15. TIAGO
TIAGO
My heart’s in my throat as I wait in the garage, eyes trained on the light in front of me. The heat’s intense even for Miami, the air shimmering in the humidity. I can barely breathe inside this visor.
The light flashes green, and it’s go time.
Through the engine’s roar, I can hear the crowd’s reaction to my name flashing up on the timing tower.
As I reach the track, the noise isn’t a wave, it’s a wall, like this is a Copa América final.
Screaming, chanting, applause, drums, and I think trumpets?
The commotion leaks through my engineer’s radio. I can barely hear him over it.
The stands are a sea of flags – USA, Colombia, Miami, Venezuela, Puerto Rico, Mexico, Argentina.
Banners with ‘?VAMOS TIAGO!’ and ‘NUESTRO PILOTO’ written in bold.
For the entire duration of my out lap, I can’t see a single other team’s colour, just thousands upon thousands of Leone jerseys.
Fuck I love my home race. No one does it quite like Latin America.
I need to put on the show of a lifetime. I need to prove their journey was worth it. I need to thank them for all the nights they stayed up to watch European races. Even though I’m at the bottom right now, I’m worth rooting for. One day soon, I’ll give them Hispanic World Champion. I promise.
When I get the directive to push, the car feels strong beneath me.
Bahrain was a turning point, and Saudi two weeks ago painted a similar picture.
I even managed to share my input with the engineers on our downforce in high-speed corners, and brake stability at the end of long straights.
During yesterday’s practice session, the car felt planted around bends, so I’m guessing they took what I said on board.
I made it to Q2 in Saudi. With any luck, the next minute and a half will see me in Q1 for the second time this year.
Are we likely to win points in Miami? Probably not. But can we put in a solid drive that shows off the New and Improved Tiago Cabrera? Why yes, we can. I pat the steering wheel. Come on girl, let’s do this together.
With the sun low and golden, I pick up the throttle on the main straight. The car’s light on fuel, the tyres have switched on and it’s responsive as hell. The crowd thunders as I nail Turn 1, breaking as late as it’ll possibly allow.
Now it gets more technical. I dance on the throttle – it’s twitchy, but my every move is precise.
First sector: done.
I barrel into the fast chicane section. No one’s writing songs about Leone’s aerodynamics, but I manage to clip the kerbs perfectly, the car sliding on exit but catching with flair. We’ve come so far, but we need to go further.
‘Your rear tyres are hot,’ notes my race engineer.
Chills shoot through my body.
He’s being cautious. That’s his job. They just have to hold on for one more sector. One.
With the toughest braking section of the entire track.
I fly down the long back straight into the heavy braking zone. C’mon budget hardware, you can do this. Lead us to glory. I refuse to throw this lap for the sake of wariness.
I slam on the brake pedal into Turn 11 and… it goes soft.
Fuuuuuuuckkk.
‘Brakesaregone!’ I blurt.
The car squirms violently and I wrestle with it, narrowly missing the barrier. I pump the brake pedal over and over – come on, COME ON – but it keeps bottoming out. If the issue’s fluid loss or overheating, you can sometimes get partial pressure back, but this shit looks terminal.
‘Tiago, we’ve lost the fronts. Box, box, box.’
No kidding. I shift down at speed to lose pace and head back to the pits, somehow keeping clear of walls. A backdrop of ‘?Noooo Tiagooo!’ rings from the grandstands. A plume of smoke trails faintly beside me, a reminder – as if I could forget – that this was a giant disaster.
I’m coming in hot down the access road, barrelling toward a narrow pit lane full of crew and cars.
I don’t have time to take a stabilising breath.
I’m weaving gently; I’m engine breaking; I’m running over line kerbs (not ideal but a couple of broken suspension parts is better than a totalled car).
Anything I can possibly think of to slow down.
‘I’ve got nothing! Tell them not to stand in front of me,’ I throw down the radio as I enter the pit lane.
Other teams’ pit crews have disappeared. I’m downshifting all the way, feathering the clutch to let engine braking drag. I’m losing speed but I don’t know if it’ll be enough.
I overshoot the pit box by several metres but manage to cruise to a halt without destroying anything.
The team are ready, jumping into action with heat-resistant gloves and wheel dollies to push the car back into the garage.
I thump my head against the wheel, letting adrenaline and terror seep from my body.
What in the Mary Mother of Christ was that?
The crowd sound like they’re underwater as I get out and remove my helmet.
I’m shaking all over. My heart’s pounding in my ears.
I lean against the wall and run a hand over my sweaty face.
I don’t know how to feel. Relieved at not crashing?
Disappointed for not graduating to Q1 in front of my home crowd?
Frustrated because no matter how much we improve, we’re still back in this position?
‘I’m so sorry, Tiago,’ says one of the brake mechanics, looking distraught. ‘We thought we fixed the overheating issue.’
‘It’s cool. We’ll figure this out.’ I give her a sad smile.
She’s not the only one to apologise. They all come over one by one, but they don’t need to. It’s no one’s fault. We’re a team. Blame isn’t doing anything to help morale. We shouldn’t be pointing fingers, we should be lifting each other up.
Leone’s crew are underfunded and fed up – they aren’t incompetent – and I don’t appreciate the press insinuating as much in my post-quali interviews.
‘Another promising lap ruined by Leone’s reliability. You must be so frustrated carrying a team that keeps letting you down like this. That racecraft you showed going back to the pits was magnificent,’ says a journalist in Spanish for ESPN Latinoamérica.
‘Look, we win together, we lose together. Sure, it hurts – the lap was looking really promising, and the crowd were incredible – but nobody in that garage wants a failure. We’re all working with what we’ve got, and every single one of us is giving everything.
They gave me a car to fight in today, and we’ll fight again tomorrow. ’