mind, Michael turned his thoughts to the current traffic problem and stamped on the accelerator turning his current problem into somebody else's very immediate problem.

The somebody else in the grey (he probably thought of it as silver) Accord stood hard on the brake pedal trying to remember which of his two cars was equipped with anti-lock brakes. In an instant he decided that the Accord was indeed equipped with anti-lock brakes but pumped the brake pedal anyway just in case. Despite his failure to master the machinery under his control, the driver of the Accord did manage to avoid the VW's rear bumper by a good six inches while finding time to flip us the bird with the hand that was not busy turning the pages of the newspaper balanced on the steering wheel. Quite what he did with his cup of coffee remains something of a mystery to me.

Michael's pre-occupation was now gone and we returned to the Schumacher mansion at a pace I would never have conceived was possible in a VW Golf. About 45 mph. Back in the comfort of the living room we sat and talked and Michael revealed to me the secret of his superior fitness which, as it turned out, is also the secret of eternal life.