Class three weather almost always means wets, but after failed brakes and a fireball, I’m not scared of a little drifting. We don’t have to be fifth in the Championship to play the wild card – we can start today.
‘I’m sure,’ I confirm.
‘Copy.’
The rain comes quicker than expected, and it’s ridiculous from the start. I can’t see shit. I’m skating around fast corners but it doesn’t matter, I’m still confident in our new strategy.
The Volare in front of me pits. So does the Tenzing in front of him, and the Maxim in front of him. I check my mirror and D’Ambrosio’s gone. Everyone’s double stacking. The panic’s palpable. Good.
Holy mother, I’m fourth.
‘Can you stay out?’ comes a voice over the radio, almost drowned out by rainfall.
‘Yarp,’ I squeak as I almost aquaplane around The Loop.
‘Just keep it on track. Passing in thirteen minutes.’
I clear my throat. ‘Copy.’
Fuck me, this is biblical. Class three weather my ass. If I leaned out the car, I could see my reflection on the track. Noah’s Ark is probably moored behind that stand.
My pulse quickens as I catch the rear of the only Martinelli still in this race as he disappears around Copse Corner. I could?—
No. Dreams of leaving him in the dust will have to wait. My priority right now is not spinning into oblivion. It was a pipe dream anyway. The dude has multiple World Championships, and years more experience than me. He won Le Mans, for crying out loud. And if I finish fourth, we’ll get six times the combined points we’ve gotall season. I can’t jeopardise that by reaching for the impossible.
But how good would it feel?—
Shit, eight cars out.
A DFK’s in the wall.
Virtual safety car.
Full safety car.
I shore up behind Tom with my heart in my mouth. If there was ever an opportunity to race him, the restart would be it. My car’s a freaking Flintmobile compared to his Autobot, but justthinking about him and Jules together has my foot itching to flatten. I owe it to myself to try, even if I fall on my ass.
We tow along for three laps in tight formation. Everyone’s in wets except for me. This is either the smartest strategy ever or the dumbest. I think it’s definitely the latter, but then I swing round Stowe and a burst of light almost blinds me.
The sky’s blue.
Not a rain cloud in sight, and yet it’s still raining? Lightly. Wait, it’s stopping.
‘We believe that’s the last of the rain, Tiago,’ says my race engineer.
The track will soon have dry patches and the remaining eleven drivers will be forced to pit – but there’s no time now as the safety car lap’s ending.
Fuck YES.
My fingers flex around the wheel as we prepare to restart. Eleven laps to go. I don’t care much about D’Ambrosio behind me – he’ll need to pit in a couple of laps anyway. But I do care about that dark blue car in front. I have to overtake him. I don’t care if he wins it back later. My pride’s hanging in the balance.
And we’re off.
Tom’s struggling. His tyres are sticking to the track like it’s covered in Velcro – not that that makes him an easy target. He’s one of the best defenders, like, ever. I can’t divebomb him like I would normally. Even with worse tyres, his car’s grip is far superior to mine. My overtake needs to be somewhere counterintuitive. Somewhere he won’t see it coming.
‘Your pace is good. There’s a ten-second gap behind you,’ is the latest from the radio.
Ok, that’s something. D’Ambrosio’s pitted sooner than I expected. At least no one’s going to sneak up behind me while I face Tom.
