The Morgan, he suddenly realized, had got ahead of the Range Rover. More importantly, and spectacularly, the Range Rover, out of sheer self-preservation, had stayed – resolutely – on its own side of the road.
Sabatino swung the wheel to the left, dropped the Morgan back on to the tarmac, pumped power through the V6 – the revs of the engine screaming – before changing up and heading back over to the correct side of the road.
Quite astonishingly, they had passed the road-blocking Range Rover. Sabatino had done it – she’d got them in front of their tormenters.
Straker immediately examined the road behind via the passenger-door mirror. Because of their speed and the vibration, though, it was virtually impossible to see anything clearly in it, save the black foreboding shapes of the two Range Rovers still behind, still giving chase.
The Morgan was bowling on.
The road surface here was somewhat bumpy anyway but, at that speed, even the undulations were keenly felt as they sped along. The road started snaking here – left and right but also up and down – to form a succession of three-dimensional “S” bends.
Turning back to look at Sabatino, Straker was soon in a mild state of awe. She was now something to see. Behind the wheel of this car, her demeanour, expression and body language all looked supremely relaxed – with her left hand loosely on the gearstick, her right hand – palm up – on the bottom right part of the steering wheel, and with her legs gently apart, her right knee resting against the door, while her left was hovering – poised – immediately ready to work the clutch. Straker saw Sabatino in a completely unhurried and relaxed state, apparently without a tense muscle in her body, gently but quickly working the wheel as the car bucked and careered at full pelt through this rapidly varying topography.
But there was no let-up possible.
Straker was about to see more of Sabatino’s exceptional confidence and car control.
‘They’re still there – and coming after us,’ she declared.
Straker looked across at her. He could see that she was thinking. ‘I don’t know how far we go till we get to a village,’ Sabatino yelled. ‘But we’re back to square one if we do. We’d have to slow down – and that would have those bastards ramming us up the arse again. We’ve got to get some distance between us. Hold on!’
Straker was all too well aware that if she said ‘hold on’ something hairy was likely to happen.
Up ahead, it was clear the road was about to head sharply left and up a steepish hill. The entry looked to be a tight ninety-degree left-hander at the foot of the slope – which also had a crossroads – the left-hand junction being on the very inside apex of the bend. As the Morgan shot past an earlier turning to Burdrop and Sibford Gower, and didn’t seem to be slowing down, Straker instinctively breathed in and braced himself.
The speed they we were going at – for the upcoming corner – seemed far too fast for a public road. Straker switched his attention between the direction of travel and Sabatino, trying to convince himself he should stay calm, have confidence – and enjoy the ride.
Sabatino, still with the Morgan travelling at over a hundred miles an hour, offered the merest adjustment to the steering wheel. Wafting the car across to the opposite – oncoming – side of the road again, she changed down with a high-rev double declutch. A moment or two later, she threw the car back across her side of the road – to kiss the apex on the inside with the front left.
This turn was going to be tighter than anything they had taken so far.
In – round – and up – they ran.
This time, Straker felt the back end of the Morgan step out, the force of the cornering proving too much for the grip of the rear tyres. Despite feeling the significant effects of the various G-forces, he was able to watch Sabatino as it happened.
At over ninety miles an hour round this corner, and into the hill, the Morgan slewed onto three tracks. Sabatino – all seamlessly in one continuous movement – unhurriedly turned the wheel into the slide, corrected it, feathered the power, changed down with another extraordinarily fluid double declutch, and, containing the car’s stability into a controlled power slide, accelerated away on up the hill, changing up again as the revs hit their upper limit.
He was utterly absorbed – fascinated – by her calmness, confidence and apparently effortless car control. It then hit him why this moment and experience was so special. No one ever got to see how a Formula One driver drives: they were only ever cocooned – and hidden – by their cramped monocoques, while the on-board cameras could film only their helmets and hands. There was never any portrayal of their bodies, demeanour, expressions, or attitude while they were driving. No one was ever given that insight – not even passengers in the handful of F1 two-seaters.
Straker’s Morgan may not have been an F1 car, but it was giving him an extraordinary understanding of how a driver handled a car right up to the very limit of its capacity and environment. Sabatino suddenly reminded him of a jazz musician: she was jamming with the car like a virtuoso – a complete master of her instrument, environment, and performance – making it sing, move and dance with the smallest apparent effort – anticipating, reacting to, and playing off the moment. Above and beyond that, her demeanour and confidence finally served to relax him – convincing him that he should have full confidence in this woman’s extraordinary ability and car control.
As they straightened up, climbing the hill, Straker snatched a rearward glance. The corner they had just rounded below and behind them was now partially obscured from this angle, with cow parsley and long grass overhanging the inside of the bend.
But then he saw something back there.
An altogether different car had approached the crossroads from the inside of the bend, and the very front of its bonnet could be seen side-on, insinuating into the main road. Around the end of that car’s bumper, Straker suddenly saw the large shape of the lead Range Rover flash into view. Despite his aches and pains, he couldn’t stop himself twisting round to watch, looking down the inside length of the Morgan and over what was left of its boot. The Range Rover was clearly trying to keep up with their nimble sports car – hoofing it into that corner. But its line was all wrong. Instead of hugging the apex on the bend, it seemed to be going too wide. Maybe the approach of the car to the inside of the crossroads had thwarted its set up for the corner? Now, though, the Range Rover was fighting to turn on a line that seemed too wide – looking very much like understeer. Straker saw the front wheels flicker, as the driver was clearly fighting the force of the corner, trying to hold the car to the line.
But the bulky weight of the Range Rover wasn’t having it. It had far too much forward momentum. It wasn’t able to turn anything like sharply enough.
Straker watched the 4×4 run even wider, right across the road to the outside of the corner, well over into the oncoming lane. There was a puff of smoke from the front wheels – the driver panicking, as he jammed on the anchors. But the Range Rover kept going.
At considerable speed it slammed into the grassy bank on the far side, and bounced violently upwards. Once flicked up, it started rolling over, Straker catching a glimpse of its underside as the bulking 4×4 smashed through the hedge, and careened out of sight. That was all he saw.
Their own bit of road levelled off.
Straker strained to keep watching behind, waiting to see the second Range Rover. Had it followed the first into the field?
He waited.
The Morgan charged on down the B4035 towards Swalcliffe.
But there was no sign of either pursuer.
A turning appeared, off to the right.
Without warning, Sabatino hammered the brakes, almost standing the Morgan on its nose. Straker, still looking backwards, was caught completely unawares, and was hurled forwards against his seat belt. Involuntarily, he groaned with the pain.
Sabatino, swinging the car to the left, then heaved the wheel over to the right, giving the handbrake a determined upward yank. As th
e back end swung out immediately to the left, she dropped into a low gear and fed in power, feathering the clutch and throttle, encouraging the car to rotate. Using only the heel of her right hand, she balanced their rotation and direction by variously steering into and out of the slide.
Straightening up, Sabatino accelerated hard and changed up, heading off down the side road – to get themselves out of sight from the road behind them as quickly as possible. She took another random turning a few hundred yards later, to Wiggington, to start an unpredictable route back to the factory.
Two minutes later – after Straker had composed himself again, and checked the road behind them several times – he confirmed that they had surely lost their pursuers.
Turning his head back towards the front, Straker had to smile as he looked at the mischievous expression on Sabatino’s face. ‘That was quite extraordinary,’ he said, with admiration and disbelief clear in his voice.
‘Yeah,’ she said unenthusiastically, ‘but what the hell are these people doing? What the fuck is going on here?’
Despite Straker’s aching ribs, the moment they got back to the Ptarmigan factory – he called a meeting with Sabatino, Nazar and Treadwell.
‘We cannot ignore the new level of threat we’re facing,’ Straker declared.
After being told by Krall of the beating Straker had taken in Leamington Spa the night before – let alone its effects being all too clear in the contusions and broken skin across his face – not to mention the damage inflicted to the back of his brand-new Morgan starkly visible out in the car park, there was no disagreement from the Ptarmigan bosses.
‘Most significantly,’ Straker went on, ‘these scumbags have moved beyond trying to screw us on the field of play. It means we’re all now potentially at risk. At any time.’
‘What do you think we should do?’ asked Sabatino.
Straker handed them each a single sheet of paper. ‘Here are some thoughts I’ve drawn up to enhance the security and safety of the team.’
The two men read their sheets in silence.
Sabatino didn’t: ‘You want to remove any predictability from my discussed or published timetable?’ she stated half mockingly. ‘You want a complete change of all my plans – travel, accommodation, and timings, including moving me out of the Dorchester to another hotel decided on at the last minute before the London Grand Prix? You want me to cancel all public appearances – in order that I keep a low profile?’
Tahm Nazar endorsed Straker’s entire package of measures, and strongly encouraged Sabatino to comply.
Surprisingly, she sort of agreed to do all of it.
Straker’s sense of injustice hit new levels of intensity. After their disastrous press coverage from the Paris hearing, and Quartano’s announcement of Ptarmigan’s withdrawal from the massive Mandarin sponsorship deal – not to mention Straker’s personal violations from the assault in Leamington and the violence to his car as they were chased through Warwickshire – Straker was about to be pushed to the edge.
A tweet started trending – with the hashtag “#closetoJoss”.
It boasted that Massarella had made an approach to Mandarin Telecom. The tweeter crowed that Formula One was still capable of benefiting from this phenomenal endorsement of its sport, even if some teams appeared to be no longer worthy of it.
“Our sport is bigger than any one team,” said the tweeter.
Straker was incensed by this news.
He lived through the next forty-eight hours over the following weekend not knowing which way this blow to his psyche would take him.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Somehow Straker survived. Holding it together.
Anticipation of the next race might have played a part.
The first London Grand Prix loomed. This idea had been a long time in the making, seemingly thwarted by decades of bureaucracy and nimbyism. To its advocates, it made perfect sense. London, over the centuries, had pioneered major public sporting events – the Boat Race, the Festival of the Empire, two previous Olympic Games, a World Cup Final, and, more recently, phenomena like the London Marathon, and, spectacularly, the London 2012 Olympics. The London Grand Prix seemed to be from the very same stable. Furthermore, how could this not be a fitting legacy to 2012 – and be yet another opportunity for Britain to show off her organizational flair and sporting heritage?
In the media build-up to the race, Sabatino was fêted – celebrated for her status not only as the first serious female Formula One driver but also as the current leader of the Drivers’ Championship. Luckily, editors chose to focus on that, rather than the pall overhanging the Ptarmigan Team of their prospective follow-up hearing in front of the FIA, to be held the following Monday.
Despite the distractions, Sabatino was mentally focused. During the practice sessions, she had taken several laps, but none of them yet at full speed. She was now ready for her first all-out flying lap.
For the London Grand Prix, the grid was laid out in front of the Dorchester Hotel, in the southbound carriageway of Park Lane – while the pit lane was made up by temporary structures along the northbound lanes, on the other side of the central reservation.
Rounding Marble Arch, Sabatino headed down the eastern side of Park Lane and built up speed into what, that weekend, was the start/finish straight. Down past some of the most expensive real estate in London, she sped the car up through the gearbox to eighteen thousand revs on each change before hitting one hundred and eighty miles an hour as she passed the Grosvenor House Hotel. Seventh gear, and the car was running well.
Now!
She crossed the start line outside the Dorchester and hurtled southwards, on past the massive grandstand in front of the Hilton.
Sabatino swept the car gently to the right, holding the inside line of the gentle curve, as she headed down towards Hyde Park Corner.
Keeping over to the right, she could see the Wellington Arch loom into view in the middle of the roundabout. Pulsing the revs while dropping down three gears, she readied to slice left onto the Hyde Park Corner roundabout.
Rounding Turn One – almost reaching the wall by the Machine Gun Memorial – she applied a little more left lock through the second apex, putting her into the end of Piccadilly. Grandstands had been erected on the roundabout, which now gave their occupants a superb back view of the Championship leader as she roared – hurtling directly – away from them down Piccadilly.
Sabatino reached one hundred and ninety miles an hour as she sped down the slight incline, alongside Green Park to her right. This section of the circuit was dead straight for nearly three-quarters of a mile. A slight dip in the road to cross the Tyburn – at the normal intersection with Brick Street – had her slightly compressed in the cockpit, but she was soon rising up the other side towards the Ritz. Cresting the rise opposite the hotel, she entered the more built-up part of Piccadilly – down past Fortnum & Mason. Still dead straight, her Ptarmigan screamed between the narrow confines of the street at over two hundred and ten miles an hour. Banks of seats, along either side and in very close proximity to the track, gave the spectators a vivid sense of the speed these cars could do – and a clear understanding of the noise they made, as the sound reverberated off the buildings down the narrowish street.
After another five hundred yards, Turn Two was ahead, a left-right-left into Piccadilly Circus, round Eros and past the Trocadero. Drifting over to the right towards the end of Piccadilly in preparation, she waited to judge her braking zone – as discussed with Treadwell on their walk round. Passing Waterstone’s, she breathed deeply and started to brake. Again, with the engine management system pulsing the revs to prevent any rear-wheel lock-up on any downshift, she shaved one hundred miles an hour from her speed before judging the moment to slice left into Turn Two. Eros was blocked out by more grandstands which were giving spectators a magnificent view of the track.
Into Piccadilly Circus.
A forty-five-degree left-hander. Sabatino ran straight for no more than fifty yard
s before applying opposite lock and turning right, over the slight mound in the road at the end of Shaftesbury Avenue, before straightening up, pulling left in front of the Trocadero and then swinging right through Turn Four, into the top of the Haymarket.
She smiled to herself as the car performed beautifully. It was balanced – the downforce being spot on – and the grip, even on the places where the road surface had been heavily touched up, was as much as she could have wanted.
Sabatino thundered down the Haymarket. The noise from the engine bouncing off the high buildings on either side was deafening – even through her helmet. She had three hundred yards to run straight down the hill. Passing the Haymarket Theatre, and the end of Sector One, fifth gear was all she could reach before running to the right and dropping two gears before a forty-five-degree left turn at the bottom of the hill. Turn Five. This took the circuit across Pall Mall. Sabatino accelerated hard through the apex and on down the slope of Cockspur Street towards Trafalgar Square.
Next up was Turn Six, and a novelty for Formula One.
This corner could be very different, depending on the exit. Round to the right, drivers had to shoot under Admiralty Arch, but were presented with a choice of two arches – the middle or the left-hand one – each being only one-car wide. Depending on which arch a driver was aiming to use, they would have to vary their entry to the preceding corner in Trafalgar Square. Sabatino, in practice, had opted for the left-hand one each time, making the corner more open and, therefore, faster.
Holding herself over to the left of the entry at the foot of Nelson’s Column, she changed down and cut right, rounding the corner. Admiralty Arch loomed over her head as she shot under the left-hand arch. Emerging the far side, she had an amazing view down The Mall – the pink surface of the wide, dead-straight- and tree-lined road – stretching for half a mile to the façade of Buckingham Palace at the far end. Opening right up, she felt the awesome power of the Ptarmigan propel her up to top speed.
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