Chapter 4 Theo
Theo
The race was on. And I was ready to fight to keep my first-place spot.
I’d had a blinder of a lap, but it wasn’t infallible.
And it had started to rain overnight, leaving us with a wet track and the possibility of a no-pit race.
When it rained, there were no mandatory pit-stops, and the water cooled off the grippy tyres enough that it wasn’t always necessary to stop.
It could be the kind of race where we ran from start to finish with none of the unpredictability that pit stops would provide.
I ran a hand through my wet hair and prepared to step back into the garage for the team talk and final prep.
“Are you ready?” Sebastian spoke directly into my ear and I jumped.
“Jesus Christ!” I shouted, slapping him on the chest.
“No. Just Sebastian.” He grinned at me, a flash of pearly whites that had my heart skipping a beat.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I asked. “Like…your own team paddock?”
Sebastian chuckled. “Maybe. But I needed to see you first. To gamble.”
“You’re sure you want to bet when you’re so far down the pecking order?” I joked.
“I have come from fourth place to first place in my lifetime, Teodoro. You don’t have to worry about me.” Sebastian swung one of his long arms around my shoulder and pulled me tighter to his body. “I would be more worried about losing your place, little speed demon.”
“Stop trying to psych me out! What bet are you proposing?”
“Simple,” he said. “Nothing too drastic. Whoever loses owes the other a dinner at the restaurant of their choice this week.”
“That’s all?” I asked.
“That’s all. Let’s start this year easy.”
“And you’re sure you’re not just saying that because I’ve got a better chance of winning? I’m sure if you were starting in first place the bet would be to streak naked across the track.”
Sebastian leaned in so that his lips were almost touching my ear, and I felt goosebumps rise across my neck as his breath tickled me. “Don’t give me any ideas, Teodoro.”
The formation lap was my least favourite part of any race.
A quick circuit around the track to warm up the tyres and get ready with none of the excitement of the actual race.
No overtaking. No adrenaline. It just boosted my nerves by a thousand percent.
But as I pulled into my space in the front row next to British Racing’s Max Burnham, I felt those nerves start to drop and my training kick in.
I was a racer. I was the fastest racer on this damn track, and I was younger than Max by over fifteen years.
I should be able to ace his reaction time at the start of the race, get out ahead — and hopefully stay ahead.
Slowly, the five lights ahead lit up. I kept my foot just below the bite on the clutch and revved the accelerator, ready to go as soon as those lights turned off…
I wondered how Sebastian was feeling. Was he actually confident he could fight his way from fourth to first over the next few laps? Did he think he could beat me? Did he-
Shit. The lights had changed, and I was not quick enough. Max got off to a faster start, and I floored the accelerator to try to keep up with him and keep the two drivers behind me — Sebastian and my own teammate, Graham — at bay.
As we approached the first corner, Max had the speed advantage and I knew I couldn’t overtake, so I hung back rather than trying to take him wide.
I knew I was capable of overtaking at some point.
But I had to choose my moment. And right now, with Sebastian inching up past my flank, I needed to defend.
As we came out of the corner, I floored it a little early. It was a risky move on wet track, and the car’s tyres skidded. But that was enough to scare Sebastian and have him drop back. Neither of us wanted to get taken out again, but I was the one with the balls to threaten the possibility.
Due to the rain and the narrowness of some of the street tracks, I knew I would be bored shitless if I’d been watching at home.
It was hard to get the traction to overtake, and everyone was being cautious around corners.
So when the rain sputtered to a stop and the sun started shining, I knew things were about to get interesting.
It was only two laps later that the track started to dry out, and we could choose whether to pit and move on to better tyres.
“How far ahead is Max?” I asked into my comms.
“Six seconds.”
“Are we boxing? Should I pull into the pit?”
“Negative. Let’s let their strategy play out, and decide if we want to pit then.”
Pit stops were risky business. Having to slow down in the pit lane and then stop for tyres meant losing as much as twenty-five seconds of pace.
If everyone pitted, then that left everyone pretty much even on timings, and order would be restored.
But as the race had started with rain, there was no requirement for a mandatory pit stop.
But if Max pitted and came out on dry tyres, he would drop behind me.
With dry tyres on, he might just catch up again against the grippier and slower wet weather tyres.
I couldn’t gain on Max, and was eight seconds behind him when he swerved into the pit lane.
“We weren’t expecting that, his team has played a blinder. Let’s see if we can hold out and gain some valuable time.”
I was at the front of the pack now, and Sebastian and Graham were hot on my heels. With the clean air ahead, I sped up as much as I could. I kept an ear out on my comms.
“Max has come out in fourth. Twenty seconds behind. Gaining fast, expect a battle in a few laps.”
“So should I be pitting to take the fight to him?” I growled in frustration.
“Negative. If we fall behind there’s no guarantee of overtaking.
Second is better than fifth, Theo.” My racing manager sounded as frustrated as I was, but there was no fixing it.
The only thing we could hope for was more rain to make Max slip up, or for someone to crash out and bring in a safety car.
Under the safety car, I could pit without losing so much time.
But in dry weather with most of the racers still on wet-grip tyres, there was very little chance of that happening.
A quick glance in my mirrors showed that despite his speed, Max was having trouble getting past Graham in third.
That was the thing about Moto 1, it was both an individual and team sport.
If Graham and I were fighting or first place, the team principal would let us fight it out.
As it was, with me out so far ahead, someone must have relayed into his ear to keep it that way for the good of the team.
So he was using as many legal evasive manoeuvres to keep Max behind him.
“Max is now seventeen seconds behind.”
“So can I pit now? If we can keep it under twenty seconds I have a chance…”
For a second, there was radio silence. And then came the reply. “Negative, Theo. Stick to the strategy.”
“Fuck the strategy!” I shouted, infuriated. Sometimes we were hamstrung by our teams, and this felt like one of those times. But unless the pit crew were already standing out in the pit lane waiting for me with tyres, there was no point in me even trying.
“Max is now fourteen seconds behind. He’s passed Graham and is gaining on Sebastian,” said my manager. “Be prepared to defend.”
I watched in my mirror as Sebastian did his best to keep Max behind him. Come on. I just needed him to hold Max off for a little longer or for someone at the back of the pack to have an accident that would bring out the safety car.
I glanced into my mirror. Was Sebastian having trouble? He seemed to be swerving erratically, in a way that stopped Max from passing him, but was also pretty illegal if he was doing it on purpose.
“We’re hearing Sebastian García is having issues with his steering. Prepare to pit if Max drops more than twenty seconds behind,” said the voice in my ear.
“I hear you.” I’d normally be grinning into my helmet.
But I didn’t want Sebastian to have a bad start to the season.
I wanted to beat him, of course. But it sucked when the cars misbehaved.
If a runner failed at a hundred metre sprint, they could hardly blame their trainers.
But if a Moto 1 driver failed, it could be any number of reasons.
The car, the pit stop strategy, the weather.
As we pulled around a particularly tight street circuit corner, I watched it happen in the mirror.
We all steered almost as one, but Sebastian’s car smoked as he locked up the steering wheel, and it still came off the track, crossing the track limit lines and hitting one of the barriers that separated us from the rest of the world with a horrible crunch.
Max expertly swerved past him, but that didn’t matter.
A safety car meant my odds just went up.
I wanted to cry for Sebastian, to jump out of my own moving car and check that he was OK.
But now was not the time to sympathise, that could come later.
I had to win. And he’d just given me my chance.
A safety car would definitely be called, and as I came around the corner I noticed the yellow flag that signalled for us all to slow down.
“Box, box, box.” Came the command almost immediately, and I pitted the car at the earliest opportunity.
I only lost ten seconds of time in the pit lane and came out ahead of Max by six seconds.
By the time Sebastian’s wreckage had been cleared and we were cleared to pass the safety car and race again, I was ready to race, and to win.
I flew around the track, listening to the screams of the crowd as I added an extra second to my lead with every lap. I crossed the finish line with a heart in conflict with itself.
After the celebrations, the popping of the champagne and the gratuitous back-slapping from wealthy sponsors who probably knew nothing about racing, after I had called my family, and after celebratory drinks with the Spanish Royal Family, I lay in my bed late that night with a cold sliver of sadness marring the joy.
I rolled over, picked up my phone and texted Sebastian.