Chapter 11
Silverstone Circuit is located thirty minutes away from Orbital’s campus, making the British Grand Prix as close to a home race as we have.
It’s technically the home race for the five other teams that also have their factories nearby, but with Dietrich’s popularity, the grandstands will be packed with fans dressed head to toe in Orbital gear.
“This,” Dietrich announces as two marketing interns theatrically open the circular vault door to the wind tunnel, “is where we test what the engineers created in the lab.”
Our audience of ten visiting VIPs murmur appreciatively at the all-white, thirty-by-five-hundred-foot cylinder-shaped chamber. The steel turbine at the end of the room, at least twice as tall as me, glints like a newly polished spaceship component.
“Magnificent.” The guest nearest me nods. He has a head of thick white hair and is dressed in a plaid blazer with color-coordinated elbow patches. According to Mom, who reviewed the guest list beforehand, he’s none other than Willem Hendriksen, chairman of Orbital’s title sponsor.
“It is remarkable, no?” an Arab sheikh, the CEO of a state-owned investment company, says.
He’s rumored to have written Orbital Racing a check for fifty million pounds and Mom specifically instructed me to get airtime with him during the tour.
Anyone who has that much money to spend on a team, her reasoning goes, also has money to drop on individual drivers.
I scoot closer. “It took three years to build, and the wind power can go up to one hundred meters per second.”
He jumps, like it’s the first time he’s noticed my presence, even though Dietrich introduced me and I did perfunctory small talk with all the guests at the start of the tour. “Interesting,” he says, then turns away politely.
I roll my eyes internally. Not the first or last time I get the cold shoulder. Billionaires drop checks to talk to F1 champions, not junior drivers tagging along. Sorry, Mom. I tried.
“I could turn on the wind turbine, but Orbital tells me that’s a lawsuit, so we can only look today.” Dietrich delivers the scripted joke with just enough of a twinkle in his eyes that everyone laughs.
“What is the wind speed?” Willem Hendriksen asks.
“One hundred meters per second,” Dietrich responds, and everyone—including the sheikh who brushed me off when I told him the same fact—lets out a string of oohs.
We continue on, Dietrich in the lead, one of the interns bringing up the tail, and me in the middle doing my best to circulate but mostly getting the same courteous, disinterested treatment from everyone.
Dietrich is impeccable through it all. Knowledgeable, charming, patiently answering 101 questions you’d think someone who’s doling out an astronomical amount of sponsorship money would already know.
“You’re so good at this!” I exclaim as soon as we’ve dropped the group off in the OTC lobby, where Britt will usher them to the next leg of their campus tour.
“Thanks.” Dietrich’s shoulders slump, as if he’s a giant balloon someone’s let the air out of.
“It’s like Britt cooked you up in a PR lab.” At this rate, I’m convinced there’s nothing he can’t do.
“I’m frightened to ask, is that good?”
“Yes! If the goal is to impress sponsors.” Which, according to my understanding of Formula 1 driver duties, is one of the most important markers of success outside winning grands prix.
Dietrich smiles, his eyes tired. “You’re very sophisticated about business things. I wasn’t so smart when I was your age.”
I blink. How did Dietrich Lange, of all people, not know about all the schmoozing that inevitably comes with the territory? “But you practically grew up on the circuit.”
“I never thought much of it, honestly. I did what I was told, which was to go fast.”
I smile, remembering the issue of Motor Sport that featured an entire spread of Dietrich’s childhood pictures, including him as an adorable three-year-old in a kart.
“That sounds amazing. I wish I could have just driven instead of trying to network with VIPs who can’t be bothered to give me the time of day. ”
“I would hardly call my experience amazing.” He grimaces.
As far as I know, his entire career has been nothing but unicorns and roses: racing insider parents, oozing with talent from day one, more financial backers than he knows what to do with—everything that makes me salivate.
Before I can ask him what he means, a middle-aged man with a slight beer belly approaches from the other side of the marble lobby.
Niels Lange, Dietrich’s father. “Dieter, there you are.”
Niels used to be an F1 driver himself and was the one responsible for putting Dietrich into a kart before Dietrich could walk, the story goes. These days, he comes to every single race and gives as many interviews as Dietrich does.
“Papa, this is Justine Kwong, from the F3 team.”
“The American wunderkind! Very nice to finally meet you.” Niels extends his hand and we shake. He looks remarkably like Dietrich, plus fifty pounds and minus a dazzling smile. “Dieter, you should not delay anymore.”
Dietrich glances at his fancy watch. “We still have time.”
“Dieter.”
Father and son stare at each other for a full beat. It feels like the kind of snippy back-and-forth Mom and I might have, except in a silent, stoic German way.
“Fine, then.” Dietrich sighs, breaking away from his father’s gaze.
I follow, making sure to trail a few feet behind to give them plenty of space in case they want to carry on whatever mute argument they’re having. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I know I don’t want to be in the middle of it.
We walk out beneath the porte cochere with modernist steel beams crisscrossing above.
A black Mercedes S-Class, courtesy of Orbital Racing, is waiting.
Like all things provided for the F1 drivers, it’s of the highest quality—leather seats, water in glass bottles, TV screens on the backs of the seats.
Meanwhile, F3 drivers are left to their own devices for race weekends.
Half the time Mom and I have to pray our Uber for the airport arrives when it’s supposed to.
Niels climbs in the front, answering a call and not bothering to fasten his seat belt. I hear a steady stream of German occasionally punctuated by English words like Sky TV and Silverstone.
“Sorry,” Dietrich mutters as we scoot into the back seat that’s been left for us. “My father can be intense.”
“Have you met my mom?” I snort. “Watch for her next time there’s an F3 race; you won’t miss it. She’s the Asian woman toting a gigantic camera around her neck in the paddock.”
“Oh, her. I thought she was a reporter, or someone’s hired photographer.”
I giggle at this very apt description. “She follows me around everywhere and controls my social media and my diet. Believe me, I know how intense parents can get.”
“If you think that’s terrible…,” he says, but then Niels gets off his call and Dietrich clams up.
“So, Justine, you are enjoying racing in Europe?” Niels turns in his seat.
“It’s been amazing,” I say. “I love getting to race on all these circuits I used to watch on TV.”
“It’s great for the sport, having a female driver on the grid.”
“Really?” Niels is known for making the occasional eyebrow-raising comment (of the non-PC variety) in his interviews. I’m pleasantly surprised he, of all people, is such a vocal advocate.
“It’s lovely to see a woman with so much love for motorsport. My wife was a karting champion too.” He gives Dietrich a pointed glance. “It is always better when your partner has the same interests, no?”
“Pa.” Dietrich frowns. They do that thing again where they have an argument with their eyes, and then Dietrich shakes his head and slumps against the window.
“There is nothing but a bad ending to have someone who does not share similar loves,” Niels says sagely. I get the feeling his words are meant more for Dietrich than me.
We spend the rest of the ride in stilted silence.
Niels and Dietrich scrolling on their phones; me staring out the window, trying to enjoy the view of the near-picture-perfect British countryside while doing my best to ignore the father-and-son frostiness that’s way too awkward for the space we’re confined in.
The stillness takes a sharp turn when we get within a couple miles of Silverstone.
The atmosphere goes from peaceful pastoral to pure pandemonium.
Fans are lined up along the path leading to the paddock entrance, the vast majority holding signs celebrating Dietrich or Orbital Racing.
There are also a few signs dissing Orbital’s biggest rival, Marino.
The windows of our car are tinted but not nearly dark enough to hide from astute fans.
The adulatory screams start as soon as they realize who’s inside.
Entering the paddock with Dietrich is an otherworldly experience.
As soon as we pass security check, what feels like every single journalist covering the race weekend comes swarming over.
They walk backward in front of us, next to us, behind us, giant cameras held high, boom mics dangling inches in front of our faces.
Fans on special-access behind-the-scenes tours whip out their phones when they spot us coming.
For the first time since I’ve been in Europe, all eyes are on me—and it’s not because I’ve spun.
“How do you fancy your chances today, Dietrich?”
“Otto said it’s looking like a tough weekend. Thoughts there?”
“Justine, any comments on the Grayson Holmes F1 rumors? How’re your prospects for an F2 seat next season with this move?”
My heart skips a beat at the voice. I’d recognize the legendary F1 commentator anywhere. I’ve been watching him on TV as far back as I remember, and now he’s asking me about my career like he actually cares.