Page 80 of Formula Freedom
Which basically means I’ve got just enough fuel to run six laps—tight and fast, like a qualifying simulation. Nothing wasted. And of course, both Freedom and Titans are dumping their drivers onto the track at the same time. We’re all going to trip over each other on the outlap, weaving through traffic, trying to find clean air before the real push begins.
Classic.
“Understood.”
Pit lane light turns green. The engine’s already rumbling under me—alive, twitchy, waiting for release.
“Go.”
I drop the clutch and ease out of the box. Tires chirp as I cross the white line, and then I’m gone—roaring out of pit lane into the blur of Suzuka.
The first lap is a warm-up. I test the balance, weaving to generate tire temp, lightly dragging the brakes to get heat into the pads. Sector1 is a blur of precision—five flowing corners back-to-back. No margin for error, no time to breathe. The car is neutral but light on rear exit, so I adjust the diff settings on the fly.
Lap two, I push harder—130R’s coming and my pulse kicks.
Flat through seventh gear, throttle pinned. The car grips and I scream around the curve while my guts slam into my rib cage.
The team’s feeding me split times over the radio—Gunner’s two tenths ahead in Sector2, Francesca’s just gone purple through theS’s.
I don’t give it much time, but I do take a moment to appreciate the fact that this has to be the thrill of a lifetime for the Italian driver. She’s sharp and aggressive, and she’s going to make this season hell for Nash—hell, all of us—and I can’t wait to see it play out.
Many people think rookies aren’t to be worried about, but I think they’re the most dangerous because they have everything to prove. Add on the fact that Francesca is already facing an uphill battle because she’s a woman, and she’s probably the opponent I fear the most this season.
By lap four, I’m in the zone. The noise falls away, the car becomes an extension of me—inputs, response, reaction. It’s not thinking anymore. It’s just instinct and that’s where my true talent lies.
After six laps, Felix calls me in and I peel into pit lane, coasting back to the garage. The moment I stop, the crew swarms—front jack, tire blankets, the hiss of cooling fans. I peel off my gloves and lift my visor.
“Balance is good,” I tell Felix as he leans in. “Slight understeer in Turn9, bit twitchy on throttle exit, but manageable.”
He nods, already scribbling notes on the tablet. “Tariq’s adjusting rear suspension pressure by two clicks. You’ll be able to tell in the next stint.”
I climb out of the car and tug off my helmet. My suit is damp with sweat, and I take the water bottle from the crew member without even looking.
“You were fourth on the sheet,” Tariq says, handing me a printout.
I see that Francesca ran third fastest so far. “Good for you,” I murmur, then add, “But I’m going to kick your ass on Sunday.”
The garage smells like rubber and heat. I lean against the counter, sipping water, heart still racing—not from exhaustion but from adrenaline that hasn’t quite worn off yet. This track. This life. This pulse-pounding stretch between everything falling into line or falling to shit.
Still, even as I settle into debrief mode, a single thread tugs at the back of my mind.
Lara.
I don’t know where she is. I don’t know what she’s doing. But I do know this—I want her here.
And I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my life.
♦
After the debrief,I peel off my gloves and grab another water before ducking out of the garage. Practice two is done—data logged, improvements noted. I ultimately finished P2 again, two-tenths off Nash, but the balance is better than it was. Suzuka is still throwing punches, but I’m dodging them cleaner now.
We’ll dial in final tweaks tomorrow during FP3, and then it’s on to qualifying. The real test.
For now, I’ve earned a break. No sim time. No debriefs. Just a few calm hours before the next round of madness begins.
Matterhorn’s hospitality area is quiet at this hour, but a few paddock spaces down, Titans Racing has a private tented setup with paper lanterns, some low benches, and a square fire pit flickering in the center. It’s mostly dark by now, the sky purpled behind the grandstands. I catch sight of Carlos lounging on one of the benches, a bottle of Asahi in hand. Francesca’s beside him, still in her branded gear with her hair pulled into a ponytail. Nash leans on the edge of the table, rolling a bottle between his palms.
Carlos sees me first. “Oi! Hemsworth, get your broody ass over here. We’re bonding.”
