The great thrill of watching Max Verstappen lies in his scant regard for self-preservation. He will thread the needle with his overtakes and push his machinery until it sparks and shudders, betraying not the slightest fear of crashing. For most of his seven seasons in Formula One, such heedless exuberance has made him a joy to behold. But now that a maiden world title begins to slip from his grasp, it is making him a menace. There is a slender margin in this sport between audacity and recklessness, and the would-be champion is falling increasingly on the wrong side.

As Verstappen and Lewis Hamilton head to Abu Dhabi level on 369.5 points, the first such final-race tie between championship leaders for 47 years, the possibility increases of a repeat of Suzuka 1990, when Ayrton Senna sent Alain Prost slithering into the gravel to become world champion for a second time. A similarly devilish equation awaits Verstappen at Yas Marina: should both contenders fail to finish, the ultimate prize will be his on a countback of victories, with nine to Hamilton’s eight.

It is to be hoped that a campaign of captivating twists will not be resolved with such cynicism. But on the evidence of a chaotic Saudi Arabian Grand Prix, where Verstappen drove like a man who would rather smash into a wall than surrender track position, you would not rule anything out. Desperate people can resort to desperate measures, and in this tensest of title run-ins, the heir presumptive seems prepared to commit as many breaches of driver etiquette as stewards will permit.

He was let off with time penalties in Jeddah, docked five seconds for leaving the track and gaining an advantage, then a further 10 for causing a collision. He showcased the best and worst of himself in the space of an hour. Take his opportunism at the second restart: there is arguably not another driver alive who, hurtling into Turn One three abreast with Hamilton and Esteban Ocon, would have had the gumption to dive down the inside, never mind with so much at stake.

Sometimes, though, discretion can be the better part of valour. Even Verstappen’s unflappable race engineer, Gianpiero Lambiase, sounded weary when, just moments after being told to allow Hamilton through “strategically”, he hit the brakes and let his arch-nemesis smash into the back of him. “Max, you didn’t need to do that,” he sighed, like a careworn father. The verdict of Hamilton, enraged when a frantically defending Dutchman drove him off track, was somewhat pithier: “This guy’s f—— crazy, man.”