I tell myself that as another four cars pit. Only five of us are left on our original soft compounds, and two of those are DFKs so they don’t count.
I clear a few of the mid-pack and suddenly the green rear wing of Kurtis Hatten-Meyer’s in my sights. He’s more experienced than his teammate. He knows I have a speed advantage and isn’t naïve enough to open up inside lines for me. I ask my race engineer in code if I have his consent to play dirty, and though he responds with ‘mind your tyres, we have a long way to go’, I can hear the smile in his voice.
For two whole laps I sit behind Kurtis, studying his lines and braking points. Halfway through the second lap, my starting point shines like a beacon: the exit of Becketts and Chapel. The position is so exact, I could describe the sign fans are holding beside it.
Like clockwork, on the third lap Kurtis approaches Chapel the exact same way he has for the last two. This is my chance.With the help of slipstream, I dive down his inside. The world narrows to pinpoint focus as we race side-by-side down the straight.
He’s keeping up well, making it impossible to nudge ahead before the corner. My gut tells me he’s going to be cautious braking since he spun out last weekend from slowing too quickly, and I’m right. I don’t brake until the very last moment and when I look in my wingmirror, he’s behind me. I’m left feeling something like mourning at having trumped mighty Ackland so effortlessly, but I quickly get over it.
A lightning-fast pit-stop, thick traffic and a short yellow flag later, I hear those sweet, sweet words: ‘Jack, you’re in seventh.’
Seventh. From plum last. I can’t freaking believe it.
But I’m also not done yet. There are three laps to go and I’m going to make them count.
‘Hold the position. Watch your tyres,’ advises my race engineer, like my thoughts flash up on his telemetry dashboard.
He’s right: my rears aren’t feeling great – I’m slipping a bit around fast corners – and my brakes are fading. Not to mention I’m shattered. Three hours of sleep in a working garage will do that to you.
Then again, I never was good at following orders.
‘How far away’s Webber?’ I ask, more breath than words.
‘Jack…’ he cautions.
‘How far?’
‘Vale. Two point six.’
I put my foot down. These tyres have one more overtake in them.
‘Jack,’he says again, trying to convey everything he can’t say over the radio. Something like:stop trying to be a fucking maverick and listen to me.
‘Trust me.’
I don’t know whether he does or doesn’t, but he shuts up while I gun down the straight. Tom Webber’s the most seasoned driver of the lot and has more World Championships than I do. Martinelli’s been a thorn in our side all season. I’m going to beat their number one driver if it takes edging past him over the finish line by a spanner-length.
I don’t have capacity to go wheel-to-wheel with him or stalk him for two laps. He knows every defensive trick in the book, and his car has straight-line speed to rival mine. My only advantage is he’s on older tyres. Not much older, but I’ll take what I can get.
As he comes into view, his struggle’s clear. He’s skating around corners like the track’s flooded. That doesn’t make him an easy target necessarily, but it does make him vulnerable if I get this right.
With one lap to go, I tuck in close behind him. Once again, I pick up the slipstream down the straight and by the next corner, I’ve committed to his outside line. Webber swerves across the track and nearly clips my rear wing. Blood rushing through my veins, I hold my nerve, just managing to maintain the position. Once we reach the corner in earnest, he’s not foolish enough to push his tyres and risk skidding off on the final lap, and brakes before I do. I say a quick prayer to the racing gods, and my grip sustains.
Martinelli’s number one driver is forced to yield.
Chapter 30
JACK
Ileap into the outstretched arms of my team, a beaming Georgie at the front. Everybody from the stands to the Paddock Club is chanting‘JA-ACK JA-ACK.’ I don’t even get this reaction when I win. Maybe I should bomb quali more often.
The British national anthem’s distantly noticeable beneath the racket. Though Micah finally got his win, I bet he’s seething. The team have barely registered that we got a trophy. I squeeze Georgie and lift her off the ground. God I love karma.
As we filter back to the pits, I reply to Minnie’s congratulations text before anyone else’s.
Me: when do you finish? there’s a fat bottle of prosecco in my driver room. could have a little pre before the afterparty?
Minnie: Can’t, sorry! I have to work late
