Chapter 28 #2
My gut still twists when I receive the thumbs-up to pull out of my garage bay and into the pit lane, and my out-lap is cautious as I get a sense of the surface beneath my tires, but .
. . I’m okay. I haven’t totally lost the feel of the track, no matter how my performance on the simulator might have suggested otherwise.
Ava’s right – I know what I’m doing. And with each lap my confidence grows.
One might even say I get a little too confident toward the end of the session when the edge of my tire kisses the wall as I go through the exit of turn nine, sending up a spray of dust, but it thankfully doesn’t feel like I’ve done any damage.
This is a circuit that demands perfection, and the smallest mistake can mean an end to it all.
Ava is waiting for me in my driver room when I’m done for the night, stretched out on the small love seat, one hand smoothing back and forth over her rounded belly while the other clutches a printout of my lap data that someone must have smuggled to her. My money’s on Basil.
‘You know where you’re losing time, right?’ she asks as I place my helmet on its shelf.
I do know, but I ask her to tell me anyway as I drop to my knees beside the sofa, resting my head on her bump and letting her stroke my sweat-damp hair.
The anxiety simmering in my chest settles as Ava explains, our daughter kicking steadily beneath my cheek, and I let them reassure me in their own ways that everything is as it should be – that everything will be all right.
——
Saturday’s qualifying goes better than expected, all thanks to a red flag late in Q3 that kept several drivers who might have outqualified me from finishing their flying laps.
Tonight, I’m starting in P2 next to Raphael, who got exceptionally lucky and grabbed pole because of the incident.
Axel’s in P3 with Dev in P4 – only Mascort and Specter Energy on the first and second rows.
Despite the decent qualifying, I still woke up unsettled today.
I steal Ava away when it’s nearly time for me to climb into the car, needing a moment of peace with her.
She’s been holding her own down in the garage this weekend, my anchor keeping me steady in the thick of the storm, and I can’t imagine doing this without her.
We’ll be apart for the remaining races of the season, but if I can make it through this night, I can get through everything to come.
‘Gonna miss seeing you up close and personal in this race suit,’ she teases, smoothing her hands over the sponsor logos on my chest. ‘It’s very flattering.’
I let out a soft laugh, my shoulders relaxing at her warmth and ease. ‘I’m just glad the black hides how much I’m already sweating.’
Ava grins, her cheeks flushed that pretty shade of pink I love thanks to the Singapore heat. ‘You know you look good no matter what. I bet you’ll somehow look even better after the race.’
After the race. Despite her compliments, those are the words that stick out the most, all because she believes that everything will be okay. That I’ll get out of the car after I cross the finish line and be fine.
She must see a change in my expression, because her smile turns tender. I bend when her fingers curl into my race suit and tug, lowering my head to let her whisper in my ear.
‘Come back to me,’ she says as my hand brushes the curve of her belly, feeling our restless daughter inside. ‘To us.’
I nod to make the promise, not trusting myself to speak, because I know this isn’t something I can swear. None of us out there can, and yet we pretend anyway, pushing down the fear that creeps up our necks.
But the truth is, I no longer fear death. I only fear for what I’ll leave behind.
——
Bright floodlights illuminate the dark asphalt as I pull out onto the track, putting in a couple of reconnaissance laps before I’m wheeled onto the grid by my mechanics.
Everything’s a blur as I get out of the car again – talking to my engineers, the national anthem, the brief interview I give to one of the on-track reporters – but it all comes back into hyperfocus as I’m buckled into the cockpit again and heading off for the formation lap.
The engine rumbles behind me as I creep into my grid box, breathing deeply to calm my nerves while I wait for everyone else to fill in. In the moment of quiet, I can’t stop my mind from flashing back to last year’s crash, to the moments when I wasn’t sure if I would walk away with my life.
Though Lorenzo Castellucci undoubtedly triggered the carnage, the events that followed were just unlucky.
Instead of hitting the more forgiving Tecpro barriers just a little farther down the track, we collided with solid concrete.
It was sheer chance that I hit the wall head-on and let the front of my car take the brunt of the impact, because if I’d hit to the side – like Lorenzo did – my body would have taken the worst of it.
It’s why I walked away with broken wrists instead of a broken back.
But it wasn’t just the impact that made it all so dangerous.
Metal against concrete and asphalt meant sparks.
Sparks and damaged fuel tanks meant fire.
Fire meant being trapped for the longest few seconds of my life.
Again, it was sheer chance that I escaped with only minor burns, my fireproof suit, gloves, and boots protecting me like they were designed.
Axel, however, was trapped for much longer, far past what the capabilities of fireproof technology could protect him from.
It really is amazing that we’re all alive. Battered, scarred, and broken in our own ways, yes, but alive.
Soon, the last car is on the grid and the five lights come on one by one, extinguishing a split second later and sending adrenaline rushing through my veins.
It’s only ninety meters down to turn one and Raphael holds the lead off the line, though I’m close on his rear wing as I fall in behind, twisting into the next set of corners.
The most obvious opportunity to jump him has slipped through my fingers, but we still have sixty-one laps and plenty of strategy to play with. It’s nowhere near over.
It rained last night, washing away the rubber our tires laid down on the circuit during practice and qualifying, and finding any grip for the first few laps is near impossible.
As the track evolves, it’ll get easier, but fucking hell, I’d love for my rears to stop sliding so much.
A quick glance in my mirrors shows a colorful streak of chaos unfolding, but it’s thankfully far enough behind me that it’s not going to be a problem for my race.
One thing that will certainly be a problem is how humid it is, and it already feels like I’m breathing swamp water as my body does its best to regulate in the tropical heat, but it’s mind over matter. Feeling like shit can wait until the end of the race.
By lap fifteen, Raphael’s ahead of me by nearly ten seconds, far out of sight on the track, and Axel is behind me by the same margin, keeping him from being much of a threat.
As much as I don’t want to let Raphael get too far ahead, I have to manage my tires and eke out every ounce of performance I can.
But by lap twenty, he’s up by fifteen seconds, and it’s clear he’s trying to expand the gap as much as possible to preserve his lead once he pits for fresh tires.
‘Marchand has been instructed to up his pace,’ my race engineer reports, and I would roll my eyes if I could risk it.
It’s exactly what I expected, and to Raphael’s credit, he grows the gap by another five seconds over the next five laps.
Specter Energy’s car is spectacular, and Raphael wouldn’t have survived years in F1 if he weren’t a decent driver, but it’s still a kick in the teeth that I can’t catch up.
Is this a sign that I’ve officially lost my edge?
I push the thought from my head because no, this is just racing.
Axel is still several seconds behind me and everyone else is battling farther back – this is plenty of proof that I’ve still got it.
I may not be headed for a win, but if all goes well, I’ll still finish ahead of Axel and keep my lead in the championship.
I pit on lap thirty and come out behind Raphael, Dev, and Axel.
Raphael dives into the pit lane on the next lap and comes out ahead of us all again thanks to the massive gap he established, even though he had a relatively slow stop.
When Dev and Axel finally pit not long after, I’m back to hunting down Raphael.
‘Marchand is complaining of possible front wing damage,’ my engineer says, and based on how quickly our gap is reducing, I believe it. I’m driving hard, but this isn’t all just my doing. ‘Apparently he brushed the wall in sector two.’
I feel for him, because it’s entirely too easy to do.
It only takes a tiny lapse in concentration to touch the walls around here, and they have a tricky way of making you think they’re closing in.
By this far into the race, forty-five laps out of sixty-two, you’re practically on autopilot, struggling to maintain focus when the heat is unbearable and the lights are tunneling your vision.
Drift just a little too far into a corner and your race is over in the blink of an eye.
I nearly have a moment coming out of turn nineteen on lap fifty, brushing my rear tire but managing to hang on. I make a note of it to my engineer, who comes back on a moment later to reassure me that he doesn’t see any damage.
‘Keep calm,’ he reminds me. ‘You’ve got this. Five laps to overtake.’
I’m nearly there. My wrists are screaming, forcing me to ease my grip on the steering wheel to find some sort of relief. But I can do this. I can get ahead of Raphael and win this. I can rewrite my history on this track and end my career as a victor here instead of a victim. I can—