Page 12 of Formula Dreams
“Purple Sector 1,” Bex crackles through the comm.Her tone is calm but thrilled over the news.
Fastest of anyone in that sector.
“Gap to Wagner, point-seven.”
I narrow my focus as the circuit unwinds into Degner, Wagner just a few car lengths up.And beyond him—the black-and-green livery of Ronan Barnes, sitting pretty at P4.
He’s my true target.
Barnes is two car lengths ahead of Wagner, slicing through the drag with surgical precision.I hate how smooth he looks… like he’s gliding when the rest of us are clawing.
I stay tight through the first curve, my car dancing slightly when I brake.I kiss the apex in the second curve, managing to keep the throttle pinned.A tease of gravel at the edge of the track causes my front end to wash out slightly, which I correct, but I can feel the loss of momentum.
“Hold your line,” Bex calls.“Wagner’s faster in Sector 2.Stick close and we’ll find the timing.”
“Copy,” I say.
“Temps still solid.You’re clean.”
Conversation during the race is kept to a minimum.Information is passed onto me, which I digest and use as necessary.I conserve my words because they take energy and focus.
Down the back straight, my car flattens out and I slam through the gears.I keep an eye on the DRS board flashing green as we dive into the 130R—one of the most dangerous curves in the sport.The g-forces are maxed at five times my body weight and I feel like my guts are getting sucked out through my ribs.I cannot afford a mistake, and this is where I funnel all my instinct and trust in my team to get me out alive.
My wrists ache as I fight the feedback in the wheel, slingshotting myself out of the curve and no closer to Wagner ahead of me.
And so it goes, another lap.
Another shot.
My race is a back-and-forth of me tightening the gap and then losing it.Frustration, then elation, back to frustration.
That’s the nature of racing.
“We’re going to have you box this lap,” Bex cuts in over my comms.“Going to undercut.”
“Copy,” I say and seconds later, I’m pulling into the pit entry.
I press the limiter button on my wheel, which automatically keeps my speed to only 80 kph as a safety mechanism.The garage looms ahead, purple and gray suits moving with mechanical grace.
I hit the marks with precision, a maneuver I’ve practiced hundreds of times.
Tires off.
Tires on.
“Go, go, go!”
I tear out of the box with cold mediums and a target in sight.Now we wait to see if the gamble pays off.
If Wagner stays out one lap too long, I can gain the lead over him and that puts me one step closer to Barnes.I overtake Barnes and I’m on the podium.
It’s almost too much for a rookie to hope for in her debut race, but I’m aiming high.
♦
The noise ismuted from here, buffered by the hospitality trailers and the scaffolding of temporary awnings.I lean against the metal barricade at the paddock’s edge.I rub at the side of my face, still indented from my helmet’s chin straps.
Up on the platform above the garages, the podium ceremony blares from speakers and screens.I don’t need a close-up to know what’s happening.Nash stands center, victorious and basking in the win he deserves.He was flawless today—fast, calm, ruthless.
