Chapter 48
JACK
LAS VEGAS
I’m starting fourth. I’m not sure how it happened, we just couldn’t get it together in quali.
I think the pressure’s affecting the whole team, but I have to let it go.
What matters is the competitors around me, the car beneath me, and the next two hours.
If I nail this, I can bag the Championship next week in Qatar.
If I don’t, it’s lost. All those late nights and annoying infinitesimal tweaks and testing testing testing – for nothing.
For Christophe Blanchet to stand on that podium in Abu Dhabi. I won’t let it happen.
I pick up the throttle to chase down Eilo. By lap three, I’m close enough to overtake. I dart around his outside but he covers. He’s not making the same mistake he made at Silverstone. Fair play.
We hit the longest straight side-by-side. I try to nudge ahead but he’s too quick. Ackland want to be third in the Championship, and he’s their best bet. We reach Turn 14 and I try for his inside but don’t manage. I’d have to brake too hard and can’t chance locking up and skidding into a DNF.
‘étienne’s two point seven behind you,’ says my race engineer.
Fuck. I’ve been wasting so much time with these failed overtakes, étienne’s been creeping forward like a carbon fibre snake. I have to go full-send or I’ll wind up in third.
I try to slow my breathing as I tow behind The Green Finn through a series of corners. Steady, Jack. Concentrate. Think of your next move.
When we reach the straight, it’s go time.
I will overtake this Ackland if it’s the last thing I do.
With the help of DRS, I gun down Eilo’s inside.
Turn 5 in the distance is a sharp right-hander followed by an immediate series of left-handers.
He’ll naively set himself up for Turn 5, but I’m setting myself up for 6, 7, 8 and 9.
I narrowly pass him on the straight, but we go wheel-to-wheel around Turn 5. I muscle him away from the optimal racing line around 6, and by 9, I’m leading the Las Vegas Grand Prix. I let out a long breath. Thank fuck for that.
Now to widen the gap.
Eight laps later, my radio sounds again. ‘étienne running P2. Two point four.’
Sure enough, there’s a Martinelli in my mirror. Shit shit shit. My tyres are spent; I went too hard attacking Eilo. I don’t know how much of a fight I can put up, but I can’t let him overtake. I’m normally much better with tyre management. All this pressure’s clouding my head.
Two more laps and he’s right behind me. He doesn’t want anything risky either so he’s waiting for a safe overtake. His straight-line speed matches mine and we’re coming up to a DRS zone. I need new pissing tyres but I can’t afford to pit.
I’m royally fucked.
‘Alpha Prime in the wall. Repeat, Alpha Prime in the wall,’ says my race engineer.
My eyes bug out as I rush through possible consequences. ‘Copy.’
‘Red flag. There’s debris across the track.’
‘Copy.’
‘Box, box.’
This is great. Kind of. Temporarily. Actually not really.
étienne can’t overtake and I can change my tyres without wasting lap time, but we’ll need to restart.
No race leader ever wants a restart, they’re carnage.
The pack bunches up and it’ll be the opening lap all over again, except now, everyone’s more aggressive, their preferred position within touching distance, and on warm tyres.
It could be worse, I guess, if I was leading by a big margin.
I slowly make my way back to the pits, étienne so close behind me I can’t see his front wing.
Too soon, the track’s cleared and we’re back on the grid for the restart. I look over at étienne. His and Tom’s performances today will decide whether Martinelli have a shot at the Constructors’ Championship. And since Tom’s way back, it’s on étienne, the same as it’s on me.
The pressure’s almost reaching breaking point.
It’s suffocating me. How can the dreams of five hundred people boil down to one man and thirty-one laps?
I don’t know if I can do this. After twenty-one races and a rivalry with my own teammate, I’m knackered.
Thirty-one perfect laps steering clear of trouble, managing my tyres and fending étienne off feels like an impossible task.
Jesus, I’m sweating through my race suit.
‘Jack.’ It’s Lorenzo coming on the team radio. ‘Forza.’
Forza.
It’s what Luca used to say before every race. When he passed away, my engineer took up the mantle – a come on, go for it sort of thing – but they never say it mid-race. I normally barely register it, a formality like brushing my teeth, though now I straighten up.
‘Forza,’ I repeat.
I will do this for that smug Italian who had the dickheadedness to leave me before I said he could. It should be him in that Martinelli. It should be us fighting wheel-to-wheel for the Championship. I shouldn’t have to do this alone.
But I’m not alone. He lives on through a single word, and he’s telling me I’m being a self-pitying knob.
The lights cut out and we launch for the second time.
I’ve fended étienne off all season, I can do it again.
He’s fast to Turn 1, but I’m faster. I can play dirty; I can make risky overtakes; I can outmanoeuvre anyone, even in the final races of the season.
I’m Jack motherfucking Bowden. I’m the reigning Formula 1 World Champion, and I drive the fastest car on this track.
I have a title to defend. I’m not giving it to a young French twat and his dad. They’ll have to take it from me.
He tries for my inside but I force him wide.
We round the corner and I put everything I have into this straight, making sure he’s never close enough to benefit from DRS.
He’s almost caught up by Turn 5 when we meet traffic from the back of the grid.
Despite them having to give us room, it’s a street circuit so we lose time around corners until the track widens enough to clear them.
I take advantage of étienne being stuck behind both DFKs and power off like I’m trying to put in a fastest lap.
I’ve got fresh tyres and an opportunity to put some solid distance between us.
I pass a Tenzing on the straight. By the time étienne reaches him, the Tenzing will have reached the next corner.
étienne falls two seconds behind. Six seconds. Nine seconds. Hell yes.
‘Eilo’s in P2,’ says my race engineer.
Shit, étienne’s been overtaken. The racing gods are smiling down on me. Or maybe just a smug Italian.
With five laps to go, Eilo’s twelve seconds behind and étienne’s two behind him. Luca’s not the only one smiling; I’m smiling too.