‘Well let’s keep talking, especially about that standing water into Village and mid-Hangar.’
‘I will. Hey, there’s no team better at improvising, right?’ I lightly elbow him, and he wearily smiles.
And the rain’s back on.
It’s that really annoying light mist that drenches everything. Miami’s rain is hot and heavy, then half an hour later, you wouldn’t know it came at all. This… This is deceitful rain. Rude rain.
There are twenty minutes to go before the British Grand Prix – the oldest race in the calendar. It sure does have gravitas, and the Red Arrows have just flown by to prove it. The track itself is fast, flowing, and hard, and to top things off it’s coveredin water. The adrenaline junkie in me can’t wait, but the team player in me hears alarm bells. We’ve bombed on dry, straight, slower tracks. Shit, we’ve bombed between the starting position and first corner.
But that was in the past. The new and improved Leone can do this.Willdo this.
Mechanics buzz around us, checking tyre pressure and clearing water off the chassis. I’m starting in P14 – not bad at all – and the chaotic grid sprawls before me. It’s a sea of umbrellas, hoods, and cameras cloaked in covers. VIPs in suits and press galore. The poor fans are packing out the stands in team-coloured ponchos. I heard some of their tents floated away overnight.
‘Tiago, a word?’
I look behind me to find Minnie and her Sportif+ cameraman. Who am I to refuse Jules’ best friend?
I hold up one finger to my engineer and turn to her. ‘No problem.’
She tucks in close so no other reporter can steal her interview. ‘How are you feeling about today? Do you think points are in store?’ Viewers must be getting raw English translation since she’s not translating live into French.
‘With conditions like this, it’s impossible to call it,’ I say, fluffing the back of my hair. ‘I’ll try my best, and I’m hoping for some good overtakes. If that means points, that’s awesome. We’re really finding our feet right now so I think the sky’s the limit.’
‘It’s great to see you finding your feet, though a lot of teams are struggling with the mid-season upgrades. Pagari have slipped to third in the Championship; Volare still aren’t finding their rhythm with their new driver. How do you feel about that?’
‘Of course instability further up the food chain’s great for us,’ I laugh and quickly stop. Jules’ voice rings loud and clear inmy head:Be humble, Tiago. ‘But we’re not concerning ourselves with that. We’re 100% focused on our race, especially today with the weather being what it is. Everything outside that’s up to the racing gods.’
Minnie beams. ‘Thanks, Tiago. Have a good one.’
‘Thanks Minnie.’
Thirty laps in and the racing gods have done a number on us.
Seven cars have crashed out, and not just the backmarkers like my idiot teammate – Martinelli’s Étienne Blanchet, and Ackland’s Eilo MäkinenandKurtis Hatten-Meyer. That’s Ackland completely out of their home race. Race leader Jack Bowden’s got a ten-second penalty for braking before one of the four safety car restarts.
The track’s both super dry and super wet. Sun and rain appear interchangeably, flipping the bird to the forecasts. It’s freaking the shit out of everyone. No one knows which tyre combinations to choose and every team has picked differently. To hell with carefully planned strategies.
But most crazily, I’m running in eighth, and I’m gaining on RaceX’s Gustaf Henriksson – the team currently in that coveted fifth Championship spot.
There’s a burst of static as the radio channel opens. ‘DRS is enabled.’
Well. It’d be rude not to.
As we come up to the Hanger Straight, Henriksson sweeps left and I hold my breath as I lunge for his inside. My car and I have felt in sync all weekend. She’s zippy and responsive, and doesn’t lock up even slightly as we reach Turn 9 and I squeeze Henriksson out with no effort at all.Yes.
Triumph dies in my throat a lap later when RaceX’s other driver, Matteo D’Ambrosio, looms in my mirror, havingovertaken his teammate shortly after me. I need to put distance between us. Go full throttle. Put in a qualifying?—
‘Latest weather is class three and will start somewhere between lap 34 and 37, lasting for around fifteen minutes,’ my race engineer reports. ‘Do you want to change to wets?’
Wet tyres give more grip but less speed, and quickly overheat on drying surfaces. Perfect for heavy standing water, but a nightmare with mixed conditions. I glance up at the sky – it’s dystopian black, though there’s a weird straight line which separates it from fluffy white clouds and pale blue further west. For the millionth time, what the fuck is up with British weather?
It’s too risky. If that sun rolls across, we’d have to pit a third time to change back to inters. Our pit stops are better but not Pagari slick. Two stops swapping the tyres out and back again would mean a whole minute gone. I’ll be last! I can make it to the end on these tyres. I have to.
‘No, let’s hold out,’ I decide.
‘Are you sure? We’re talking class three.’ Moderate rain; severely reduced traction; heavy spray from cars ahead.
We’re never going to fight with the top teams if we play like them. We don’t have their aerodynamic efficiency, straight-line speed, or literally anything else. What we do have is nothing to lose. From third bottom in the Championship, we can only go up. This is the closest season in decades; the big guns can’t afford to gamble. But we can. Riskier overtakes; offsetting tyre strategy; defending for our lives; forgetting what we can’t do and focusing on what we can.
