Driven

by Toby Vintcent

  After her interview on US television, Sabatino and Straker went ashore in the increasingly orange glow of the setting sun. They walked along the pontoons in the harbour, leaving the celebrations aboard the Melita still in full swing. Street lamps and lights in shop-fronts were starting to come on along the waterfront. She led him straight to her chosen restaurant, Miguel’s in Rue de Grimaldi, which was not what he expected at all. No Michelin star chef, no glitz, no glamour and no one in the place he would recognize. Miguel’s was a small family-run affair with elegant décor, gentle lighting, white tablecloths and simple table-top decorations. On first seeing the place, Straker wondered whether Sabatino might have brought him here because she didn’t want to be seen with him in public. After her win today, she was definitely media worthy. Any companion would likely prompt all kinds of press interest and speculation.

  ‘I love this place,’ she declared with such genuineness as she sat in the chair held for her by the maître d’.

  ‘Mademoiselle Sabatino. A pleasure to see you again. And many congratulations.’

  She nodded her thanks and smiled warmly. ‘I’ve been coming here since my GP2 days,’ she explained.

  ‘No Monte-Carlo razzmatazz, then? I would’ve thought you’d be hanging out with all the F1 boys?’

  The maitre d’ unfurled her napkin and laid it gracefully across her lap.

  She smiled coyly. ‘That’s the thing, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Boys. F1 is a lot of boys. Boys and their toys – and the size of their penises.’

  Straker gave a reactive laugh. ‘What?’

  ‘Formula One is so testosterone-laden. Ridiculously competitive. Even socially, you can’t talk about anything – say anything – without someone trying to top it or turn it into a competition. Every story gets trumped. Every claim gets wilder. Every drink gets bigger – and more of a test.’

  Straker frowned. ‘Isn’t that just the way they are?’

  ‘Probably,’ she said with an unconvinced shrug. ‘Except I can’t help feeling it’s because I’m a woman.’

  ‘There are loads of women around these people, aren’t there – wives, girlfriends?’

  ‘There are, but they all seemed resigned to being spectators. More hangers-on or fawning groupies. They don’t seem to be competed with.’

  ‘You’re different?’

  ‘I’m supposed to be on their level.’

  ‘A threat, then?’

  ‘Shouldn’t be. No more than anyone else around those tables and bars, at any rate. I sense a woman doing their thing unnerves them, though. Makes them insecure. Somehow diminishes their masculinity.’

  ‘Whoa, paranoia alert!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said sharply.

  Straker paused, slightly taken aback by her apparent mood change. ‘You’re successful in a competitive environment,’ he explained. ‘They wouldn’t be successful competitors if they didn’t envy and resent someone beating them. Of course they’re not going to like you – you’re winning. Exactly the same dynamic would surround you if you were a man.’

  ‘But I haven’t been winning till now. It hasn’t been resentment of any success. They’ve behaved like that ever since I started.’

  ‘Of course they have,’ he said almost unsympathetically. ‘Just being part of the F1 circus means success – that you’ve arrived. You’re all threats to each other at that rarefied level. Maybe your suspicion of chauvinism induces in you an awkwardness of manner. Maybe you behave with defensive offence when you’re with them?’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  Straker leaned back in his chair and sighed: ‘Q? … E? … D?’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  There was an awkward – deathly – silence at the table.

  Crap, he thought to himself.

  Whatever hopes he might have had of setting up a working relationship with this woman now seemed to be shot. Straker cursed inwardly. He hadn’t needed to say so much; he hadn’t needed to goad her. He looked down and rearranged the napkin in his lap. When he raised his eyes after a few moments’ silence, though, he was once again taken completely by surprise. Sabatino was looking at him with a radiant glint in her eye.

  ‘Not at all,’ she said, her smile lingering. ‘The men in Formula One imply they have big penises. That only a man can do what they do. Maybe a woman doing it proves it’s not quite so manly as they’d like everyone to believe it is. Trouble, though,’ she said slightly defiantly, ‘is I know what a big penis should look like. I know how to measure one.’

  Straker smiled, but was not completely sure whether she was being literal or not.

  ‘Whatever the real reason,’ she said, ‘these boys seem to have to declare themselves whenever I’m around – well, that’s how it seems to me.’

  They were interrupted by their waiter introducing himself, explaining the specials, and taking their order for drinks. They asked for two Kir Royales. Reassured that the mood between them might have been restored, Straker looked to change the subject. ‘How did you get into all this, anyway?’ he asked as bread and olive oil was placed between them.

  ‘F1? Slowly, then quickly.’

  Straker offered Sabatino the basket. ‘Sorry?’

  She took a piece of bread and dunked it in the oil. ‘Antonio, my elder brother – back in Malta – was a petrolhead. A car nut. Spent his entire childhood dying to get a drive in a go-kart. He stripped down cars, reconditioned parts, tuned up engines. He’d do hundreds of them to earn pocket money from a local garage. The owner’s son raced go-karts, you see. But the son was crap – constantly crashing and damaging everything. Antonio earned pocket money – and brownie points – fixing up his engines and parts. As a treat, every now and again, the garage people would take him to the track, just outside Valletta. He hoped that, one day, they might give him a drive. They never did. Even so, Antonio would still enjoy going to watch.’

  The waiter returned with their drinks. They ordered their food.

  ‘One Saturday when I was about sixteen, Antonio asked me to go with him to the track. I went and loved it, you know? The whole scene – the noise, the smell of heat, exhaust, oil and rubber. But particularly the speed.’

  ‘You had no interest in anything mechanical up until then?’

  Sabatino shook her head. ‘Ponies. Didn’t have my own, but was completely obsessed. Used to do the same sort of chores as Antonio, but my hangout was the local riding stables. While he was fixing up parts from the rich boy’s mistakes, to get my rides I’d be shovelling shit and grooming. Mother wasn’t rich enough to buy us our fun – we had to earn it for ourselves.’

  ‘How did you get to drive, then?’

  Sabatino smiled wistfully. ‘The garage boy fancied me. He kept asking me back – to watch him race. Suddenly, to Antonio, I was a little sister with currency. It looked like I’d be guaranteeing him a lot more tickets for race days. Anyway, over time, I got familiar with the scene. While standing around for hours, I started watching. I found myself wanting to understand why some karts were faster than others and, then, why some drivers were faster than others in similar machines. Without realizing it, I seemed to know how to read a track – and the dynamics of racing.’

  ‘Very analytical.’

  ‘Maybe, but it got me into serious trouble. After one race, I stupidly pointed out that the rich kid had been beaten by slower drivers and slower karts. Then I told him why. It was like kicking him in the balls. In a tantrum, he said: “Well if you think you’re so fucking good, you do it!”’

  ‘You did – and the rest is history?’ offered Straker as a denouement.

  Sabatino took a sip of her Kir Royale, and shook her head. ‘Never so easy. I did drive – in the last race that day. But only as a laugh. I got bumped, overtaken, baulked – all sorts. There was something there, though. Definitely. The race was only ten laps, and I was only steady for the last three. But it gave me enough time to try out my observations – about line, timing, acce
leration, braking and car control. And, bizarrely, in those last ninety seconds, I found a rhythm.’

  ‘Which meant you displaced the rich kid and took his drive?’

  Sabatino shook her head. ‘The only displacement was me as the rich guy’s girlfriend. He was so pissed off because I’d managed to clock a faster lap time than he ever had.’

  ‘Within your first ten laps ever?’

  ‘Amazing, huh? But me falling out with the boyfriend triggered a falling-out with my brother – because I had been given a drive in a kart and he never had.’

  ‘All that pique from your brother and the so-called boyfriend.’

  ‘Yep, all because of wounded pride and jealousy. It was harsh, but, as an experience, a great foundation.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Being a female doing something at the same time as a man. I realized that, for me, if I was ever to do anything in motor racing – or life, probably – I’d have to learn to cope with an additional set of dynamics.’

  ‘Don’t tell me – chauvinism?’

  Sabatino scowled at him.

  ‘What did you learn then?’ asked Straker moderating his tone enough, he hoped, to prevent another “fuck you”.

  Their food arrived and was placed reverentially in front of them by two waiters.

  ‘Certain things,’ she said. ‘I came up with one overarching mantra.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘To stay me.’

  ‘Very deep.’

  ‘It is,’ she rebuked. ‘The temptation was to become male – or masculine. To be one of them. To be what they want. I resolved very early on not to do that.’

  ‘Not even if that helped you to understand them – or how to beat them?’

  ‘Think like them, yes. But not be like them, no. That would never work. I could never be them. Trying to be them would only make me phoney.’

  ‘If staying you was your main mantra, what others did you come up with?’

  ‘Only my Machiavellian killer app!’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘To treat people – particularly egotistical men – not as they are … but as they think they are.’

  Straker frowned as he mulled this over. ‘Doesn’t that create phoniness too?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ said Sabatino with a broad smile. ‘But in them, not me! With this approach, they’re never directly threatened. They’re disarmed. It helps me get their guard down – meaning I can read them much more easily and, ultimately, get them to do what I want.’

  They ate for a few moments, Straker praising the food. ‘If you were so completely ostracized by your brother and boyfriend, how did you get back into racing, then?’

  ‘That first drive didn’t go unnoticed. I was spotted by a rival team. The owner saw my rapid improvement in lap times. When his driver had an accident and couldn’t race, he got in touch – probably because he liked the novelty of fielding a girl driver, more than me. It certainly caused a bit of a stir. I made it a condition of my agreement, though, to be given a proper budget for practice.’

  ‘And that was the off?’

  ‘In karting, yes. I raced for two seasons and notched up some good wins and results. It was then that I came up with my third tenet – nothing to do with chauvinism, you’ll be pleased to hear.’

  ‘Which is?’ he asked with a concessionary smile at her taunt.

  ‘Attention to detail. To leave nothing overlooked. The competitive difference between karts or F1 cars, particularly, in normal conditions is minimal – measured in hundredths of a second per lap, a matter of seconds over a two-hour race. Nothing, really. But working through the whole gamut of a race and race preparation I came across one potentially huge advantage.’

  Straker’s expression conveyed considerable curiosity: ‘What was that?’

  ‘It was so simple and obvious – to me, at least. Race cars and rain don’t mix, right? In the wet, you can easily drop half a minute a lap. Also, because of the far higher likelihood of spins, bumps and crashes, the expected race order in the wet can be completely turned on its head. Wet conditions can easily turn a motor race into a lottery. So I thought: why be a hostage to the wet? Why not try and turn rain – wet conditions – into an advantage? In any season of racing, it’s inevitably going to rain sometime. If I could materially bring it home when everyone else is cocking it up, I saw the possibility of creating enough of a margin – even in just one race – to make a difference to a whole season’s results.’

  Straker nodded and smiled appreciatively at the logic. ‘How did you act on that?’

  ‘Practice, practice, practice! Some people practise until they get it right; I wanted to practise until I couldn’t get it wrong. Every time it rained – or even looked like raining – I rushed to the track and went out in a kart and drove – drove, drove, drove. I spun. I slid. I spun some more, got soaked, caught God knows how many colds. Nearly caught pneumonia – certainly had a bad bout of pleurisy. But … I kept pushing myself and, in the end … I got better. In fact, I got pretty good.’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone do this?’

  ‘No, thank heavens. There’s only one other who I discovered did anything similar – and I only learnt about him after I’d started in Formula One.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  Sabatino raised a self-effacing eyebrow. ‘Ayrton Senna,’ she said. ‘But I’m convinced my obsession with rain also helped my general driving. Tuning-in to the hyper sensitivity of wet conditions, I guess, improved my car control. Must have. Because of that, I genuinely believe that I’m able to push myself harder in the dry.’

  ‘Makes sense. Who spotted you for the bigger cars, then?’

  Sabatino finished a mouthful of food. ‘I soon moved to England, to study engineering at university – go-karting sparking my interest in mechanics – and picked up an occasional drive here and there. I seemed blessed by a series of one-offs. An injury to a driver at Brands Hatch gave me a chance drive in a Formula Ford. A disqualified driver at Thruxton opened up a seat in Formula 3000 for half a season. And my big break came at Donington at the end of last year where I was driving a GP2: I pulled off a coup against Simi Luciano, the runner-up in last year’s F1 season, no less, who had turned up to give some sort of exhibition drive.’

  ‘You beat him?’

  Sabatino nodded coquettishly.

  ‘What?’

  Sabatino smiled at Straker’s reading of her expression. ‘That day, Donington was wet. Not just wet – it was wet, wet. Ceaseless torrential rain. Standing water across large parts of the circuit. To everyone’s surprise I wiped the floor with Luciano. I went round twenty-five seconds faster than him – only four seconds slower than for a dry lap time. It caused quite a stir.’

  Straker gave an I-can-see-why nod in admiration.

  ‘That,’ she said almost as a flourish, ‘was lift-off – Mr Quartano being the reason.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He was there – at Donington. It all happened so fast. He made me an offer that very afternoon. I think it was about the time he was trying to buy Ptarmigan from the receiver. I guess I’d have to say that from that point on the rest is history.’

  Straker shook his head in appreciation. ‘Talent will out.’

  ‘Maybe, and in the end, perhaps – but not immediately. It’s not automatically meritocratic. Talent’s still got to find its chance to shine. And so much of that’s down to luck. Quartano, therefore, was my lucky charm.’

  Straker nodded. ‘Mine too,’ he said as he subconsciously reached for his drink in a toast. ‘Where do you think your driving talent comes from?’

  Sabatino shrugged, taking a sip of her own. ‘Who knows? Certainly not my parents – neither nature nor nurture. My father died when I was four, but had no mechanical bent, and Mother’s practically a certified agoraphobic. She hates me racing – says it’s far too dangerous. If she gets to hear about Helli Cunzer’s accident yesterday, she’ll have a fit. Where does any ability come from? Beats me. I enjoye
d riding, and I suppose you enjoy things you’re good at. Horses test you in all sorts of things – but certainly balance, feel, rhythm, and a sense of anticipation. A horse has an independent spirit. A mind of its own. You can get it to do certain things, but it can always spook, change its mind, lose its balance, or require help recovering, particularly jumping cross-country.’

  ‘And you think those skills transferred to the cockpit?’

  ‘They’re pretty similar to the demands of car control, I’d say. In that respect, horsemanship and driving ability have a similar core. It’s not for nothing, for instance, that Schumacher’s a quite brilliant horseman – Western riding,’ she said with a smirk. ‘But still. None of those abilities are worth anything, though, without nerve. The key factor in F1 has to be a readiness to push hard and to commit.’

  ‘Not the will to win?’

  ‘Male drivers say that. Must play to the macho instinct, I suppose. To me winning’s incidental. A by-product. If I get everything right, I normally come out on top. Winning’s not my drug; getting it right is. You can win and still be rated as a human being.’

  Straker was surprised by her tone of self-justification. ‘Why do you say that?’ he asked.

  She looked almost apologetic. ‘I was the only driver to go and see Helli Cunzer today. Twenty-four hours ago he nearly died. There but for the grace of God … Was it weakness to go? To support a man who got it wrong? Am I any less of a winner for caring about a friend who made a mistake?’

  There was very nearly a tear in Sabatino’s eye. Straker’s opinion of this woman was changing by the minute.

  Their plates were cleared away, creating a natural break in the conversation. Trying to divert herself from such frustration and disappointment, she said: ‘I have a subject for you,’ and gave him a knowing smile. ‘I saw your reaction to it – in the pit lane on Thursday.’

  Sensing a tone of mischief, he asked, with exaggerated hesitancy: ‘Reaction to what?’

  ‘The mention of Charlie Grant?’

  Straker immediately looked down, somewhere towards his napkin.