All five red lights go out, and I floor it, pushing all other thoughts from my mind as my car surges forward. I need to do this right. Maybe P5 is better than what we’d expected, but it’s not good enough for me.
The pack of cars is tight heading into Turn One. I already hear a distant screeching of tyres behind us that I can’t pay attention to if I want to stay on the track. I wrench it around the turn and slip past Peter, into P4.
‘You’re on the move now,’ Afonso encourages me over the radio. ‘Let’s keep it clean, keep it clean, Darien.’
I do … I keep it completely clean as I wait for the next advantageous turn to dart around the inside and get past Miguel: P3. We’re on podium places now, but that first lap has ended, and deltas between cars are growing as we enter Lap Two.
‘Only push for one more lap. Let’s just try and catch Romilly ahead,’ says Afonso.
Although we try, we can’t clear Alex Romilly in the next lap. From here, it’s going to be all about endurance as Afonso commands me to stick to Plan A – save the tyres as much as possible so we can pit a few laps after Alex and get the speed boost that comes with brand-new slicks.
Unfortunately, it’s around the time we make said pit stop that my arm decides it would like to protest.
I was fine all race, but as I manoeuvre the car out of the pit lane and back onto the track, the glancing pain I’d gotten on the sim that first run starts to streak through my arm. At first, it’s a faint throbbing, but soon, it has me gritting my teeth. I can’t concentrate like this.
‘Closing on Romilly. Delta one-point-five seconds.’
Damn it. If there’s an overtake coming, I need to be lockedin. Half-ass taking a gap, and you’ll be upside down in the wall before you know it.
‘Hang on, Dar,’ I mutter to myself. ‘You got this.’
I let the machinery around me fall away and leave the pain behind me on the track, just like I’d done at winter testing. We’re on a track walk, and my two feet are on the ground, nothing but sunny Imola for miles.
Beside me, I see Shantal, her wavy hair dancing around her face as she smiles, dimples creating tiny yet perfect grooves in her cheeks. I picture her the way she was the night of Carnaval: happy, as she deserved to be all the time, comfortable. I draw my energy off the bliss I see in her eyes. I remember feeling that bliss when I got into a kart for the first time, but I also remember feeling that bliss when I saw her for the first time.
She slows my shallow breaths and quells my rapid pulse. Something about her makes me feel like she knows every corner and trapdoor of my heart, even though I’d never met her before January.
Before I can so much as process it, I’ve darted around Alex. I’m a good four seconds from the race leader, Diana. It’s a lot, but I’m not giving up. The opportunity is still there.
Shantal, I think to myself.She’s in the garage. She’s there.
I feel her hand in mine, the way it had been during those awful PTs, her eyes boring into mine with conviction.
I can’t sacrifice the chance to see her holding that flag.
Turn One of my third-to-last lap is a dance with disaster. Even though I’ve caught up to Diana from a healthy couple of doses of DRS, she’s sliding around on the inside. I’m boxed out. I need to move. I need to find myself a gap.
The second I’m able to go wheel to wheel with Diana, I cross her car on the turn exit, in perhaps the riskiest cut I’ve takenin my entire racing career. My heart is thudding in my ears. My breath is hitching. Afonso cheers into my radio, and I keep on the throttle all the way through.
It’s a fight to the finish, but none of it rivals that Turn One move.
P1.
The feeling is unreal. I pump my right fist in the air as I cross the line, and I start my victory lap much the same way.
‘He’s back, ladies and gentlemen,’ Demir says over my radio. ‘You’ve made us very, very proud today, Darien. Very proud to call you our driver.’
‘YES!’ I yell. Tears of relief? Joy? Pain? I can’t tell what they are, but they prick my eyes. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’
‘We have a request for you.’ Afshin’s voice crackles. ‘Could you give us a dance at the finish?’
‘I can try,’ I laugh. The dance is an age-old joke that’s followed me around since I was a kid, and I’d copy the Brazilian footballers’ goal celebrations when I won a race. Ever since F3, I’ve gotten up on my chassis and tried my best to hit one every time I place first.
I’m thinking of which one I’ll do this time when I roll up to the fence to get my flag, and I see Shantal, and pretty much every potential dance move sprouts wings and flies straight out of my brain.
She reaches out towards me with the blue, green and yellow banner in hand. Her hair flutters in the wind generated by the cars. The sun reflects off the glittering diamond in her nose. Her cheeks are flushed pink, her eyes full of pride. She stands on her tiptoes, creasing her white Adidas shoes. I watch her shout something I can’t completely hear, watch her lips move as she smiles wider than I’ve ever seen her smile.
I can’t tear my eyes from her as she hands over the flag. In the minute that makes up that lap, I think I might be the happiest guy in the world. I’m the walking, talking embodiment of delusion, but that doesn’t matter. Her smile is more beautiful than the trophy they’ll give me up on the podium, anyway.
