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I flip my laptop closed, and we leave the motorhome to trek to the trackside team garage. According to the schedule, the cars will be running free practice sessions today, so this will be my first time seeing all the parts in motion live and in-person.
As we walk to the garages, Edmund introduces me to a few people we run across, and he points out all the other teams, nine, plus us. There is a shocking amount of media everywhere. I’ve seen it on television, of course, but in person, it’s a wild hive of buzzing activity, cameramen dragging cables and microphones with them.
Thankfully, very few people want to talk to engineers, so they never spare Edmund or I a glance. They’re more concerned with the occasional celebrity they come across, or a driver, of course. These are the people who make all the videos and clips of Cole I’ve watched over the years.
Stop it. You’re doing good.
The garage bays themselves are nothing short of impressive, either. Walking into the back entrance, there is a private area with a restroom and two smaller rooms that I suppose the team can meet in, or the drivers can change inside.
Then, moving toward the track is a private viewing area with stools and televisions of track action and one entire wall is composed of rechargeable headsets. Edmund picks a fully charged unit off the rack and hands it to me as we walk past.
Beyond are two concrete bays where the cars sit and a frenzy of mechanics and pit crew bustle around. Racks of tires catch my eye. They’re all wrapped in individual covers and numbered. I’ve been learning how strict the tire regulations are.
Each team only gets a certain number of each tire compound, there are rules about when each can be used, rules about how much they can be inflated, at what temperatures they can be run. There are rules upon rules upon rules. I haven’t been able to glean much information on the actual structure of the tires online yet, but there simply hasn’t been enough time.
“I want you to spend today on the pit wall with us,” Edmund says, and he leads us past the garage bay to an extended covered workstation that runs parallel to the pit lane. A dozen computer monitors sit elevated on a wall with five stools facing them for different race engineers and strategists. The track itself is right in front of us and the garages behind.
It’s so easy to get caught up in the grandeur of it all, being right on track smack dab in the middle of this elaborate festival of speed.
Edmund points to a seat, and I take a stool next to him after more introductions. I’m taking in all the data running across computer screens in front of me. It shows everything from local weather to screens showing the performance and status of each individual component on the car. There are even intercom systems in front of each stool that allow us to speak with drivers or the factory back in London.
I’m fiddling with the tech so much I jump when a car fires up behind me in the garage. Dante is inside his car already, the pit crew makes sure the coast is clear, and then he pulls out.
Cole is just about to step into his car in his black and green race suit and helmet. His helmet this race is silver and black, an elaborate geometric pattern all over it. He likes to change them up frequently with new designs and colors.
My eyes run up and down Cole’s tall frame. There’s a bulge visible in his tight-fitting race suit, and as he prepares to get into the car, he turns around briefly, and it’s obvious he’s adjusting himself before getting into the cockpit.
I can’t tear my eyes away, I’m not even aware of my surroundings.
You hear about these moments when people say that time stops, and the world fades away, and it always sounded like embellishment—or psychosis—but it’s real. There are simply times when the body’s needs override the brain’s orders.
Cole turns back, and I know I’ve just been caught staring at him. I can only see his eyes through his helmet, but he looks right at me with those impossibly blue orbs. I see the corners crinkle. Then he winks and climbs in the car.
Damn it.
This is the first time I’ve been close to him this week, and I’ve already been caught checking him out. I’m reasonably sure my jaw was open. I’m surprised I’m not drooling.
No other man does this to my body, no one else makes my mind shut down like this. It’s like a switch he has complete control over. One flick of his finger and it’s lights out, no more racing thoughts, no more analysis or thinking. My lizard brain takes over, and its sole purpose is physical need.
Survival.
Edmund taps the headset sitting on my pit wall station, “
Start listening to the drivers and their feedback and comparing it to your data sets.”
I put the clunky headphones on and move the mouthpiece away from my chin. I won’t be adding to conversation today, I’m just here to learn right now.
With both cars on track, the data on my computer screens comes to life—wind flow measurements over parts of the vehicle, brake temperatures, downforce measurements, fuel levels, tire life models. The monitors spit out hundreds of data points in real-time as the two cars go around the flat track in the Rhine Valley.
It is seriously impressive.
“Okay, Cole, Strat Mode 11, please,” I hear Edmund issue the command over the headset to run a practice program. There’s a cheat sheet taped to the counter telling us all what the Strategy Modes mean this weekend. It’s kept confidential so that other teams don’t know each other’s plans.
It looks like this mode is our standard race pace setting, and I’m starting to see patterns in all of the data before me. I can almost see the tire temperatures, PSI, and degradation changing before me as the cars increase their speed and payload under cornering. Dante’s car and Cole’s car differ entirely as they’re both running different tire compounds.
Both Dante and Cole respond over the radio several times, providing feedback on how the cars feel, reporting oversteer or understeer, asking for changes of settings. I have a lot of jargon to learn.
A tingle runs down my spine every time Cole talks over the radio, I can hear his breathing right in my ear, and it’s like he’s whispering to me again. I swear I can feel his breath on my skin.
