Page 57 of Racing for Redemption
I run through my final mental checklist, hands positioned at nine and three, fingers hovering over the clutch paddles. The countdown continues in my ear, and then—
The engine roars to life behind me, vibrations traveling up through the seat and into my spine. Power. Raw and barely contained. I ease the car forward, the team guiding me out of the garage and into the pit lane.
The first lap is cautious—an installation check to ensure all systems function properly. I focus on feeling the car, building a dialogue with this complex machine. The steering is heavy butresponsive. Brakes are firm. Power delivery is smooth. Temperature gauges climb steadily toward operating range.
I radio back initial impressions as I complete the first lap. “Car feels balanced. No obvious issues. Ready to push on the next lap.”
“Confirmed. Green light for lap two.”
Now the real work begins. I push harder into the first corner, getting a sense for how the car responds to increased loads. The front end grips well but seems slightly reluctant to turn in. Through the fast sweeping Turn 3, the rear feels planted—good news for stability in high-speed corners.
Lap by lap, I build up speed, exploring the car’s behavior, storing observations to relay to the team. The chicane exposes a weakness—the car doesn’t like rapid direction changes, becoming unsettled over the curbs. The engine appears strong, but we’re clearly down on straight-line speed compared to the cars I’m occasionally catching and allowing past.
After six laps, I radio in. “Front end needs work. Understeer in medium-speed corners. Sector two specifically, Turn 7-8 sequence, the car doesn’t want to rotate. Suggest we try reducing front wing angle by two degrees, and soften the front anti-roll bar.”
“Copy that.” Tom sounds pleased with the detailed feedback. “Box this lap. We’ll make those changes.”
I bring the car in, mechanics swarming as I stop on my marks. The car disappears beneath their coordinatedassault—tire temperatures checked, bodywork removed, adjustments made with precision and speed.
Tom leans in when they pull the engine cover off. “Good initial times. How’s the brake balance?”
“Needs to be more rearward in high-speed braking zones. Turn 1 especially, I’m locking the fronts.”
He nods, making notes. “Observed that in the data. We’ll adjust.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m back out. The changes are immediately noticeable; the car rotates more willingly now, allowing me to hit the apexes with greater precision. I push harder, finding the limits, occasionally exceeding them with small lockups, or moments of oversteer that I catch and control. These are mistakes I’m allowed to make right now. Not so much during a race weekend.
During the morning session, we cycle through various setup changes—wing angles, suspension settings, brake bias adjustments. Each time, I provide detailed feedback, suggesting further refinements based on feeling rather than just data.
“The kerbs at Turn 5—we’re losing time there. The car bounces rather than absorbing the impact. Could we try softer springs, but with more rebound control?”
“The engine mapping feels too aggressive in the mid-range. Can we smooth the torque delivery between 8,000 and 10,000 rpm? I’m getting wheelspin on exit.”
After nearly three hours, Tom calls me in for the last time before lunch. “Good session, William. Very consistent lap times.”
I climb out, muscles aching pleasantly from the physical demands of driving. The simulator prepared me for most aspects, but nothing can fully replicate the G-forces, the heat, the constant vibration of a real F1 car. I’ll need some physio after this.
Peeling off my helmet and balaclava, I’m hit by the relative cool of the garage air. Sweat plasters my hair to my forehead. I accept a water bottle from one of the mechanics, draining half of it in one long pull.
“How did we look?” I ask Tom, who’s scrolling through data screens.
“P14 overall,” he says, a note of cautious optimism in his voice. “Most cars are faster as we expected, but you’re consistently quicker than Klip Motorsports, and one of the Velocity Racing.”
Fourteen out of twenty. Not great, but better than last. Baby steps.
“And Nicholas?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
Tom’s expression says everything before he speaks. “P20 in the simulator. We'll have to wait to see him on track in the afternoon, but we're not anticipating much improvement. It seems he's extracting everything he can on his end.”
Dead last. I suppress the slight flare of satisfaction. It’s not about beating Nicholas; it’s about maximizing the car’s potential. Still, outpacing my teammate in my first official session isn’t a terrible start.
Speaking of Nicholas, he saunters into the garage as I’m reviewing data with the engineers. Even from several feet away, the unmistakable sour-sweet smell of alcohol seeps through hispores. He’d been partying last night. Before a test session. Before operating a vehicle capable of speeds over 300 km/h.
My face must betray my thoughts, because Tom leans in and mutters, “Not the first time. Won’t be the last.”
I shake my head in disbelief. In F2, I’d heard rumors about certain drivers hitting clubs before race weekends and test sessions, showing up hungover or worse. But seeing it firsthand in F1—where the stakes, speeds, and dangers are exponentially higher—stuns me.
Nicholas catches my gaze and smirks, as if daring me to comment. I turn back to the data screen, refusing to engage.
