Page 83 of Racing for Redemption
“Love you, too,” I manage, emotion thickening my voice.
As I head toward the garage, their words echo in my mind.The way she looks at you when you’re unaware.Is it possible? Or just my parents seeing what they want to see?
No time to dwell on it now. I have qualifying to focus on—my first in Formula 1. Everything else will have to wait.
The garage is a hive of controlled chaos—engineers checking systems, mechanics making final adjustments, the air thick with anticipation, and the acrid smell of rubber. I take my headphones off and slip into my fireproof underwear and race suit in the small changing area, mind already shifting into race mode. Fifteen minutes until Q1.
Tom approaches with my data sheet. “Weather’s stable. Track temperature’s rising. We’re looking at two flying laps on the first set of softs, then the same on the second if needed.”
I nod, scanning the numbers. “What about sector three? Still losing time in Turn 13 according to projections and yesterday's data?”
“Your line was better in FP3. Just remember—late apex, smooth on exit.” He taps the sheet. “P14 is realistic. Maybe P13, if you nail every single turn.”
For most drivers, this would be disappointing news. For me, in this car, and our expectations for this season, it mirrors being told I might win the lottery.
“P14 gets us to Q2,” I say, the reality of it sinking in. Colton Racing, advancing past the first qualifying session. When was the last time that happened?
The final preparations blur together—the balaclava tight against my skin, helmet secure, radio check, gloves. I slide into the cockpit, the car embracing me like an old friend. My heartbeat steadies, the familiar ritual calming my nerves.
As they wheel me out to the pit lane, Violet is standing at the pit wall, her expression intent. Our eyes meet briefly. She nods once—the smallest gesture of confidence.
Then, the pit lane opens, and everything else falls away.
The first lap is a warm-up, getting heat into the tires, feeling out the track. Melbourne’s Albert Park circuit unrolls before me—a ribbon of asphalt cutting through green parkland, demanding respect at every turn.
“Box this lap,” Tom’s voice crackles in my ear. “Prepare for flying lap next time around.”
I acknowledge with a simple “Copy,” already preparing mentally. As I exit the pits on fresh softs, the extra grip is immediately apparent. The car dances on the edge of adhesion as I push through the first sector.
The car feels alive beneath me, responsive in a way it hasn’t been before. I attack the back straight, speed building to 290 km/h before the hard braking zone of Turn 3. I push through to sector 2.
“Purple sector one,” Tom reports, tension in his voice.
I’m pushing hard now, carrying more speed into corners than in practice, testing the car’s limits. I navigate the rest of the track cleanly, the car settled and balanced.
The final sector approaches. Turn 13—late apex as discussed, then a smooth run to Turn 14, building speed for the main straight.
I cross the line, breathing hard.
“1:18.938,” Tom announces. “Currently P14. Good lap, William.”
My heart pounds against my ribs. P14. Q1 isn’t over, but if it holds…
The next eight minutes pass in a blur of tension. I complete one more flying lap, improving slightly to 1:18.648, but maintain P14.
“Box, box,” Tom instructs as the session ends.
"P1 was running at what?"
"1:17.122," Tom adds, "they were almost two seconds faster than us."
I return to the garage, pulling off my helmet as the team confirms: we’re through to Q2. P14. First time in a decade that Colton Racing has advanced past the first qualifying session.
The garage erupts in controlled celebration—no champagne or wild cheers, but fist bumps, wide smiles, and a sense of achievement that’s been absent for too long.
I barely have time to process it before Tom is back, outlining the plan for Q2. We have twelve minutes to set a time good enough to advance to the final session—a long shot, but after our Q1 performance, anything seems possible. And anything will be our best, so there's not as much pressure now. Still, I want to deliver something Colton Racing deserves.
As I prepare to head back out, I spot Paul Bertrand in the pit lane, crossing our garage. He’s watching me, his expression unreadable behind his visor. Our history hangs between us—the F2 championship he stole with that “racing incident” that sent me into the wall. But I'll be the better man, and let bygones be bygones. I don't have the energy to dedicate to that race, even if it still appears in my nightmares from time to time.
