They toss him up in waves with a rhythmic, “Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!” and Matt can’t help but laugh through his tears.
It’s the best he’s ever qualified in Form 1.
Ever.
Nobody in the garage mentions how bad the last few races were, or how it’s only qualifying, not an actual race result. Everyone just basks in the fact that the team currently eighth in the standings has managed to out-qualify both Mercenaries, both McLeans, and a Ferraro.
“Dinner’s on me!” Matt calls out to the garage.
The team has a group meal on qualifying night, but the cheers grow even louder in response.
He’ll find a meal to pay for.
Matt’s parked on the second row.Second. Of the entire grid. In his direct line of sight it’s one Red Boar and open road.
He discussed his approach to the start with the team strategist at length, but Andes didn’t keep historical data on Red Boar in their repertoire. They were more concerned with the immediate problems, like Kaas or Wilhelms or VFIBR.
But Matt has subscriptions to both Form 1 TV and Ground Sports. Boy, did he use them.
Usually, whenever Sam started on pole, he liked to cut over and defend as soon as possible. And when Lucas started in second, he liked to take the straight shot, barreling through the car in his way.
Rafael, parked to the left of Matt in third, is also a cut-over driver. If Matt can count on Lucas ahead to punch the throttle and hit it straight, then maybe he’d have some luck dodging out to the right and letting the top three battle each other. Maybe he can even slide in front of someone during the confusion.
Potentially even into a podium position.
Apodium.
The biggest question is whether Matt is willing to lose his fourth-place start by aiming too high. If he hangs behind Rafael, falls in line, he can focus on defending. It wouldn’t be a podium, but fourth place would be his highest finish in Form 1 by a mile.
Should he take the chance to podium, or aim for the more-guaranteed option? Is he a ruthless dreamer or a steadfast realist?
He rolls the car forward for the start of the formation lap and tries to judge what the drivers around him plan to do.
Is Matt willing to degrade his tires for the chance to move forward? Is he only setting himself up to be overtaken, just at a later time?
Maybe the whole race is just a farce—something his car cannot possibly compete with. Maybe the Andes will waste awayuntil Matt ends up outside of the points, no matter what he chooses.
Hell, his own team strategist gave him pointers for fighting Ashton at this track. They’re both some ten places behind him.
Matt parks again. The green flag is torturously slow now that he has to wait for nearly the entire grid to finish their lap. They can take their time—he still hasn’t made up his mind yet.
The first light illuminates and he’s snapped back to attention. Were the lights always so big? Matt’s so close, he has to tilt his head up to see them.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing.
Defend, attack, defend—every light changes his mind, like picking petals off a flower.
Lights out, and Matt juts to the right—for the attack—on instinct. He’s never been so close to the front before, and he won’t squander away the opportunity by playing to his fear. It’s in his blood to fight for the win.
The Red Boars are wicked fast and he struggles to keep up through the first lap, but the red of Rafael’s Ferraro is nowhere to be found.
Matt checks his mirror, his side, his other mirror, his other side. Three laps later, he’s nearly alone on the road.
Was it a false start? But the Red Boars took off too.
He can’t spot a single red car. Weirder still, there’s a long gap from his car to what looks like a Mercenary behind.
Matt presses his mic button. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but am I P3 right now?” Surely not. Obviously something strange has happened.
