‘Keep it steady. Let’s build temperatures gradually,’ encourages my race engineer. ‘We’re looking for long-run stability, not outright pace.’
It’s bullshit, I know it is, but I don’t have time to argue because I’m coming up to a sharp right-handed corner. Here goes nothing.
It goes to shit immediately. The front tyres skate around the bend, making me feel like I’m floating, which is something no driver ever wants to feel. It’s not fast by F1 standards, but it’s fast enough to kill me if I can’t claw back some speck of control.
The tyres can’t hold the lateral load and the rears snap suddenly. I distantly register that I shouldn’t, but I stamp on the brake pedal with the intensity I used to in my Volare, and the tyres lock. I exit the corner sweating my balls off, sawing at the wheel trying to keep the damn thing straight.
‘That was fuckinghumiliating,’ I vent to Isa and JC when I’m back in the garage after a similarly abysmal second practice. Semi-quietly, to not be a dick, but part of me doesn’t care if the crew hears. Shit’s got to change.
Isa hands me a banana. ‘It was just practice. You’ve got two more sessions until the race. A lot can change in forty-six hours.’
She doesn’t get it. I’ve been driving since I was four. I know when I’m in a competitive car, and that wasn’t it. That was a moving chicane.
‘Have you talked to the engineers?’ asks my brother and manager, JC. ‘Explained the sessions from your perspective?’
‘I tried three times, but they won’t listen. I have an official briefing with them later, but if it’s anything like pre-season testing, I’m not optimistic they’ll take my feedback seriously.’
I look around at the crew whispering in tight huddles and poring over screens. It feels like they don’t want new problems, which is short-sighted as hell because there should be a connection between what I feel and what they see. That’s howit was at Volare. Surely they should welcome knowledge from a superior team.
‘This is all your fault.’ I chew angrily, pointing my scowl at JC. ‘You got me this stupid seat.’
His eyebrows draw together. ‘Myfault? Would you’ve rather been out of Formula 1? Because that’s where you were headed. You should be thanking me,malagradecido de mierda.’
‘Thankingyou?’ I spit. ‘I’m currently sitting in P17! There are only twenty fucking drivers on this grid, and two didn’t even make it out today!’
‘I got you araise.’ He steps forward. ‘That’s called making the best of a bad situation – whichyoucaused withyourfrat boy behaviour.’
‘I—’
‘Woah, woah, woah.’ Isa barges between us. ‘It’s no one’s fault. We’re a team. Yes, things are looking shitty right now, but this season’s not going to improve if you guys don’t stop arguing like teenagers. Tiago, shut up and eat your banana quickly because Channel 3 are hovering over there. JC, go and make sure his schedule’s all lined up for the weekend.’
He pauses and she gives him a shove toward the back passageway. He stalks off muttering in Spanish.
Alright, shake it off. The UK’s Channel 3 are waiting to talk to me, and even though being perky about my abysmal life choices is the last thing I want to do, it’s the only part of my job Leone can’t ruin.
‘There he is!’ says the presenter with an extraordinarily high quiff as he hands me a microphone. ‘The smiliest guy in the paddock.’
‘Must take some effort after those two catastrophic practice sessions,’ chimes in their pundit, former World Champion Brian O’Connell. Thank you for pointing out the obvious, asshole.
‘You know me.’ I shrug in anaw-shucksway. ‘Good old-fashioned American optimism.’
‘Are you optimistic?’ the presenter presses.
‘Sure.’ Insert phony smile. ‘Today was just teething problems. I’m here to bring some experience to the team and get us fighting in the midfield. Last year, Leone spent the whole time fixing things and weren’t developing the car. This year’s going to be different. I have two podiums from last year alone,’ I leave out the part where I got none the previous four years, ‘as well as so much knowledge about how to fight in the big leagues. Look at where Volare are now. We’ll be fighting alongside them by the summer break.’ Which I won’t care about because I’ll be back there.
The presenter leans back slightly. ‘Wow, big chat.’
‘That certainly is optimistic,’ muses Brian. ‘Leone have never scored points in the three years they’ve been in Formula 1.’
I curve my lips down. ‘They’ve never had me.’ I half believe it, which is less than I did this morning.
They both laugh.
‘You Hispanics are a dramatic bunch,’ chortles Brian.
Casual racism, cool cool cool.
The presenter rests a hand on my shoulder. ‘Good luck tomorrow, mate. Really looking forward to it. I hope this comes off.’
