Page 1 of Drive To Survive

NICO

Deafening roars from the crowd penetrated the thick padding of my helmet, and colorful flags caught my eye, waved by racing fanatics sensing a dramatic end to the race. I smiled to myself. While Spa was considered one of the most challenging race tracks in the F1 calendar, I’d always loved it. Sure the weather in this part of Belgium was unpredictable at the best of times, but when the rain came down and the clouds loomed overhead, racing magic happened.

As the thought entered my head, the heavens opened and in seconds, the track was soaked. Somehow, I made it back to the pits, but several of my competitors slid off the race track. After a change of tires to full wets, I was back on the track, and back in the game.

Four lengths ahead of me, Jared Kane, one of my best friends—and bitter rivals—negotiated Eau Rouge and Raidillon, two of the most difficult corners on the track, like the fucking pro he was. He sped down the Kemmel straight with me less than half a second behind. I followed, less than half a second behind.

“You’re mine, Kane,” I shouted into my helmet. A bark of laughter sounded in my ear from my racing engineer, Corey. “Move over, sweet cheeks. I’ll show ya how it’s done.”

I came out of Turn Fifteen on a perfect racing line, and getting a great tow, I slingshotted my car alongside Jared’s. As I pulled in front of him, he flipped me off. I chuckled. Every racer was a competitive bastard, and Jared Kane was no different. Inside the cockpit, he’d be pulsating with rage at himself for letting me overtake him. Not that he could have done much about it. My car was better suited to this track.

Driving through Blanchimont, I spotted Tate Flynn—the current Formula One Championship leader and another great friend of mine—up ahead. If he won here, he’d stretch out his lead even further – and I couldn’t allow that to happen.

“Easy,” Corey’s calm voice came over the intercom. “You’ve got three laps to take him. No risks, Nico.”

The road vibrated through my seat, and the steering wheel shook as we hurtled toward the start-finish line. Cars were still exiting the pit lane on their wet tires, but I sped past them easily enough. The rain had eased a little, but the track was nowhere near dry enough for another change of tires. Thank Christ. So close to the end, the last thing I needed was another visit to the pits.

At Eau Rouge, I braked slightly later than Tate. The move brought me right on his tail. I weaved left and right, not because I could take him here but because I wanted to hammer home how close I was. I didn’t expect him to make a mistake—Tate didn’t make mistakes—but if I applied enough pressure, I might get an in. I had to drive the perfect lap and, like Corey said, bide my time.

I followed behind Tate, my teeth grinding as I waited for my chance, but due to the ack of traction caused by the airflow that came off his car, I couldn’t get any closer. I only had two laps left to reel this fucker in. I couldn’t almost taste victory and lose it now, although losing to Tate or Jared wouldn’t hurt as bad as losing to some of the other guys. The press called us The Three Amigos on account of our fierce rivalry, yet still we managed to maintain a close friendship, an unusual occurrence in motorsport, where the singularity of man and machine against the pack usually dictated driver behavior.

Dog eat dog.

Survival of the fittest.

Winner takes all.

Sure, we celebrated our victories, but we didn’t rub it in each other’s faces. If Tate emerged as the winner today, he’d clap me on the back and tell me he couldn’t have done it without me and Jared pushing him all the way.

As I approached Eau Rouge for the second to last time, the rear wheels drifted at the exit to the corner. I corrected, but as I did, I felt something snap beneath me.

The car spun.

Lurched.

Headed for the retaining wall.

G-forces charged through my body as the car screeched to an immediate stop.

Pain shot up my legs, through my spine, down my arms. My entire skeleton felt as if it were on fire.

I smelled smoke.

Caught sight of the marshals dashing toward me, their high-vis jackets billowing in the wind.

My vision blurred, and I blacked out.

Hushed voices filtered through the fog in my brain, the irritating sound dragging me back to consciousness. My eyelids flickered. Why won’t they open? I strained—and failed. I tried again, and failed again.

Fuck! Ever the stubborn bastard, I forced it.

Light hit my retinas, and this time my lids stayed open. I blinked up at a harsh blue fluorescent tube and a pristine white ceiling.

Groggy. So damn groggy. What the hell happened?

I tried to turn my head. A blinding pain shot through my temple.

Bad idea, Nico. Keep still.

---