Page 133 of Racing for Redemption
I fly.
The lap isn’t perfect—a slight twitch throughBecketts, a hint of understeer atVale—but it’s the closest to perfection this car has delivered all season. When I cross the line and hear Tom’s excited “P8! P8, William! Brilliant lap!” I pound the steering wheel in triumph.
"WOOOOOOOOO!" My voice almost cracks with the excitement of bringing this car—that many deem the worst on the grid—to the top 10.
Back in the garage, the celebration erupts. Mechanics who’ve endured years of disappointing results embrace each other. Nicholas, who qualified P15—his best since he joined the team three years ago—offers genuine congratulations. That’s a rarity, but I’ll take it. Tom keeps checking the timing screens as if expecting them to display a mistake.
And then, there’s Violet, standing slightly apart, her eyes shining with a mixture of pride, and pure surprise. I move through the congratulatory crowd until I reach her. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around her, and pull her into ahug.
“P8,” I whisper against her hair. “I love this track, and the car is perfect right now.”
She tightens her arms around me momentarily before she pulls back. “Less touchy-feely in the paddock, William,” she murmurs, but the reprimand lacks heat. She pats my back professionally. “Amazing job. Truly.”
Her praise warms me more than the entire garage’s celebration. I reluctantly release her, aware of curious gazes, and head toward the media pen with a lightness in my step that has everything to do with the woman behind me, and the race ahead.
Sunday arrives with dark clouds, and spattering rain—exactly as predicted. The grid forms under increasingly heavy precipitation, and by the time we complete the formation lap, it’s a proper downpour. Full wet tires for everyone.
The start is chaotic. Two backmarkers tangle before the first corner, visibility slightly compromised by the spray. Safety car deployed immediately. I maintain P8, focusing on keeping temperature in the tires during the slow laps behind the safety car.
“Safety car in this lap,” Tom announces. “Ready, William?”
“Born ready.”
The restart is clean. I defend against Diego Marquez’s Scuderia Nova for two laps before settling into a rhythm. The rainintensifies, creating rivers across the track. This is where experience counts. This is where driver skill overrules car performance. This is where I shine.
The pit window opens. Teams gamble on strategy, some pitting early for fresh wets, others staying out. Tom’s voice is calm. “Box this lap, William. Box, box.”
The Colton pit crew performs flawlessly—2.5 seconds, and I’m away, emerging ahead of Felix Becker and Paul Bertrand, but losing a couple of places as other drivers choose not to pit now, and continue their race ahead of me. Still, the undercut worked perfectly. P7 as I speed by Diego Marquez.
“Nice work,” I say over the radio. “Perfect stop.”
The cars ahead are struggling. Pierre spins his Scuderia Nova, dropping behind me. Thomas Roberts slides wide atCopse, opening the door for my pass. Suddenly, I’m P5, with 25 laps remaining.
My concentration narrows to a laser focus. Each lap, each corner, each braking point executed with precision. The car feels alive beneath me, responding to my inputs like an extension of my body. The rain continues falling, but I’ve found the rhythm of this dance.
The Vortex Racing of Yuki Kikuchi looms ahead, his gold and blue car a beacon through the spray. I study his lines, noting his caution through the high-speed sections. Three laps of stalking, then I pounce—a dummy to the inside atStowe,followed by an actual pass around the outside. Risky in these conditions, but beautifully executed.
P4. Tom’s voice crackles with barely contained excitement. “Great move, William! Mendonza twenty seconds ahead, but he’s stopping soon.”
Mendonza—one-time Driver's Champion now racing for Vortex Satellite—emerges behind me after going to the pits due to a slow puncture. P3. My heart hammers against my ribs. A podium.A fucking podium at Silverstone. I have to go and get it.
I push harder, extracting every fraction of performance from the Colton Racing car. The kerb atChapelvibrates through the steering wheel as I clip it, slightly too aggressively.
“Track limits, car 64,” Tom warns. “Stewards are watching.”
“Copy that. Sorry.” I refocus, adjusting my line slightly.
Five laps to go. My tires are fading, grip becoming more tenuous with each corner. In my mirrors, Felix’s Baretta Racing car grows larger. He’s charging on fresher rubber.Oh, look at you, buddy, coming from the back, just like old times.
“Becker catching at one second per lap,” Tom reports. “Five seconds gap.”
I grit my teeth. Not today. Not at Silverstone. Not with Violet watching.
Four laps. Three laps. Becker now just three seconds behind. My tires feel like they’re driving on ice, but I push through the discomfort. He’s ruthless, just like back in the day in karting. I just need to match his lap times as best as possible to keep at bay.
“Two laps, William. Becker 2.5 seconds behind.”
When the final lap arrives, Felix is within DRS range, charging hard. I defend the inside line intoStowe, forcing him wide. He tries again atVale, but I position the car perfectly, leaving no gap.
