31. TIAGO
TIAGO
It’s stopped pouring. For now.
‘You’re still fine with Plan B?’ asks my race engineer, crossing his arms as he glances nervously at the sky. ‘Even if it’s heavier than forecast?’
‘Yeah, it’s the right call,’ I say, leaning in close so no one sauntering past us on the grid can hear. ‘I can manage degradation better than the guys ahead. They’ll panic first. I’d rather be late and right than early and wrong.’
‘Well let’s keep talking, especially about that standing water into Village and mid-Hangar.’
‘I will. Hey, there’s no team better at improvising, right?’ I lightly elbow him, and he wearily smiles.
And the rain’s back on.
It’s that really annoying light mist that drenches everything. Miami’s rain is hot and heavy, then half an hour later, you wouldn’t know it came at all. This… This is deceitful rain. Rude rain.
There are twenty minutes to go before the British Grand Prix – the oldest race in the calendar.
It sure does have gravitas, and the Red Arrows have just flown by to prove it.
The track itself is fast, flowing, and hard, and to top things off it’s covered in water.
The adrenaline junkie in me can’t wait, but the team player in me hears alarm bells.
We’ve bombed on dry, straight, slower tracks.
Shit, we’ve bombed between the starting position and first corner.
But that was in the past. The new and improved Leone can do this. Will do this.
Mechanics buzz around us, checking tyre pressure and clearing water off the chassis.
I’m starting in P14 – not bad at all – and the chaotic grid sprawls before me.
It’s a sea of umbrellas, hoods, and cameras cloaked in covers.
VIPs in suits and press galore. The poor fans are packing out the stands in team-coloured ponchos.
I heard some of their tents floated away overnight.
‘Tiago, a word?’
I look behind me to find Minnie and her Sportif+ cameraman. Who am I to refuse Jules’ best friend?
I hold up one finger to my engineer and turn to her. ‘No problem.’
She tucks in close so no other reporter can steal her interview. ‘How are you feeling about today? Do you think points are in store?’ Viewers must be getting raw English translation since she’s not translating live into French.
‘With conditions like this, it’s impossible to call it,’ I say, fluffing the back of my hair. ‘I’ll try my best, and I’m hoping for some good overtakes. If that means points, that’s awesome. We’re really finding our feet right now so I think the sky’s the limit.’
‘It’s great to see you finding your feet, though a lot of teams are struggling with the mid-season upgrades. Pagari have slipped to third in the Championship; Volare still aren’t finding their rhythm with their new driver. How do you feel about that?’
‘Of course instability further up the food chain’s great for us,’ I laugh and quickly stop.
Jules’ voice rings loud and clear in my head: Be humble, Tiago.
‘But we’re not concerning ourselves with that.
We’re 100% focused on our race, especially today with the weather being what it is.
Everything outside that’s up to the racing gods. ’
Minnie beams. ‘Thanks, Tiago. Have a good one.’
‘Thanks Minnie.’
Thirty laps in and the racing gods have done a number on us.
Seven cars have crashed out, and not just the backmarkers like my idiot teammate – Martinelli’s étienne Blanchet, and Ackland’s Eilo M?kinen and Kurtis Hatten-Meyer.
That’s Ackland completely out of their home race.
Race leader Jack Bowden’s got a ten-second penalty for braking before one of the four safety car restarts.
The track’s both super dry and super wet. Sun and rain appear interchangeably, flipping the bird to the forecasts. It’s freaking the shit out of everyone. No one knows which tyre combinations to choose and every team has picked differently. To hell with carefully planned strategies.
But most crazily, I’m running in eighth, and I’m gaining on RaceX’s Gustaf Henriksson – the team currently in that coveted fifth Championship spot.
There’s a burst of static as the radio channel opens. ‘DRS is enabled.’
Well. It’d be rude not to.
As we come up to the Hanger Straight, Henriksson sweeps left and I hold my breath as I lunge for his inside. My car and I have felt in sync all weekend. She’s zippy and responsive, and doesn’t lock up even slightly as we reach Turn 9 and I squeeze Henriksson out with no effort at all. Yes.
Triumph dies in my throat a lap later when RaceX’s other driver, Matteo D’Ambrosio, looms in my mirror, having overtaken his teammate shortly after me. I need to put distance between us. Go full throttle. Put in a qualifying—
‘Latest weather is class three and will start somewhere between lap 34 and 37, lasting for around fifteen minutes,’ my race engineer reports. ‘Do you want to change to wets?’
Wet tyres give more grip but less speed, and quickly overheat on drying surfaces.
Perfect for heavy standing water, but a nightmare with mixed conditions.
I glance up at the sky – it’s dystopian black, though there’s a weird straight line which separates it from fluffy white clouds and pale blue further west. For the millionth time, what the fuck is up with British weather?
It’s too risky. If that sun rolls across, we’d have to pit a third time to change back to inters. Our pit stops are better but not Pagari slick. Two stops swapping the tyres out and back again would mean a whole minute gone. I’ll be last! I can make it to the end on these tyres. I have to.
‘No, let’s hold out,’ I decide.
‘Are you sure? We’re talking class three.’ Moderate rain; severely reduced traction; heavy spray from cars ahead.
We’re never going to fight with the top teams if we play like them.
We don’t have their aerodynamic efficiency, straight-line speed, or literally anything else.
What we do have is nothing to lose. From third bottom in the Championship, we can only go up.
This is the closest season in decades; the big guns can’t afford to gamble.
But we can. Riskier overtakes; offsetting tyre strategy; defending for our lives; forgetting what we can’t do and focusing on what we can.
Class three weather almost always means wets, but after failed brakes and a fireball, I’m not scared of a little drifting. We don’t have to be fifth in the Championship to play the wild card – we can start today.
‘I’m sure,’ I confirm.
‘Copy.’
The rain comes quicker than expected, and it’s ridiculous from the start. I can’t see shit. I’m skating around fast corners but it doesn’t matter, I’m still confident in our new strategy.
The Volare in front of me pits. So does the Tenzing in front of him, and the Maxim in front of him. I check my mirror and D’Ambrosio’s gone. Everyone’s double stacking. The panic’s palpable. Good.
Holy mother, I’m fourth.
‘Can you stay out?’ comes a voice over the radio, almost drowned out by rainfall.
‘Yarp,’ I squeak as I almost aquaplane around The Loop.
‘Just keep it on track. Passing in thirteen minutes.’
I clear my throat. ‘Copy.’
Fuck me, this is biblical. Class three weather my ass. If I leaned out the car, I could see my reflection on the track. Noah’s Ark is probably moored behind that stand.
My pulse quickens as I catch the rear of the only Martinelli still in this race as he disappears around Copse Corner. I could—
No. Dreams of leaving him in the dust will have to wait.
My priority right now is not spinning into oblivion.
It was a pipe dream anyway. The dude has multiple World Championships, and years more experience than me.
He won Le Mans, for crying out loud. And if I finish fourth, we’ll get six times the combined points we’ve got all season.
I can’t jeopardise that by reaching for the impossible.
But how good would it feel—
Shit, eight cars out.
A DFK’s in the wall.
Virtual safety car.
Full safety car.
I shore up behind Tom with my heart in my mouth.
If there was ever an opportunity to race him, the restart would be it.
My car’s a freaking Flintmobile compared to his Autobot, but just thinking about him and Jules together has my foot itching to flatten.
I owe it to myself to try, even if I fall on my ass.
We tow along for three laps in tight formation. Everyone’s in wets except for me. This is either the smartest strategy ever or the dumbest. I think it’s definitely the latter, but then I swing round Stowe and a burst of light almost blinds me.
The sky’s blue.
Not a rain cloud in sight, and yet it’s still raining? Lightly. Wait, it’s stopping.
‘We believe that’s the last of the rain, Tiago,’ says my race engineer.
The track will soon have dry patches and the remaining eleven drivers will be forced to pit – but there’s no time now as the safety car lap’s ending.
Fuck YES.
My fingers flex around the wheel as we prepare to restart.
Eleven laps to go. I don’t care much about D’Ambrosio behind me – he’ll need to pit in a couple of laps anyway.
But I do care about that dark blue car in front.
I have to overtake him. I don’t care if he wins it back later. My pride’s hanging in the balance.
And we’re off.
Tom’s struggling. His tyres are sticking to the track like it’s covered in Velcro – not that that makes him an easy target.
He’s one of the best defenders, like, ever.
I can’t divebomb him like I would normally.
Even with worse tyres, his car’s grip is far superior to mine.
My overtake needs to be somewhere counterintuitive. Somewhere he won’t see it coming.
‘Your pace is good. There’s a ten-second gap behind you,’ is the latest from the radio.
Ok, that’s something. D’Ambrosio’s pitted sooner than I expected. At least no one’s going to sneak up behind me while I face Tom.
I feign an overtake and he closes the door casually, like it’s cute I tried. I do it again a lap later, purposefully running wide so he thinks I’m sloppy. I’m a nuisance on the wrong tyre. He’s concentrating on Jack in front of him, and cementing Martinelli at the top of the Championship.
Enough messing. I have to get this done before they pull him in for slicks.
I use DRS to level with him on the straight, and as we approach Stowe, I jump on the outside line.
We’re tight. So tight I could reach out and touch his car.
He expects me to fade, but we’ve come a long way from Bahrain.
I clench my teeth together as we hit the apex.
He’s going to lift. He has to. He has no grip on this surface. It’s way too dry.
To my disbelief, he does. By the exit, I’m half a car ahead. By Turn 16, he’s not my problem anymore.
What the—
I’m in a podium position.
Third, baby!
I cautiously look in my mirrors – we’re coming up to another straight – but I’ve just heard Martinelli are going to bring him in for slicks.
I can’t believe this. Third. In a Leone.
I have nine laps to hold down the fort. Most teams have switched to slicks on the now pretty dry track.
‘How are the slicks doing?’ I ask.
‘Bowden just went off at Maggotts and Becketts,’ my race engineer reports.
Woah, even a team like Pagari didn’t make the right call.
I stay on inters for the remaining race, managing to overtake the Alpha Prime (like what?!) on the final Hamilton Straight to finish P2.
SECOND.
ME.
IN A LEONE.
EIGHTEEN WHOLE POINTS.
I jump out the car and dance like there isn’t a camera in my face. It takes everything in me not to weep. I only ever finished third in a Volare – this is unbelievable. The guys back in the garage must be going insane. This is more than any of us could’ve dreamed of, and they deserve every second.
I remove my helmet and push my sweaty hair back to raucous cheers from the crowd.
They’re mainly here for Jack, which I’m good with – he won his home race and I’d give anything to win Miami.
Today’s the first time in a long time I feel like that’s possible.
Man, this is the greatest job in the world.
What even was that race? We’re second, our usual rivals for last place Alpha Prime are third, and Martinelli didn’t even get a podium spot. Envy’s one of the seven deadly sins but it sure feels rich right now. I hope Jules is watching.
A cloud of orange fills the track and I sprint toward them.
They raise the Italian flag high as I leap into outstretched arms and we all jump around as chants of ‘TIA-GO’ ring loud.
I’ve never been prouder to be a part of this team.
Turns out victory’s a hell of a lot sweeter when you fight tooth and nail for it.
We’re two points shy of the next spot in the Championship. Sixth place, here we come.