Dietrich Mateschitz

Sometime in 1982 — the exact date lost to the studied vagueness Dietrich Mateschitz cultivated around his own mythology — a tired Austrian toothpaste salesman walked through a Bangkok hotel lobby and drank something that changed his life. He was thirty-eight years old, a marketing director for a German cosmetics company called Blendax, and by his own later admission he had hit a wall so absolute that it had become a kind of philosophical condition. "All I could see were the same gray airplanes, the same gray suits, the same gray faces," he would tell Bloomberg decades later. "All the hotel bars looked the same, and so did the women in them. I asked myself whether I wanted to spend the next decade as I'd spent the previous one." The drink was called Krating Daeng — Thai for "red bull" — a syrupy, uncarbonated tonic sold in small brown pharmacy bottles to truck drivers and rice farmers and construction workers who needed help staying awake through twelve-hour shifts in equatorial heat. It was cheap. It was functional. It tasted like liquid sugar cut with cough medicine. And when Mateschitz drank it, his jet lag vanished.

This is a story about what happened next — how a man who took a full decade to graduate from college and spent his best professional years selling toothpaste across time zones would, at the age of forty-one, quit his job, invest his entire savings in a product that failed every consumer taste test, and build from that failure a company that today sells nearly fourteen billion cans a year in 178 countries, generating more than €12 billion in annual revenue. Red Bull did not merely create a new brand. It created a new category — energy drinks — where none had existed in the Western world, then dominated that category so thoroughly that thirty-eight years later the slim blue-and-silver can remains the global market leader despite containing nothing patentable, nothing proprietary, nothing that a competitor couldn't replicate for pennies. The ingredients are listed right there on the outside of the can.

What could not be replicated was the mind that conceived of the whole thing. Dietrich Mateschitz — universally called "Didi" by the few people who knew him, called "the Yeti" inside Red Bull for his deliberate invisibility — gave fewer than twenty interviews over the course of his entire career. He bought an Austrian society magazine partly to ensure he would never appear in it. He shunned cameras, suits, red carpets, shareholders' meetings, and the very concept of celebrity that his brand so assiduously manufactured for others. "I don't believe in 50 friends," he once said. "I believe in a smaller number. Nor do I care about society events. It's the most senseless use of time. When I do go out, from time to time, it's just to convince myself again that I'm not missing a lot." He died on October 22, 2022, at the age of seventy-eight, of cancer — though even the precise date of his death remains uncertain, because Red Bull's management maintained a studied silence for weeks before the official announcement, and some observers close to the company heard credible rumors he had passed away as early as late August. The founder's privacy held even past the grave.

To understand Mateschitz you have to begin with the slowness, because the slowness explains everything that came after. Born on May 20, 1944, in Sankt Marein im Mürztal — a small town in the Austrian province of Styria, tucked among hills that produce more schoolteachers than entrepreneurs — he was the only child of two primary school teachers who separated when he was young. His father, whom he did not meet until he was eleven, had been held in a prisoner-of-war camp long after World War II ended. His mother raised him largely alone. The family had Croatian roots, a detail Mateschitz seldom discussed, embedded in the difficult consonant clusters of his surname.

He enrolled at the Vienna University of Economics and Business. It took him ten years to graduate with a marketing degree. Ten years. He was twenty-eight when he finished, in 1972 — an age when many of his contemporaries were already mid-career. When an interviewer later pressed him about this glacial pace, he was characteristically unapologetic: "You know, it's a good time, so you shouldn't shorten it unnecessarily." He worked as a tour guide in summer and a ski instructor in winter, and he conceded, with a dry smile, that "a student ski instructor at 28, 30? It's not so funny any more."

But the decade was not purposeless. It was incubation. Friends from those years describe a man who was charismatic, funny, full of ambition, perpetually generating ideas that seemed half-brilliant and half-insane. He was, by all accounts, extraordinarily good company — and extraordinarily good at persuading people to go along with whatever he was proposing. What he lacked was urgency. Or rather: he lacked the conventional kind of urgency, the career-ladder anxiety of the postwar Austrian middle class. He was waiting — though he didn't know yet for what.

After graduating, Mateschitz joined Unilever, the Anglo-Dutch consumer goods colossus, where he spent his days marketing detergents and soap across Europe. A salary of approximately $500,000 in inflation-adjusted terms. He moved to Jacobs Coffee briefly, then landed at Blendax, a German cosmetics company later acquired by Procter & Gamble, as its director of international marketing. He was good at it — toothpaste, shampoo, the whole portfolio — and the position required constant travel to Asia, which is how a man selling Blendax toothpaste in Thailand ended up, at a business meeting with one of Blendax's Thai franchise partners, tasting a drink that would make him a billionaire.

The Thai franchise partner was T.C. Pharmaceutical Industries, and its founder was Chaleo Yoovidhya — a figure so reclusive that he made Mateschitz look like a publicity hound. Chaleo was the son of poor Chinese immigrants who had settled in Siam (as Thailand was then known) in 1932. He grew up in Phichit province, a quiet agricultural region, helping his parents sell fruit and raise ducks. No formal education to speak of. He drifted to Bangkok, drove buses, sold cosmetics, and eventually scraped together enough to found a small pharmaceutical company that sold antibiotics and imported cosmetics. In 1976, Chaleo developed a sweet, uncarbonated energy tonic aimed at Thailand's blue-collar workforce — truck drivers, farmers, factory hands — and named it Krating Daeng. The label bore two red gaurs (a wild bovine resembling a bull) charging at each other against a yellow sun: power, perseverance, energy. His son Saravoot would later say the drink "wasn't very popular" at first, but within a few years it had built a cult following among the very workers it was designed for. Chaleo marketed it at Muay Thai boxing matches, handed out bottles at construction sites, sold it through pharmacies. By the time Mateschitz encountered it, Krating Daeng was the dominant energy tonic in Southeast Asia.

Chaleo gave almost no interviews in over thirty years. Various news outlets couldn't agree on whether he was eighty-one, eighty-nine, or ninety when he died in Bangkok on March 17, 2012. His was a life lived almost entirely off the record — a quality that Mateschitz, recognizing a kindred spirit, would have appreciated deeply.

The precise sequence of Mateschitz's discovery has been told in slightly varying versions. In one account, he tried Krating Daeng at the T.C. Pharmaceutical offices during a business meeting about toothpaste distribution. In another, he was served a sweet Asian beverage at a luxury hotel bar in Hong Kong. What is consistent across all tellings is the jet lag, the instantaneous cure, and the magazine article. Sitting in the bar at the Mandarin Oriental in Hong Kong — or on a plane, or in a hotel room; the setting shifts — Mateschitz read that the top corporate taxpayer in Japan that year was not Sony, not Toyota, but Taisho Pharmaceuticals, a company that made energy drinks. Something clicked. Not a business plan, not yet. An instinct. He would sell the stuff in the West.

In 1984, Mateschitz approached Chaleo Yoovidhya with a proposition: a partnership to distribute Krating Daeng outside Asia. Each man invested $500,000. Each took a 49% stake in the new company, Red Bull GmbH, incorporated in Austria. Chaleo's son Chalerm received the remaining 2%, giving the Yoovidhya family technical majority ownership — but the deal stipulated that Mateschitz would have full management control and run the business from Austria. Chaleo would handle the Thai and Chinese markets. It was an arrangement built on mutual trust between two men who shared a preference for silence over spectacle, and it held for nearly four decades without a single public dispute.

Mateschitz quit Blendax. He was forty-one years old. He had no fallback. He invested everything he had.

What followed was three years of tinkering — from 1984 to 1987 — during which Mateschitz did four things that would define the company's entire future. First, he carbonated the drink, making it fizzier, lighter, more palatable to European tastes, and — crucially — a better mixer for alcohol. Second, he replaced the small brown pharmacy bottle with a slim, silver-and-blue aluminum can, painstakingly designed to look like nothing else on any shelf. Third, he changed the name to the rough English translation: Red Bull. And fourth, he turned to his university friend Johannes Kastner, who owned an advertising agency in Frankfurt, for help with branding and a slogan.

"He said he had no money," Kastner later recalled, "so we agreed that he would do freelance work for me to pay me for it." Over the next year and a half, Kastner's team produced about fifty different designs. Mateschitz rejected them all. The slogan was even harder. "Nothing satisfied him, and I was finally so upset that I told him to find another agency," Kastner said. "He asked me to think about it for one more night." Racking his brain at 3 a.m. on the night before the deadline, Kastner landed on it: Red Bull gives you wings.

On April 1, 1987 — April Fools' Day, a detail Mateschitz never publicly acknowledged as ironic — Red Bull Energy Drink launched in Austria. The market research had been catastrophic. Focus groups hated the taste. Hated the concept. Hated the name. Every conventional indicator said the product would fail.

He set the price unreasonably high — far above any comparable soft drink — in order to position Red Bull as a premium product in a category of its own. Not a soft drink. Not a sports drink. An energy drink. A category that, in the Western world, did not yet exist. The pricing was intentional provocation: it made retailers eager to stock it (the margins were extraordinary for everyone in the supply chain) and it made consumers believe they were buying something fundamentally different from Coca-Cola or Pepsi. With production costs later estimated at less than twenty cents per can and a retail price of roughly two dollars for an 8.3-ounce serving, the margins were, and remain, staggering. Red Bull's operating return on sales in 2020 was 26% — during a pandemic that shut down the nightclubs and bars where the drink had first found its audience.

Red Bull has never taken on a single dollar of external debt. "Don't confuse the creativity of the Red Bull brand with our business conduct," Mateschitz said. "I was raised with the motto: don't go into debt. That's also a virtue." All expansion was financed from profits. The company reached break-even in its third year and has been profitable every year since. In a world of venture-backed growth-at-all-costs blitzscaling, Red Bull bootstrapped its way to global domination using only its own cash flow.

The marketing, though — the marketing was where Mateschitz's genius became undeniable. He eschewed traditional advertising almost entirely. No television commercials in the early years. No print campaigns. No celebrity endorsements of the conventional kind. Instead, he deployed what would later be called guerrilla marketing, though at the time it had no name. He hired student brand ambassadors — "Red Bull Wings Girls" — to cruise university campuses and après-ski bars in Mini Coopers with a giant Red Bull can strapped on top, handing out free samples. He left empty Red Bull cans in the trash cans of trendy nightclubs, creating the impression that the drink was already ubiquitous. He strategically placed product at parties, at music festivals, at any venue where young people congregated late at night and might be looking for something to mix with vodka. Red Bull and vodka became the cocktail of the 1990s youth — a stimulative, transgressive, vaguely dangerous concoction that City of London stockbrokers eventually upgraded by adding champagne, producing a libation some called "liquid cocaine."

The transgression was the point. When France, Denmark, and Norway banned the drink for its high caffeine and taurine content, Mateschitz didn't fight the bans. He celebrated them. German youth, hearing that Red Bull was illegal just across the border, began driving to Austria to buy cases of the forbidden drink. A million cans sold in Germany's first year, before official approval, without a single advertisement. When Germany finally approved the drink, Red Bull sold 33 million cans in the first three months. The bans, the rumors, the whispered dangers — Mateschitz understood that for a branded product, the most lethal thing was not controversy but indifference. "The most dangerous thing for a branded product is low interest," he said. He would have agreed with Edwin Land, the Polaroid founder, who argued that the real enemy of any invention is "not opposition, but indifference."

The expansion was methodical, almost military in its discipline. Austria in 1987. Hungary, Slovenia, and other neighboring markets starting in 1992 — timed, not coincidentally, to the formation of the European Union, which simplified cross-border trade. The United Kingdom in 1994. The United States in 1997. Each new market entered the same way: the Wings Girls, the club placements, the whisper campaigns, then the slow ramp of availability as demand outstripped supply by design. Scarcity was a weapon. "We don't bring the product to the consumer," Mateschitz said. "We bring consumers to the product."

By the late 1990s, Mateschitz had arrived at the insight that would separate Red Bull from every beverage company in history, including Coca-Cola: Red Bull was not a drinks company that did marketing. It was a marketing company that happened to sell drinks. And the marketing was not advertising. It was storytelling.

He began sponsoring extreme sports — cliff diving, motocross, snowboarding, mountain biking, paragliding — activities that embodied the brand's promise of transcendence, of pushing past limits. His first major sports sponsorship was Gerhard Berger, then Austria's top Formula One driver, a choice that combined national pride with the velocity and danger that Red Bull wanted to embody. From Berger, the sponsorships expanded to embrace hundreds of athletes in dozens of sports, nearly all of them characterized by physical risk, visual spectacle, and a countercultural edge. The Red Bull Dolomitenmann — an extreme sports relay involving running, cycling, kayaking, and paragliding — became one of the brand's early signature events.

But Mateschitz went further than sponsorship. He began owning the events themselves. The Red Bull Flugtag, in which competitors launch homemade flying machines off a pier into a body of water, was a perfect distillation of the brand ethos: absurd, joyful, slightly dangerous, irresistibly watchable. The Red Bull Air Race, in which stunt planes slalomed through giant inflatable pylons at terrifying speeds, was another. Each event was conceived not as an advertising vehicle but as content — content that Red Bull produced, filmed, distributed, and owned outright.

In 2007, Mateschitz founded Red Bull Media House, an in-house production company that created television programs, films, magazines, websites, and a ceaseless torrent of video content. Red Bull Magazine. Red Bull TV. Thousands of hours of footage distributed free to broadcasters worldwide. "We see ourselves much more as a TV station than we see ourselves as an energy drink company," a Red Bull executive told journalists, and the statement — hyperbolic as it sounded — was closer to the truth than most outsiders realized. The lines between Red Bull, Red Bull athletes, and Red Bull events were deliberately, strategically, irrevocably blurred. "To Mateschitz, it's just one big image campaign with many manifestations," as one analysis put it.

The apotheosis came on October 14, 2012, when Austrian skydiver Felix Baumgartner — a Red Bull athlete, naturally — jumped from a helium balloon at the edge of space, 128,000 feet above the New Mexico desert, and fell for four minutes and nineteen seconds, breaking the sound barrier with his body, landing safely in a field while more than fifty million people watched the livestream. Red Bull had spent an estimated $65 million on the Stratos project. It was not an advertisement. It was not a stunt. It was a piece of human achievement that happened to be conceived, funded, produced, and distributed by an energy drink company. The editorial media value was incalculable.

Red Bull's global headquarters is in Fuschl am See, a lakeside village near Salzburg nestled in a verdant Alpine valley — a setting that could not be less like the frenetic, urban, adrenaline-soaked world the brand projects. Mateschitz chose it deliberately. He liked the quiet. He liked that it was difficult to reach. He liked the distance it put between him and the media centers of Vienna, London, and New York. The campus features state-of-the-art creative spaces, biking trails, hiking paths, lakeside gathering areas, and — in Mateschitz's plans, never fully realized — buildings shaped as two erupting volcanoes with a herd of four-meter-high bronze bulls raging forth, a physical embodiment of the brand's "energy."

Red Bull farmed out nearly everything that wasn't marketing. Production was outsourced to Rauch Fruchtsäfte, an Austrian fruit juice company with canning facilities in Austria, Switzerland, and the United States. Ingredients came from the Thai partner. Distribution used a mixture of in-house subsidiaries (the lucrative American market was handled through Red Bull Distribution Company) and external distributors. The company itself — the entity in Fuschl am See — was, at its core, a marketing and brand management operation that happened to oversee the sale of a physical product. In 2010, Red Bull employed just 7,758 people and generated more than $667,000 in revenue per employee. That ratio tells you everything about the operating model: lean, focused, obsessively efficient.

Mateschitz ran the operation the way the German newspaper Handelsblatt described it: "like a feudal lord." He worked three days a week, reportedly. He was hands-on to the point of perfectionism — personally approving marketing campaigns, personally involved in the design of events, personally invested in the details that most billionaire CEOs would delegate. He drank, by his own claim, a dozen cans of Red Bull a day. He was always tanned, always stubbled, always in jeans and an open-collared shirt. He flew his own planes — a Falcon 900 business jet and a Piper Super Cub monoplane — and stored his collection of historic military aircraft at Hangar-7, a spectacular steel-and-glass structure at Salzburg Airport that he built to house a DC-6B that once belonged to Yugoslav President Tito, along with vintage fighters, Formula One cars, and motorcycles. The hangar doubled as a public museum, event center, and home to Ikarus, a gourmet restaurant, and the ThreeSixty Bar — because even Mateschitz's hobbies were extensions of the brand.

He had no plans to sell. No plans to go public. "It's not a question of money," he said. "It's a question of fun. Can you imagine me in a shareholders' meeting?"

Mateschitz's first incursion into Formula One came through Sauber, the Swiss-based team, of which Red Bull acquired a 60% shareholding in the late 1990s. The partnership ended badly: Sauber signed the inexperienced Finnish driver Kimi Räikkönen for the 2001 season instead of Red Bull protégé Enrique Bernoldi, and Mateschitz — a man who did not tolerate having his preferences overruled — walked away.

Three years later, he came back with grander ambitions. In November 2004, he bought the struggling Jaguar Racing team from Ford for a price he refused to confirm. ("I have read that I paid unbelievable amounts in one of your British papers: £60 million," he told the Independent. "Maybe the journalist should not estimate at all. Or change his profession.") He renamed it Red Bull Racing, hired the twenty-something former Formula Two driver Christian Horner as team principal, and lured Adrian Newey — the sport's preeminent design engineer — as technical director on a $10 million salary. In 2005, he and his close friend Gerhard Berger purchased the Italian-registered Minardi team from Australian owner Paul Stoddart, renaming it Scuderia Toro Rosso (Italian for "Red Bull") as a junior development squad.

Christian Horner was thirty-one years old when Mateschitz hired him — the youngest team principal in Formula One. He had raced in Formula Two and Formula Three without particular distinction, then pivoted to team management with an intuitive understanding of how racing organizations work. Newey was the prize, though: a quiet, obsessive, almost monkish engineer from Stratford-upon-Avon who designed racing cars the way other people wrote symphonies, by feel and spatial intuition as much as computational analysis. Between Horner's organizational ruthlessness and Newey's aerodynamic genius, Red Bull Racing became, by 2009, the fastest team in Formula One.

In 2010, with twenty-three-year-old German driver Sebastian Vettel behind the wheel, Red Bull won both the Constructors' and Drivers' World Championships. They won again in 2011, 2012, and 2013 — four consecutive doubles, a feat that placed the team among the sport's all-time greats alongside Ferrari, McLaren, and Mercedes. Vettel became the youngest quadruple world champion in F1 history.

Then came Max Verstappen — a Dutch prodigy who entered Red Bull's driver development program as a teenager, became the youngest driver in F1 history to start a grand prix at age seventeen in 2015, and by 2021 was the most dominant driver in the sport. Verstappen won his first world championship that year, his second in 2022, and went on to tie Michael Schumacher and Vettel with thirteen victories in a single season. "You know, I have always said that the cheapest thing in Formula One is buying the team," Mateschitz told a journalist, smiling. "The responsibility and the expenditure comes afterwards."

The football empire grew in parallel. In 2005, he purchased SV Austria Salzburg, renaming it Red Bull Salzburg (to the fury of traditionalist fans who mourned the erasure of the club's identity). In 2006, he bought the New York MetroStars, renaming them the New York Red Bulls. He founded Red Bull Brasil in Campinas. Most controversially, he created RB Leipzig in Germany's lower divisions and funded its rapid ascent to the Bundesliga, where it became one of the league's leading clubs — a source of both sporting pride and intense philosophical discomfort for German football purists who viewed the arrangement as a corporate hijacking of their country's supporter-ownership traditions.

The paradox of Mateschitz's life was a simple one, though it never quite resolved: he built one of the most visible brands in human history while remaining, himself, almost completely invisible. He understood publicity — its mechanics, its psychology, its multiplicative power — better than perhaps any person alive. And he wanted none of it for himself.

"In Austria everyone knows that I don't do any television or radio because I like my privacy," he told the Independent in 2005, during one of his vanishingly rare interviews with British press. "For me, privacy is quality. I don't want to be recognised by everybody." When the interviewer checked that his son — born in 1993 to a former ski instructor named Anita, with whom he'd had a brief relationship — was thirteen years old, the guard went up instantly: "There is no reason to tell your readers that I have a son who's 13."

He never married. "I was too immature to get married," he said — a formulation that could be read as self-deprecation or as the most honest thing a man who prized freedom above all else ever uttered. In his later years, he was accompanied at the rare public events he attended by his long-term girlfriend, Marion Feichtner. His son, Mark — enrolled not at an elite school but at a vocational institution, the Werkschulheim Felbertal — was gradually being prepared to inherit the empire. Classmates described the younger Mateschitz as bright, interested, sporty. His father was teaching him the business.

Mateschitz's aversion to media was not passive. It was active, sometimes aggressive. He controlled the narrative around Red Bull with an iron hand. Journalists who wrote critically were blackballed. When Austrian journalist Wolfgang Fürweger published The Red Bull Story in 2008 — the only book-length account of the company, painstakingly assembled from external sources — Red Bull froze him out entirely. The company gave no official cooperation. Fürweger's book, a bestseller in Germany and Austria, was not translated into English until 2025, three years after Mateschitz's death.

He bought the Austrian society magazine Seitenblicke partly, it was widely reported, to ensure he would never appear in its pages. He founded Servus TV in Austria, ostensibly as a regional broadcaster focused on culture, nature, and sport, but it increasingly became a vehicle for editorial positions that aligned with Mateschitz's own conservative views — criticizing European immigration policy, questioning aspects of pandemic response, and giving airtime to figures whom mainstream Austrian media considered fringe. A rare 2017 interview with the regional newspaper Kleine Zeitung sparked a backlash when Mateschitz criticized the "lack of control over migration" in Europe, expressed support for then-Foreign Minister Sebastian Kurz (leader of Austria's right-wing populist faction), and announced plans for a new media platform called Näher an die Wahrheit ("Closer to the Truth"), which some Austrian commentators promptly compared to Breitbart.

The political controversies were real, and they complicated the image of a man otherwise admired across ideological lines. But they also underscored something fundamental about Mateschitz: he genuinely did not care what people thought of him. "I fundamentally oppose being told what to think," he told the Kleine Zeitung, "even if one immediately makes oneself suspicious in all directions: in America you're branded a communist, in Europe as a conspiracy theorist or a right-wing populist." The statement has the ring of authentic stubbornness — the same quality that led him to launch a drink the market research said nobody wanted, set the price impossibly high, and build a company that answered to no shareholders, no board, no outside capital of any kind.

In 2003, Mateschitz purchased Laucala Island — a 2,950-acre private island in Fiji — from the Forbes family for an undisclosed price, reportedly around £7 million. When asked why, he quoted the late Malcolm Forbes himself: "He gave a nice answer, which was, 'Doesn't everybody want their own South Pacific island?' Well, in my case, he was right. I did." He transformed it into a super-high-end luxury resort with just twenty-five villas, where a night's stay cost €15,000. In 2013, he spent $1.7 million on a custom DeepFlight Super Falcon submarine for his guests' amusement. He visited once or twice a year, for weeks at a time, when he needed complete solitude.

Back in Austria, there was the 900-square-meter villa in Nonntal, the estate in Maria Alm, the Haflinger horse stud, the Red Bull Ring in Spielberg — the former Österreichring that he'd purchased, demolished, and rebuilt from scratch as a state-of-the-art racing facility, revitalizing the entire Styrian region in the process. There were the planes: not just the Falcon 900 and the Super Cub but the whole Flying Bulls collection housed at Hangar-7, lovingly restored military aircraft that he flew himself when time and weather permitted. During the COVID-19 pandemic, he funded the Austrian Grand Prix at the Red Bull Ring to help keep Formula One afloat — an act of generosity or brand investment or both, depending on your level of cynicism.

And there was the Wings for Life Foundation, perhaps the venture closest to his heart. When Heinz Kinigadner — a former motocross world champion and one of Mateschitz's closest friends — saw his son left a tetraplegic after an accident, Mateschitz co-founded a not-for-profit organization dedicated to spinal cord research. Wings for Life has raised and distributed millions of dollars, bringing together top researchers worldwide. Since 2014, it has organized the Wings for Life World Run, a global charity event. "Money was never a driving force for me," Mateschitz said. "The driving force has always been freedom and independence and joy in my projects. Joy is the basic requirement."

Dietrich Mateschitz was diagnosed with cancer at some point in his final years — the precise timeline, like so many details of his life, held closely by the very small circle he trusted. The disease tormented him for some time, according to those who knew. He continued to work. He continued to monitor the company he'd built from a single idea in a Bangkok hotel lobby. Max Verstappen clinched his second consecutive Formula One world title at the Japanese Grand Prix on October 9, 2022. Christian Horner said later that Mateschitz was aware, that he was "very proud of the team."

Thirteen days after Verstappen's title, or perhaps earlier — the timeline dissolves into the fog of controlled information that Mateschitz maintained to the very end — he was gone. Red Bull announced his death in an email to its 15,500 employees across 175 countries. "The sadness about his passing," the company wrote, "will make way for gratitude — gratitude for what he changed, moved, encouraged and made possible for so many individual people."

On Sunday, October 23, the day after the official announcement, Verstappen raced at the Circuit of the Americas in Austin, Texas. Signs reading "Danke Didi" appeared throughout the paddock. Red Bull won the constructors' championship that afternoon — the team's fifth. "There's still a race ahead," Verstappen had said the day before, his voice barely steady, "and we're going to try to make him proud tomorrow."

Mark Mateschitz, then twenty-nine years old, inherited his father's 49% stake in Red Bull. His net worth was instantly estimated in excess of $20 billion. He stepped down from his role as Head of Organics at the company to concentrate on his position as a shareholder. The empire continued. Nearly fourteen billion cans of Red Bull were sold in 2025. The brand endured.

Somewhere in a verdant Alpine valley, in a village on a lake, the headquarters of the world's most recognized energy drink sits quietly, as it always has, in a setting that suggests nothing so much as deliberate invisibility — the architecture of a man who understood, better than anyone, that the most powerful thing a brand can do is make you forget there's a person behind it. In Fuschl am See, the water is still. The bulls charge on without him.