I manage the compound as long as I can, until I finally get my delta and my DRS.
‘There’s Peter about one-point-six behind. Be careful. On the attack,’ says Afonso.
With a grunt, I dart forward, trying to position myself directly behind Diana, get the slipstream while I can. The force is astronomically more than I’ve felt all race, and maybe, just maybe, that’s my dad helping me out, because it’s like a tow from an enormous hand tugging me forward when I move out and get right ahead of Diana on the straight.
‘That’s P2, P2, Darien.’
I don’t celebrate early this time. We’re racing for survival. Wewant P1. There’s a reason people like to say second hurts more than third. I can’t end this knowing there was something more I could have done to get that Championship. The Ring is at stake. My home is counting on me.
‘Can we … let’s gamble, Afonso. Can we do scenario D?’
‘Sorry, you said D? That’s … it’s a bit hot out here. Your delta is two-point-six.’
‘Cover ground now, switch out right before the overtake.’
‘Okay. Affirming, Darien, you … clear on D.’
Scenario D. The riskiest plan we have at Heidelberg, perhaps the riskiest of the race. I’ll have to pace myself and manage my mediums in hopes that my teammate, Miguel, in front of me, will suffer enough wear over time to slow down, and to get me ahead. His tyres have been on for a couple laps more than mine, which means now it’s all about strategy. If this is the right call, I’ll pit for softs and come out with a significant speed advantage, even if he goes in before me. No team will be using soft tyres in this kind of heat. It’s a big chance we’re taking. I can almost see my mom in the pits, biting her nails down to the beds.
I hold it together for another thirty laps, during which Miguel enters the pits and puts on a set of hards – the hope must be that they’ll last the rest of the race, but that’s even better news for me as I roll in and get my soft tyres. He’s going to be slower, especially when I initially get out: that’s my chance. I need to stay methodical, though. I have just about twenty laps left in the race and can’t afford to pit again after this.
On the exit, Afonso comes in with an update. ‘You’re going to come out maybe two seconds behind Miguel, Darien, two seconds. Still clear to fight. Let’s pace and push once we have the delta.’
It’s incredibly difficult, but I obey. Ten laps left, and I’vepaced myself enough while Miguel’s lost speed. I inch into the one-second range. Time to bring it.
‘Ten laps, make the move when you have the window.’
‘Sure. Searching for gap.’
Miguel favours the outside, with a slight weave that allows him to close the door on overtakes without disobeying the racing line. I imagine Shantal watching from the pits the way she always has, pointing out troughs and peaks in our charts to Afonso, learning the different modes we employ in the sport just so she can push both of us to our limits. In this moment, it serves as both an advantage and a disadvantage, because Miguel, to his credit, has a slice of my technique under his belt after the pre-season training. He’s had it all year, and it could very well end my Championship chances if I’m not careful now.
I close in on the straight, but the second I get to a turn, he refuses to give me entry. I’ll have to go from the inside.
I curse under my breath. ‘Well … if you insist.’
The next straight brings me so close that I could knock his right rear tyre with my left front one, but instead of doing so, I exit early into the turn, and bump around the kerb with a ferociousness that leaves my head pounding. Once I’m level, I see Miguel’s Heidelberg in my rear-view.
‘Yes! That’s in P1,’ reports Afonso. ‘Manage, manage, you’ll lose speed fast. Don’t want to let him close.’
And even though tyre management has never been my strong suit, I pull some kind of miracle out of my bag of tricks. The last lap, I pull across the finish line well clear of Mig and anyone else, with a whoop I hope they can hear in the stands, over the popping of fireworks that decorate the sky above the track, pumping my fist hard as I pull close to my team hanging off the fences to get my Brazilian flag, screaming into the radio in hysterics with my wonderful engineer.
‘DARIEN. DARIEN CARDOSO-MAGALHÃES—’
‘HAVE WE DONE IT????’ I nearly roar into the mic.
‘YOU ARE A FORMULA 1 WORLD CHAMPION, DARIEN!’
‘I’M AWHAT?I’M AWHAT, FONSY?’
‘CHAMPION, MY FRIEND!’
As I near the fences, it’s almost a mirage, the way I see her leaning over as she passes the banner over to me, blowing a kiss just before our hands brush, and she waves me off. God, I wish she were here. I wish Shantal were here.
And then I realize that I am wrong. She’s not a mirage.
It’s her.
I nearly shunt my car into the wall when it hits me, when I hear her voice behind me, so faint but so prominent over the growling of the engine, ‘IT’S OKAY! I’LL WAIT AROUND!’
