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Usually, when I pass cars that are fighting for a spot on the back of the grid, they move out of the way. But this race is already chaos from the start.
The second Sansui car spun at turn two.
As the race reaches its climax, I find myself in the lead. I had discussed a one-spot tactic with my engineers.
They agreed.
“Box, box, Valente.”
“Copy.”
I approach the pits; worry fills me, making my focus sharpens. Pit stops are a make or break in this sport. If they take one second too long, Ale will get ahead of me even if she pits.
Which she hasn’t yet, but by stopping, she’s ahead of me, followed by Aoki, who is almost impossible to pass.
I got a considerable amount ahead of her while I was driving like my life depends on it. Sometimes it does feel like that, but for the longest time, it did.
Formula One has been my life for such a long time, I don’t know where I’d be without it. It helped me with the passing of my father, offering a distraction in the wake of his death. Funnily enough, I drove my best while I was still mourning years after. No one was able to catch me. I had the drive and the want to make my dad proud.
But in this sport, I’m getting old, and fast.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s best for me to retire while I’m still driving well.
The team’s voice crackles in my earpiece, guiding me into the controlled chaos that awaits. The anticipation builds, knowing that every second spent in the pits can make or break my race.
The braking zone arrives, and I stomp on the pedal, the G-forces pushing against me as the car decelerates. The mechanics stand ready, their faces hidden behind helmets and visors, hands poised for action. I veer off the racing line, aiming for the designated pit box.
My crew is a well-oiled machine, synchronized and efficient.
They already prepped for this; you would think putting on a tire is easy.
Fuck no, it’s not. The exercises these men have to do in order to withstand the power drill is something I couldn’t ever fathom.
Us Formula One drivers get most of the credit.
But it shouldn’t be that way. The crew and engineers lead us to our success. This is a team sport no matter what anyone tells you.
The car screeches to a halt, and in an instant, the pit lane erupts into a flurry of motion. The crew members swarm around me, their movements choreographed with meticulous precision.
I feel the jolt as the wheel gun connects with the nuts on the tires, spinning them off rapidly. The old tires fly off, bouncing away as fresh rubber is swiftly fitted onto the car. The air buzzes with the sound of machinery and the sense of urgency.
The mechanics adjust the front wing, tweaking it and optimizing the car’s performance for the next stint.
In the midst of it all, I focus on when the thumbs-up will be given to me, in order to leave the pit lane. My mind is sharp, and my senses are attuned to my surroundings.
But the anticipation and worry within these seconds hold the entire race in its grip.
I trust my team implicitly, knowing they are the best on the grid, yet accidents happen in the worst scenarios. Specifically, when I’m in the lead.
The seconds tick away, each one crucial in the race against time.
The final checks are completed, and with a nod from the chief mechanic, the crew members retreat, their tasks accomplished.
The car roars back to life, ready to rejoin the fierce battle on the track.
I accelerate out of the pits, and the world around me blurs yet again but not as fast as before. I’m itching for the feeling of hitting full throttle.
The feeling of fresh tires fuels my determination. The brief pit stop has rejuvenated me and the car feels just like it did when I first started driving it.
