Driven

by Toby Vintcent

  To the spectators on the grandstands to her left, the view was enthralling. They watched her brilliant turquoise car emerge through the splendour of Admiralty Arch, accelerate at an awesome rate from right to left in front of them – against the backdrop of Nash’s Regency masterpieces – and disappear at breakneck speed down between the trees towards the Palace.

  Three-quarters of the way down The Mall, about level with Clarence House, Sabatino, running at two hundred and ten miles an hour, drifted left – onto the St James’s Park side of the road. She was setting herself up for Turns Seven and Eight: a contrived chicane beside the Victoria Monument.

  Through this tight right-left-right the car was completely balanced. There was no understeer – no hint of the back end trying to step out. This felt as good as it had in Spa. She powered easily through the chicane to reach the bottom of Constitution Hill. Sabatino now had the four hundred yards run up that rise along the wall of Buckingham Palace, all under the canopy of the spectacular avenue of trees.

  She heard Treadwell over the radio, telling her she was fastest by point-five in Sector One.

  Towards the top of Constitution Hill, she prepared to shoot the Memorial Gates on the right-hand side, readying her entry for Turn Nine, which led onto the roundabout at Hyde Park Corner. At that speed, she felt some lightening of the car as she crested that rise, but was soon back on the power as she headed down the short straight towards Grosvenor Place. The next corner, on the roundabout, Turn Ten, was a ninety-degree right-hander with a scoop-like camber. She hoped its banking effect would act as slingshot round the Australia Memorial, sending her quickly up the hill towards Hyde Park. In third gear, the Ptarmigan did precisely that, digging in round the bend and offering total solidity as she pushed the car hard. G-force, at around three-point-nine, was the highest anywhere on the circuit.

  Up the short straight.

  She accelerated hard. Hanging left, she set the car up for one flowing S-shaped motion. Cutting in right, Sabatino drove the combination of the right-handed Turn Eleven, by the Lanesborough Hotel – the short straight along the top of the roundabout – and then the left-hand Turn Twelve, circling round Apsley House, heading north up Park Lane. Once again, the car responded to everything she asked of it.

  After rounding Turn Twelve, Sabatino was back in Park Lane but only for seventy-five yards. Almost immediately she had to prepare to turn again.

  Holding her line to the right, she needed to shoot the Queen Elizabeth Gate to the left.

  She was through there. No sooner than she was, did she need to slice right, through Turn Fourteen, into the long straight of Serpentine Road, cutting through the middle of Hyde Park.

  Sabatino blasted along under the maple trees, below the Cavalry Memorial – past the open space at the southern end of the Parade Ground of Hyde Park – and on towards the boathouses.

  Serpentine Road was wide, straight and level – and, running along the northern shore of London’s most famous lake, the Serpentine, was for Formula One fans wholly evocative of the scene around Albert Park in Melbourne. Four hundred yards further on, and hitting her top speed, she drew level with the lido on the far side. A flock of geese, moorhens and ducks took flight as the noise of the Ptarmigan’s Benbecular engine screamed by.

  End of Sector Two.

  Sabatino felt she was flying.

  Preparing for the next corner, a right-hander, she first hugged the inside kerb of the right-hand kink and set herself up for the thirty-degree right of Turn Fifteen, by Magazine Gate. There was a huge bank of spectators directly in front of her. Sabatino swung the car right, up and round the corner, giving her access to the pink surface of West Carriage Drive. The circuit, here, was straightish with a very slight meander in each direction for two hundred yards. Kensington Gardens were now over to her left.

  Turn Sixteen was one of the features of this circuit, the Duchess of Cambridge Hairpin. Dropping down to second gear, Sabatino timed her entry. Despite the adverse camber of the corner, her feel from the car allowed her to apply massive acceleration through the apex, and gain a clean exit into the fast straight of North Carriage Drive.

  In the relative inactivity of the next segment, she looked down at her steering wheel as she built up speed to two hundred miles an hour again. Everything was looking good. Up and over a very slight rise, with no more than a fifteen-degree right, she was able to relax her neck and shoulders momentarily, as she hurtled down past the public grandstands running parallel with – and backing onto – the Bayswater Road.

  Turn Seventeen, the Cumberland Gate, gave onto the Marble Arch roundabout. This was a one-hundred-degree left-hander. The surface – where the organizers had removed some of the island bollards normally in the road – was a little uneven.

  Taking off speed, she hung over to the right, lined up her entry, braked hard, and swung left onto the roundabout. The car was faithful, despite the rough surface, only giving one scintilla of instability – otherwise, she was round and through. There were seventy-five yards to run before she was into another corner. A sharp right-hander this time, joining the Bayswater Road. This turn, like Turn Ten around Hyde Park corner, had a favourable camber. Pushing in hard, she rounded it easily and hurtled on towards Oxford Street, with the Odeon to her left and Marble Arch to the right.

  Then Turn Nineteen.

  The last on the circuit.

  She hung left, judged her moment – and sliced as tight as she dared through it, kissing the apex on the inside to perfection. As she opened the throttle heading south into Park Lane, she was ecstatic.

  The car’s set-up was magnificent.

  She didn’t think she could have driven any faster.

  Crossing the line by the Dorchester and starting to wind down – ready to amble back on her in-lap – Treadwell’s voice came up animatedly on the radio. ‘Bloody terrific, Remy!’ he yelled. ‘You’re fastest by nine tenths. Outstanding.’

  Sabatino smiled and allowed herself to shut the FIA hearing, due to be held on Monday, out of her mind. For the moment, at least, she wallowed in being the fastest of the pack so far.

  Qualifying Three had Sabatino set up for a two-stop strategy.

  Her fuel load was similar to the faster laps she had done all weekend. She posted two flying laps in Q3.

  The first put her point-three ahead.

  On the second, with nothing to lose, she gave another scorching performance, not putting a wheel wrong – bettering her own time by a further five tenths.

  She was on pole by over a second.

  For the two Championships – the Constructors’ and Drivers’ – as well as for herself, she had done everything she could have hoped for.

  But would it be enough?

  FIFTY-NINE

  Weather, on the Sunday, was as close to a perfect English summer’s day as anyone could wish for.

  Once the cars had formed up on the grid in the southbound carriageway of Park Lane, the great and the good were swarming all around them. The hooter went.

  The engines started their roar.

  All the media and hangers-on soon dispersed and, within a few moments, all that was left on the track was the might of fifteen thousand horsepower screaming for a fight.

  The lights went on, and Sabatino pulled away, sedately leading the field off round the 3.75 mile circuit on the formation lap.

  A few minutes later, Sabatino – on pole – was ready.

  This was it.

  The wait seemed interminable.

  One red light came on.

  The second red light.

  Third, fourth and then the fifth.

  The five lights seemed to burn for an age.

  Then GO!

  The roar peaked as twenty-two cars pulled off the line.

  Sabatino, on the clean side of the track, got a blistering start. She was away well, and hurtling down to Turn One. Behind her off the grid was a Mercedes, not a contender in the Championship this year. Behind him – in P3 and very much a challenger – wa
s Simi Luciano in the Massarella. Over Sabatino’s right shoulder was her closest rival for the title, Paddy Aston in the Lambourn. Championship-wise, this race could see the leader board turned completely on its head. If she wasn’t careful, she could be dethroned that very afternoon.

  All of that pressure was hurtling down the road behind her – every pursuer hell-bent on taking her lead.

  But Sabatino was focused.

  Judging her line, she held her ideal position down Park Lane and got a clear entry into Turn One on Hyde Park Corner roundabout, kissed the apex, and exited powerfully into Piccadilly.

  Those behind her weren’t so lucky. There was a bottleneck. The Mercedes in second place was challenged by Luciano, which queered his entry into, and line through, the apex. In the exit, the Mercedes managed to hold P2, while Aston made the most of the enforced funnelling, getting a jump on the Massarella.

  Sabatino snatched a glance in her mirrors. She saw the order between Luciano and Aston had been reversed. Damnit, she swore to herself. Paddy Aston’s Lambourn was now up to P3. Her hope that Aston might be held up further down the field for a while had evaporated round the very first corner. Sabatino, now, needed Paddy Aston behind the Mercedes in P2 long enough for her to break away and establish something of a lead.

  Reaching Turn Two, round Piccadilly Circus, Aston’s purple Lambourn was in the Mercedes’s mirrors and getting bigger all the time.

  Sabatino pushed hard while her chance remained. She had a clear sweep through Turns Two, Three and Four – and could just about see the spat going on between Aston and the Mercedes behind her. She didn’t want that scrap to end anytime soon. The Mercedes was a vital four-point buffer between her and the man who was only one point behind her in the Championship.

  Round Turn Five, at the bottom of the Haymarket, and Sabatino was feeling confident. Her car was up to temperature and performing as well as it had all year. Passing Canada House, she had a one-second lead on the Mercedes, and could see how much of a challenge Aston was mounting behind him. Aston, very clearly, was not going to let Sabatino get away.

  Down towards the bottom of Trafalgar Square.

  Sabatino planned to take the left-hand option under Admiralty Arch and set herself up accordingly. Looking back, though, she saw her unchallenged claim to the lead was about to end. The second-placed Mercedes was clearly following her route into the entry, but Aston was already swinging wider. He’s going to cut in through the middle arch, she thought to herself as she lost sight of them both in her mirrors rounding the corner herself.

  Lo and behold – as she screamed through under the arches into The Mall and looked back – she saw what she feared. The Mercedes was emerging through the left-hand arch, while Aston’s Lambourn was coming through the middle one.

  A little Scalextric-like, but that unusual split in the track had already livened up overtaking – while the TV shot along the length of The Mall to Admiralty Arch, with cars racing for position emerging through the different arches, was quite sensational.

  Aston now had a clear track to his front. The Mercedes had lost its advantage: Aston, with the Lambourn’s extra grunt, soon drew level and was past.

  Paddy Aston was now in P2 and only a hundred and fifty yards behind Sabatino as they headed through Turns Seven and Eight, the chicane outside Buckingham Palace.

  Sabatino breathed deeply, as she resigned herself to her closest rival for the Championship emerging from that squabble and mounting a serious challenge to her lead. If she wasn’t able to pull away, she would have to drive error-free, defensively – resolutely, holding her rights to the line. This race, now, was far more than simply the London Grand Prix. It was, de facto, for the Championship. It was her or Paddy Aston. Only one point separated them on the Championship leader board. Sabatino could extend that to three points, if these positions were held to the end of the day. Or she could be a point behind him if the places were reversed. Her not finishing the race did not even bear thinking about.

  The two gladiators raced on, lap after lap. Their relative positions held constant. At least for the moment.

  Straker was watching avidly – and hearing analysis of her telemetry and performance throughout the race from the team in the motor home. By all technical measures – as well as sporting ones – Sabatino was driving with extraordinary sang-froid and consistency.

  They were only ten laps in. There were sixty more to go. How could she retain that level of concentration for that long? And under that mental pressure – knowing that the tiniest of mistakes would let Aston pounce and take advantage?

  What must it be like in the cockpit? Straker wondered.

  To the spectators, the tension heightened significantly during the pit stops. After thirty laps, Sabatino and Aston were still only two seconds apart on the track.

  Any slip-up in the pits – a wheel nut that wouldn’t budge, a wheel gun that refused to work, a problem with the fuel rig, a misunderstood signal from the lollipop man, or a snatched start causing a stall – could easily cost her two seconds. Thirty laps of brilliant racing – not to mention the Championship lead – could be thrown away that easily.

  ‘Box this time,’ came Treadwell’s instruction over the air.

  Sabatino, just passing the Serpentine, responded: ‘What’s my lead?’

  ‘Two-point-four seconds.’

  ‘Okay, ask the guys to do this one for me!’

  Straker held his breath.

  Sabatino approached Cumberland Gate and Marble Arch. She rounded Turn Eighteen cleanly and was pointing up to Nineteen. Round there, she was about to re-enter Park Lane when, pulling over further to the right, she threaded herself on round Cumberland Gate before turning left into the top of the other carriageway of Park Lane. There, she headed south down the pit lane in front of the row of temporary garages. Flicking the limiter, she kept her speed down – to an agonizingly slow – eighty kilometres an hour.

  Her crew were out and ready.

  She cruised down on the limiter. She swerved in and jammed on the brakes.

  She was straight up on the jacks.

  The wheel men went to work immediately.

  Front right, off.

  Front left, off.

  Front right, on.

  Front left, on.

  She saw two horizontal arms held above each front wheel, indicating completion.

  What about the rears? She grabbed a look in each mirror. Both their arms were horizontal too. The car dropped back down as the jacks were removed.

  What about the fuel? She couldn’t see the rigger from where she sat.

  Come on! Come on! – she screamed to herself.

  She felt the car jolt to the right. Let that be the rig coming off. She looked at the lollipop man. The sign was swivelling round.

  Yes!

  Revving the engine, she dreaded a stall. Then, the lollipop was being raised, shooting up and away. First gear, now!

  The car jumped forwards. It kept running.

  No stall!

  She was away.

  She swerved left and then right – almost under the compressed air hoses of the next team – as she regained the pit lane.

  She was trundling along on the limiter. Come on! Come on! It seemed to go on forever – heading down towards the cut-through in the central reservation directly opposite the Dorchester Hotel. Feeding through there, and desperate not to cross the white line, she built up speed as fast as she could.

  She screamed on down to Turn One. Ahead of her she found a Ferrari and a Mercedes jostling for position. Not what she wanted. At all. To get past them would be for track position too – she wasn’t going to get any help from blue flags. She would have to challenge these two for real. For position.

  Adding to the pressure, she would have to take them quickly – otherwise, any hold-up on the next few vital laps, would kill her wafer-thin lead over Aston. Aston was currently out there on an uncluttered track with a lighter fuel load in a car with bedded-in everything, while she was on c
old rubber and stuck behind two cars completely absorbed in their own little battle.

  ‘Well done the lads,’ she said over the radio. ‘But we’ve blown the re-entry. How many laps do we think Paddy’s got?’

  ‘Three, max.’

  ‘His times?’

  ‘No quicker than before, thank heavens. He wasn’t really in your dirty air.’

  ‘Okay, I’ve got a spat in front of me. Hope it doesn’t hold me up.’

  ‘They’re lapping point-nine slower than you. You do have a straight-line advantage – try and take them on the straight, rather than into a corner – at least until you get a feel for your tyres.’

  Sabatino fought to remain cautious until the new boots were up to temperature. She stayed behind the Ferrari/Mercedes scrap all the way down to Turn Five, at the bottom of the Haymarket.

  She had to get by soon – otherwise all of her lead over Aston would be gone.

  Her eyes bored into the backs of the two cars in front. They screamed down past Canada House, one after the other – the blocked one swerving this way and that, trying to get by. Would they be so preoccupied with each other that they wouldn’t see her coming? If they were, that could be both good news or bad.

  Down towards Turn Six, at the bottom of Trafalgar Square, she was ready to put herself in a position to strike. Which way would the squabblers go through Admiralty Arch? Who would take the left arch? The Ferrari in the lead? Did that mean the Mercedes, behind, would automatically try for the middle one?

  She had no way of knowing … yet. She got closer and closer, ready to pounce – praying for an opportunity.

  Reaching the entry, it looked like the Ferrari at the front was going wider – through the left arch. But then he tried the element of surprise. At the last minute, he ducked inside, aiming for the middle one. It threw the Mercedes behind him. The Mercedes had clearly expected to be going that way himself. Momentarily, he had to lift off, for fear of running into the back of the Ferrari. But now, realizing his chance lay in going wide, he swung out to the left and tried to adjust his line. That change of direction, though, cost him a nanosecond’s delay.