Chapter 7 Sebastian
Sebastian
I’d had a very good first two qualifying sessions at Monaco and ended up in the top ten for the third and final session, but still the threat of my previous performances hung over my head.
My agent was ‘quietly confident’ that I had a good chance of renewing a seven-figure contract with Remini, but industry papers were reporting that the team was looking elsewhere.
Which was even more infuriating given Frankie, my teammate, had crashed out of qualifying in the second session and would be starting in fifteenth.
Frankie, who was now taking up way too much of my mental space in the garage now that he was at a loose end.
I was sat in the car as the mechanics tinkered around me - my front wing had clipped a corner in the last lap, but that could be replaced easily, like slotting a new piece of Lego in to a set.
Frankie’s car was in the next garage over having the suspension, brakes, and chassis looked over after he’d hit a wall coming out of a particularly narrow turn.
“Did you see the way Schester cut across me? That idiot could have taken us both out!” Frankie said, seeming to think that waving his hands around like an idiot would make his point any more clear.
I just rolled my eyes. Schester was an experienced driver, and it was Frankie’s disastrous overtake attempt that the stewards were reviewing.
It was a shame he was so pretty when his personality and drive were so clearly lacking.
He had the makings of a superstar if he could learn from his own idiotic mistakes.
“Calm down, review the footage, and decide the best course of action from there,” I said to him as calmly as I could. “Maybe you’ll learn some new evasive manoeuvres.”
“I know how to race, old man,” said Frankie. “I don’t need a lecture.”
This time, I let the mask drop. “Unless you want a very short and notorious race career, learn to listen to the people who came before you. You don’t want to be known as the little boy whose father promoted him for lack of talent.”
Frankie rolled his eyes. “Maybe I’ll learn more from the elderly when they clinch the Max contract for this team.”
He strutted out of the garage, leaving me seething.
Max? Max Robertson, racing for Remini? At forty-one years old, some rumours pointed to him retiring at the end of the season.
Could he instead be jumping from British Racing to Remini?
Replacing me? My agent was deep into contract negotiations for me to continue onto the American Tour, and all the news I’d been hearing was positive.
“Damien, have I got time for a walk to clear my head?” I asked the chief mechanic. He was toying with one of the front tyres, never afraid to get his hands dirty with the underlings.
“You’ve got ten minutes,” said Damien. “I expect you back here sharp for Qualifying 3.”
I knew that normally I’d not be allowed, but Frankie was getting on all of our nerves. It was difficult for a team to be beholden to the son of a CEO, especially when he didn’t really have the drive to back up the money and effort that had been put into him.
I extracted myself from the narrow car and left the garage.
It was a beautiful day in Monaco, with people hanging out of their balconies to watch the race.
I waved up at the balconies to general cheering.
I’d always been popular in Monaco, and Theo’s stunt with the t-shirt had made me even more popular with the young fans on TikTok.
“There’s everyone favourite celebrity!” Theo shouted from his car, getting out despite his team’s protests.
He slung an arm around me and I realised with a little jolt that to was the first time he had ever been the one to initiate contact.
Normally it was my job to get all up in his space. So I pushed my luck a little.
I ran one hand through his damp hair, messing it up even further. “How are you, Teodoro?”
“All the better for seeing you, Sebastiano,” said Theo in a very rough approximation of my Spanish accent.
“It doesn’t work when my name is already Spanish,” I said. “I could call you Teoito and you could call me Sebasteote if you like.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
I laughed. “Ito is for little things, ote is for big.”
“I’m not that little. It’s not my fault you’re ridiculously tall for a Moto 1 driver.” Theo moved away from me and I immediately missed the contact.
“Sure thing, little Theo,” I said. “Are you ready to lose?”
“I’ve been half a second faster than you in qualifying so far,” said Theo. “I won’t be losing to you that easily.”
“Oh, Teodoro, I’ve been going easy on you. Monaco is where I fly,” I said. “I better get back before your team principal thinks I’m stealing team secrets. Like the out-of-regulation brakes you’ve been using.”
“That is defamation and you will be taking that back!” I heard Theo’s team manager shout as I walked away. But over that, I heard Theo’s laughter, which was the most beautiful sound in the world.
The third qualifying session had gone fantastically - so fantastically, in fact, that I had found myself at the very top of the leaderboard for the race. If I could perform during the race, then I might be able to stave off the niggling feeling I had that my head was on the chopping block.
“Can I speak with you for a moment?” Magnus asked.
We were both in the garage, with me suiting up and him standing over the monitors that analysed my qualification speeds.
The amount of green on the diagrams showed just how much faster I was than the other drivers around the track.
I scanned the screen for Theo’s name, a few spots behind mine.
I hoped he didn’t catch up. I couldn’t deal with the nerves or deja vu of us battling it out at Monaco.
I walked over to Magnus, zipping up my overalls as I did. “What’s up, chief?”
“I just wanted to wish you well in the race today. And if you win…don’t get too wasted tonight. Meet me in the hospitality suite tomorrow and we can talk about the future, OK?”
I smiled. That was a coded message if I ever heard one. Do well and we’ll reward you with a contract. Take that, Max Robertson.
I grabbed my helmet from its hook on the wall, situated myself in the car and put my balaclava and helmet on.
I awkwardly snaked my little drinks straw into the helmet and took a quick sip.
No one ever said that being a Moto 1 driver was glamorous or easy.
I was grateful for the ice packs under my suit, but even they would be full of warm water after seventy laps at Monaco.
The team wheeled out my car into the pit lane on its trolley and then let me down. I made my way to the front of the pit lane and took the car for a leisurely drive around the track, waving occasionally at the crowds assembled in the stands and leaning over hotel balconies for a better view.
I drove up to my place at the front of the grid and waited for the flag to indicate we would drive the formation lap.
This lap was a slow one prior to the race actually starting, to allow us to warm up the tyres and brakes before starting the race.
No overtaking allowed, we just drove in formation with me at the very front of the pack.
I zig-zagged across the track to get some heat into the tyres, and used the lap as one last practice for the race.
Monaco’s streets were narrow and difficult to overtake on, and the sharp corners and sudden changes in lighting between its famous tunnel and the sunny track had caught many a driver out.
I pulled into my space at the end of the track, right at the front of the pack, and waited for those lights. One two, three, four, five. Then the lights went out, and away we went.
The first corner was crucial. Theo’s teammate Graham Evans was almost level with me, and if I could just take the first corner then I would shut out his chances of overtaking for most of the track.
I took the apex of the Saint Devote corner, and for one brief second in my peripheral vision I thought that Graham was about to crash into my car, as hard as he was trying to keep up.
But then he dropped backwards and I took the corner, then sped up into the next straight.
Behind me, I was aware of the whole pack closing in at an attempt at stopping me from gaining an unstoppable lead. But I felt unstoppable.
Turn six was a particularly difficult hairpin, but I braked at the very last minute to keep Graham behind me.
As I pulled out of the hairpin and into the straight, I heard the crunch of a car crash, but I couldn’t see in my mirrors who had crashed out, and whether they’d hit a barrier or whether multiple cars were involved.
The rest of the race was without incident, which was typical of Monaco.
Seventy laps of very tough driving, but with few overtakes only made possible by very fast or very slow pit stops.
But that didn’t matter to me. Because as I crossed the finish line with the cheering of the crowd in my ears, I felt on top of the world.
I wiped the sweat from my brow with one arm before situating my race cap on my head as Albert Stevenson got a microphone ready to hand to me.
I took the microphone from him and did my best to smile for the camera.
I was elated to have won, but I was also completely exhausted.
Behind me, a big screen played the best moments from the race, including where both Aston Martin cars had started a minor pile-up, crashing into one another and leaving no room for anyone else to get around them.
“So, how does it feel to have won your first race in over a year?” asked Albert.
“It feels fantastic,” I said, “to have come from such a rough string of results, I feel ready to take on the championship again.”