Driven

by Toby Vintcent

  Marshals were able to clear the wreckage away fairly quickly. But the rain would not abate. Down it came.

  Race Control really had little choice. They called a halt to Q1 and declared that Q2 would only start when the rainfall diminished.

  For two hours nothing happened.

  Finally, well into the evening, the weather began to ease. Q2 was started and all teams were able to try and post a time.

  In Qualifying Three, the track even started to dry out. The key decision – gamble – each team had to make was whether to run on full wets or intermediate tyres. In the current conditions, the time difference in lap times between the two types could easily be up to ten seconds. Be on the wrong tyre, and a competitive position on the grid would be lost.

  Sabatino took a massive gamble.

  She and Treadwell waited until the last possible moment. They opted for intermediates. Only Paddy Aston had done the same thing – managing to clock up the best time so far by six seconds, but his lap was absolutely heart-stopping. Twice he came within a whisker of colliding with the barriers.

  His punt, though, had paid off.

  Driving into his garage, Aston could subsequently sit back and watch the rest of the field fight for second place, no closer than three or four seconds behind him. Tyres were clearly critical.

  On her hot lap, Sabatino started well. Sheares Corner was dry. Turns Three and Four were okay too. Into Turn Five, though, the car became a boat. Sabatino surfed on the top of the water for fifty yards in a dead straight – no-control – line. Miraculously, the tyres found some grip somewhere – somehow – before it was too late. With a massive yaw and twitch, she regained control, kept the car pointing down the course, and accelerated on hard down the straight to the kink at Turn Six.

  Round she went. At the end of Sector One she was nearly a second up on Aston. Then there were the treacherous bends – particularly in the wet – around Memorial Corner, Turn Seven, and the one-hundred-degree rights of Turns Eight and Nine. With everyone holding their breath, she powered on, barely lifting off at all.

  Another scary moment at Turn Thirteen.

  At the end of Sector Two Sabatino was a full three seconds up.

  Then came the extraordinarily unforgiving sharp turns of Sixteen through Twenty-one. The car was barely on two tracks throughout these bends. Only Sabatino’s feel, ability to anticipate, and her lightning reactions kept the car on the road. Water was flying off all the tyres – spray hurtling into the air, creating the classic cock’s tail in the night behind her.

  Round the relatively slight bends of Turns Twenty-two and Twenty-three she brought the car into the end of the start/finish straight and hammered the Ptarmigan, as hard as she dared.

  Crossing the line, she chalked up an extraordinary time of one minute fifty-five seconds. Although much slower than the lap record in the dry, her drive – in these conditions – was quite astonishing. Moreover, she was a full four seconds clear of Paddy Aston in the Lambourn.

  It took Sabatino most of the following in-lap to steady her breathing and nerves as the waves of adrenalin slowly ebbed out of her system.

  But the endorphins soon flowed in their place. Pole position, particularly fought so hard for in the wet, had a rush all of its own.

  And for the Championship this was a good – and a very necessary – result. She needed to keep Aston at bay. Currently, she only enjoyed a two-point margin for the title. Any mistake by her over the weekend could easily see that lead slip through her fingers.

  FORTY-THREE

  Next day, Sunday, the weather if anything worsened. Unbroken rain fell all morning. Being a night race, everyone was hoping the change in temperature around nightfall would reduce the intensity of the rain.

  That didn’t happen.

  Umbrellas were everywhere, particularly on the grid; under the floodlights, the teams put the final touches to their cars.

  Rainfall did nothing to dampen the usual anticipation and turnout of all and sundry – and certainly not among the fans. If anything, the crowds were bigger, everyone coming for the added excitement of seeing a race in such hazardous conditions.

  The red lights came on, and the formation lap started round the 3.2 mile circuit.

  From pole, Sabatino led the field slowly away. As pole sitter, she should have a major advantage. So long as she was in the lead, she would have clear air in front of her. All the others behind would have the misery of trying to see and drive through everyone else’s spray. And two, three rows back – in the dark, to boot – it would be almost impossible to see more than fifty feet ahead. These conditions would dilute the commitment of some drivers. To capitalize on this significant advantage, all Sabatino needed to do – really – was keep ahead of Paddy Aston into Turn One. If she came through that unscathed, she would have the unique advantage of clear vision for the rest of the circuit. Her anxiety rested on the speed with which the car would reach all its operating windows and the ability of the tyres to grip through the surface water.

  Round they went on the parade lap, all feeling for just how far they could push their cars – and themselves – in these conditions. Even with the usual short sprints and swerves to raise the temperatures, the cars were frequently losing control, prompting the drivers to back right off.

  Forming up again, the race was soon ready to start. Still the rain fell. Every wet surface was given a diamond-like sheen and sparkled in the intensity of the arc- and floodlights.

  The first red light came on.

  Then the second.

  Fifteen thousand horsepower screamed into the night, as the sound of the engines bounced off Singapore’s high-rise buildings.

  Three lights. Four.

  All five lights were now lit.

  Then … they all went out.

  GO!

  Sabatino released the car and started accelerating, feeling every nanosecond for any loss of traction through the rear wheels. She shot forward. Changing up, she applied more power. God bless the Ptarmigan. It was accepting the monstrous power without complaint. On she accelerated.

  In the mirror, she snatched a glance behind. Her spray ballooned up into the air. Let’s hope Aston’s getting a visor-full, she thought to herself as she refocused on the corner ahead. The car was up to eighty miles an hour. Water was still lying on the surface of the track.

  She claimed the racing line into Turn One.

  After the first corner, Sabatino grabbed another rearward glance. She saw exactly what she had hoped for. The rich purple livery of the Lambourn was very clearly confined to her wake.

  She’d done it!

  Gingerly, Sabatino opened up out of Turn Three – feeling for both the grip behind and the responsiveness of the steering in front. So far, she was comfortable. Marginally up on qualifying speed from yesterday, she was a long way down on the lap record.

  Even with the significant advantage of clear air, she still had the disadvantage of a sodden track.

  On the fourth lap came the very faintest hint of a drying racing line – just about visible on the surface of the road. By lap eight, it was becoming more pronounced. By lap twelve, the dry line was pretty much permanent, despite the continuing fall of rain.

  While good news from a grip point of view, this triggered a new dilemma. Sabatino’s intermediate tyres, on the dry line, were starting to degrade fast – they were getting far too hot and blistering badly. She took the precaution of moving off the dry line while on the straights, to drive through wetter parts of the track to keep her tyres cool.

  ‘When do we switch to drys?’ Straker heard her ask Treadwell over the radio.

  ‘It’ll cost us in strategy – if we stop so soon.’

  ‘Sure. But these tyres are dying. What if we fuel for a longer middle stint?’

  ‘We’ll run the numbers.’

  Over the air Straker heard the team talking to each other. Those in the headquarters truck were immediately talking through the trade-offs between being faster on dry tyres, he
avier with extra fuel on board, as well as estimating the position Sabatino would feed back into after a stop to change the tyres.

  Suddenly everything changed.

  There was commotion and lots of radio traffic.

  Aston had dived into the pits – throwing down the gauntlet.

  He was clearly making an early dash for drys and taking a chance on the racing line staying dry.

  ‘Remy? Paddy’s in – Paddy’s in – we’ll bring you in next lap. We need to try and estimate his fuel level.’

  All the Ptarmigan team members in the headquarters truck and on the prat perch followed Aston’s purple car into the pit box. Stop watches were triggered the moment the Lambourn came to a halt. Aston’s mechanics removed the intermediates, replaced them with drys. In the artificial light, the crew seemed to move as a blur.

  ‘Drys – definitely drys,’ shouted Treadwell over the radio. ‘How long?’

  The Lambourn rigger was still pumping fuel into the car. He heaved the ring around the nozzle up and lifted the hose away. The lollipop man swivelled the paddle. And then lifted it clear. Aston powered out of his box, slewing the back end as he made for the exit of the pit lane.

  ‘Nine seconds. He’s going for a long middle session – long – around thirty laps.’

  ‘Right,’ called Sabatino. ‘I’m coming in next lap. Drys, and let’s fuel for thirty-five.’

  Treadwell acknowledged her shortly afterwards.

  ‘Okay. Where would that put me back in?’

  Treadwell paused as he studied the electronic plot of the cars around the circuit, and used the touch screen commands to run some “what ifs” through the computer. ‘It would put you in behind Aston. He’s already lapping at one forty nine, three seconds faster.’

  ‘Okay, let’s do it now, and let’s do it quickly.’

  Less than a minute later Sabatino was into the pits. Her crew executed a perfect stop. She was out in a matter of seconds on drys, fuelled for thirty-five laps. She regained the race in tenth position, three places behind Aston on the circuit.

  Within half a lap, as the new tyres bedded in, she was significantly faster than the intermediate runners around her. On the next lap she overtook three cars, without breaking a sweat. The difference between the two tyres in these conditions was huge.

  But Paddy Aston, of course, was benefiting equally up ahead of her – slicing through what were the soon-to-be backmarkers.

  In response to the leaders’ clearly successful switch to drys, the other cars started peeling away, each one coming into the pits to do the same. Within three laps, the race order had shaken down – all the front runners having switched to the faster tyre. The order ran: Aston, Sabatino, Luciano, Mercedes, Ferrari, Cunzer and Barrantes.

  The race continued. Aston should have been able to make ground on Sabatino by virtue of being five laps’ lighter in fuel. Sabatino was able to keep in touch, though – still holding on to P2.

  Twenty laps later, everything changed.

  Again – dramatically.

  Treadwell had been asking – just about every minute of the race – for updates from the weather guys in the headquarters truck. They were now ready to make a significant call. ‘Remy, we’re forecasting heavy rain – imminently.’

  ‘How heavy?’

  ‘Heavy.’

  Straker was able to switch one of his screens over to the same one as Treadwell.

  ‘Let’s go intermediates, now,’ she ordered. ‘I’m beginning to lose out to Paddy anyway. Let’s take a punt on the rain. I’m coming in.’

  A lap later Sabatino had pitted, switching back to intermediates, and fuelled to the end of the race.

  Within three-quarters of a lap on the new cold tyres, she pushed the car back up to race pace.

  Except, very soon, she was desperately questioning whether this was the right thing to have done. In no time at all, her tyres started getting hot.

  Worse, they were making her slow.

  For two painful laps, she stayed off the dry line for most of the way round the circuit – keeping on the wetter and dirtier parts of the track. Even doing that the tyres weren’t cooling down. Much longer at these temperatures and they would start to blister – degrade – badly. They were not going to last any length of time.

  Unfortunately, it soon looked likely that she would have to make another pit stop, which would seriously cost her in time, position, and points.

  Over the next three minutes Sabatino lost ten seconds to Aston.

  And there was no sign of the rain.

  What the hell had they done?

  ‘Where’s the damn rain?’ she bawled.

  This switch of tyres was killing her performance.

  Three minutes after the predicted arrival, there was still no rain.

  Another eleven seconds lost to Aston.

  Four minutes and twenty seconds after the time predicted, the rain did start to fall. And when it came – it came. Water smothered the track in a matter of seconds.

  All those still on drys were completely baulked – right back on the ice again.

  In no time, Sabatino was running fully on the racing line – the line itself soon wet enough to keep her intermediates cool. Her tyres were no longer overheating.

  By contrast, the pace of the dry runners fell away immediately, all of them tottering round the rest of whatever lap they were on – at less than a fraction of the pace they had just been setting. From laps in the one minute forties, they were now lapping at well over two minutes – and slowing all the time. One of the Ferraris lost control on Turn Twenty-two, slamming into the wall.

  Before any of the front runners had made it back to the pits to change tyres, the safety car was deployed.

  Suddenly, Sabatino was laughing. The field was completely bunched up, thus reducing the gap between her and Aston in P1. Not only that, she was the only runner on intermediates – while none of the other cars were permitted to switch their tyres until Race Control reopened the pit lane.

  Two laps later the lights on the safety car went out – meaning they were racing again.

  Less than three after that, Sabatino was twenty-five seconds clear of the field, Aston having pitted the moment he could but still losing out to Luciano, who had managed to get in and out again in front of him.

  Sabatino romped home at the end of the Singapore Grand Prix by over thirty seconds clear of Luciano in second. Aston was third with Cunzer putting in a late surge to finish in the points, in P5. Adi Barrantes made it to P8.

  This was encouraging news for Sabatino in the Drivers’ Championship. Enhanced by the points being tapered, her lead was now extended from two points to six – her 66 to Aston’s 60. Luciano’s eight points for second kept him in third, but in closer touch with 58.

  People dismissive of Sabatino’s Monaco success as a rookie fluke had to credit her, now, with true all-round motor racing skill – evidenced by her phenomenal equanimity under the pressure, her tactical opportunism, and her brilliance of racing in the rain.

  The Sabatino band wagon was rolling once again.

  But not for long.

  FORTY-FOUR

  It all happened an hour after the chequered flag.

  ‘I’ve been summoned to Race Control,’ said Nazar sounding surprised. ‘Are we concerned about anything to do with the race?’ he asked his two race engineers.

  ‘Not that we’re aware of,’ replied Treadwell.

  Nazar made his way to Race Control. As well as the rain, which showed no sign of letting up, the humidity was oppressive. The sensation of all-over dampness was impossible to shake off.

  When Nazar arrived through the dark he was met by one of the stewards and shown into a side room harshly lit by the bluish glare of fluorescent light. Someone he wasn’t expecting to see was there waiting: Bo San Marino.

  ‘Mr President? What a surprise.’

  San Marino, far from radiating his 1950s movie star contentment and charm, looked concerned and uncomfortable. ‘Come in,
Tahm. Please take a seat.’

  There was a period of silence from the FIA President. Finally, he said: ‘I’m afraid we have a problem,’ and slowly placed an envelope bearing the FIA logo on the glass and chrome coffee table between them. ‘Massarella have lodged an official complaint. We have to take the issue seriously, not least because of the precedent to their allegations.’

  Nazar was surprised and deeply troubled by any accusation. He was equally distracted by how ill at ease San Marino appeared to be. ‘What are they alleging?’ he asked calmly without picking up the letter.

  ‘Unauthorized use of their intellectual property.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s all in there,’ said San Marino, laying his hand on the envelope.

  Nazar, in his precise Indian lilt, said calmly: ‘But that’s absurd. You can’t be taking their bullshit seriously.’

  ‘We are – we have to – given the supporting testimony we’ve received.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘Andy Backhouse.’

  Nazar pulled a face of resigned exasperation.

  ‘He, now, represents an authoritative whistle-blower – a credible source. You can see why we would have to take Massarella’s allegation seriously?’

  Hunch-shouldered against the rain, Nazar scuttled back through the dark to the Ptarmigan headquarters. Inside the motor home his team members were already there, two of them equally soaked by the continuing downpour.

  ‘We’ve been served,’ declared Nazar.

  ‘What?’ blasted Treadwell incredulously.

  ‘Massarella have lodged a formal complaint against us.’

  ‘For what?’ asked Sabatino heatedly.

  ‘Don’t know yet – I’ll read it to you,’ with which he opened the envelope and extracted the letter.

  Mr Tahm Nazar

  Ptarmigan Formula One

  Dear Mr Nazar

  Summons: Hearing before the World Motor Sport Council