43. TIAGO
TIAGO
MARANELLO, ITALY
I’ve never been to Martinelli’s HQ before, and holy shit it’s ridiculous. Leone’s aerodynamic department could fit in their foyer. It’s not a single building, it’s a campus of aluminium and glass.
We walk through The Drivers’ Corridor lined as far as the eye can see with helmets, suits, and trophies, all glowing from below. The names of racing legends shine on plaques. I feel like I’m in the Avengers Compound.
Through a black door, we enter a giant sleek warehouse with a selection of race-used cars dating all the way back to 1935. My jaw drops. Their storied history’s so palpable it pulses through the air.
‘This was Cliff Roberts’ car!’ I gush, the cool facade JC and I talked about at the door where it belongs.
‘And this – Luca Zanetti won Malaysia in this. I was in F2 at the time, it was the most incredible win I’d ever seen.
It made me feel like anything was poss—Shit!
Is that Hans Glock’s car that won the 1978 Championship? Holy mother.’
The Martinelli guys smile. JC does not, face impassive, eyes drilling into me. He’s playing the game, but fuck that. Glock’s car right there topped the most ridiculous season in the history of the sport.
This is the first time I haven’t felt sick with worry since Logan’s ‘admission’, and sue me if I’m going to enjoy it. As soon as they get to the point, I’m going straight to London.
Cars with stick shifts, cars without power steering, cars with only two buttons, cars with Martinelli’s iconic eighties livery, the era when they were at their very peak.
God I wish I was alive then. I try to find Walter Hatten-Meyer’s legendary 1984 beauty – father of Ackland World Champion Gunter Hatten-Meyer; grandfather of current Ackland driver Kurt Hatten-Meyer – but I can’t find it.
It’s my favourite car and driver combo of all time.
The synergy between them was pure music.
We pass the car Tom won his latest Championship in four years ago, and I strangely feel a pang of sadness. I really rooted for him, a veteran driver up against two lightning-fast up-and-comers in Jack Bowden and Luca Zanetti. Crazy to think how things have changed.
We move on to the factory, gleaming white and filled with world-class designers, engineers, technicians, and support staff.
Everything is honed to perfection, trying to find that millisecond in the race that could be the difference between beating Pagari or not.
When everyone talks about F1 pushing the boundaries of technology, they sure as hell aren’t talking about all the teams equally.
They’re talking about this monolith right here.
I have to remind myself this tour will likely come to nothing – they’re probably keeping me sweet so I’ll continue fighting hard for their development team.
They have a full roster of top drivers. Last I checked being a French fart wasn’t a fireable offence so étienne’s not going anywhere.
And Tom… there’s talk about his age, sure, but he’s fitter than half the guys on this grid, and he’s consistently scoring more points than his teammate.
There isn’t a place for me. I’d rather race every weekend with Leone than be a reserve driver for Martinelli, anxiously waiting in the wings and doing press like a show pony.
I’m trying not to think of this as a giant – but cool – waste of time, when time really is of the essence, but then their simulator comes into view.
There’s an exact replica of Tom’s current cockpit circled by almost 360-degree screens.
The control room’s like Space Shuttle Mission Control with computers, switches and dials on every bench.
I sneak a look at my phone as we filter back into the corridor.
Nothing. Still nothing, just like the other ninety-nine times I’ve checked today.
Coldness prickles all over. I send Jules yet another quick message that’ll probably go unanswered too.
I haven’t heard from her since Miami. The hard knot of tension in my gut tightens even more.
Please be ok.
Just a little while longer, baby.
Finally, it’s the garage, which I hate to say I’m a little disappointed by since it’s not so different to what they bring to races, and then I spot what’s parked in it.
Walter Hatten-Meyer’s 1984 car.
My breath catches in my throat. It gleams in its Marlboro livery, a piece of history, frozen in time, never to be repeated. It’s thicker and smaller than I expected, the cockpit even tighter than it is now.
Someone clears their throat and I look up to see one of my chaperones’ arms outstretched, a helmet dangling on the end.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
‘You’ve represented our development programme well,’ states their Sporting Director, whose Texan accent goes some way to calming me in this ominously big boardroom.
I’m not a boardroom kind of guy. It makes me sit up straight and speak with a stuffy, formal twang, like I’m from Connecticut.
I can feel JC’s confused gaze boring into the side of my head.
There are only five of us: Martinelli’s Sporting Director, Technical Director and a senior engineer I recognise from race weekends, JC, and me.
‘Thank you, sir,’ I say.
‘But we’re not interested in potential anymore,’ he goes on. ‘We’re interested in readiness. The purpose of a development team is to nurture talent for Martinelli, which is exactly what you’ve done.’
I’m trying to concentrate, really I am, but my head’s all over the place.
Between Jules (who still hasn’t messaged me back) and the hot lap of dreams, I don’t know what to think.
I couldn’t sleep last night and my head feels like it’s filled with candy floss.
Now I’m sitting beside all these important guys in a branded jacket so soft I could sleep on it. What the hell is happening?
Focus, Tiago. This is important shit. I’m holding a branded pen and everything.
‘Confidentially, Tom Webber is retiring at the end of this season,’ he says, and my ears instantly prick up. ‘We’re in the market for a new driver, and we’d like to offer that seat to you.’
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.
My pulse thrums in my ears.
Me? Drive for Martinelli? Taking Tom’s seat?
Tom’s retiring?
What the FUCK?
Wouldn’t that be weird if I took his seat after everything with Jules? Wait, that can’t be why he’s retiring, can it?
‘Just wait a minute,’ JC says. Shut up shut up shut up. ‘Before you make an offer, I’d like to see some—’
The Technical Director slides an embossed folder across the table.
I keep my hands at my sides so they can’t see I’m shaking, and JC does the honours of opening it.
It’s a framework – expectations, standards, alignment.
What they can offer me. Even I notice there are no numbers, but it’s legit.
This isn’t a negotiation, but it feels much cleaner than Volare.
Martinelli mean business. They have all my current data; they know what I can do.
They can see what this partnership could be.
The Sporting Director sips his espresso. ‘We don’t need an answer today. Think it over.’
We move in convoy back down to the foyer, where I’m given a vintage Montclair watch and told to loan their Stradale hypercar while I’m in Italy. They’ll pick it up from the airport when I’m done. Like, what world am I living in? I can barely get cold bottled water at Leone’s HQ.
‘Enjoy the jacket.’ The Technical Director smiles as we shake hands. ‘It suits you.’