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Chapter Twenty-One

Darien

Q ualifying is no small affair in Bahrain. It does, however, end up yielding results incredibly similar to our winter testing line-up. The hourlong session determines start order for race day, and in this case, Miguel, king of the Saturday affair, ends up sitting on pole – first – for the weekend, with me on second position, making for a Heidelberg front-row lockout. Diana’s on third behind us, Nic fourth, Alex in fifth. It’s a fun little arrangement we have going on as we storm into Sunday: first race of the season, and my first race back. This won’t be like quali, with sessions that offer us relief in the form of intermittent breaks or out laps. This is a straight two-hour marathon, and I’ve got to pray my nerves will hold up through it all.

The chassis of my HH-08 shudders around me as I pull into my spot on the grid: second. It’s always an uncomfortable place to be. Either you get ahead, or you don’t – there’s no in-between here. People watch your car with even more intent than they do the pole-sitter’s; you have the say in how this race is going to go. I’ve never loved it.

My engine growls greedily as I glance over at Miguel across from me. This isn’t my first rodeo with him as my teammate. Miguel absolutely thrashed me last season, finishing almost every race ahead of me, except a chance poor performance and one DNF. I don’t know if it was driving so much as what was in my head. I shook when my car just neared his. Now, my hands are steady on the steering. It’s Heidelberg’s legacy on the line; Heidelberg’s legacy in my home country. It’s do or die.

The red lights overhead go on one by one. My heart pounds, and my vision tunnels with each light. By five, I can’t see anything except the track ahead of me.

And when the lights go out, it’s instinct.

I slam the throttle and surge forward, picking up speed going down the straight. All the while, I’m praying I’ve got enough of a jump on Miguel, but it’s not quite enough. I stay on the inside, eking out my ground and turning with just a feather of the brakes. It does the job. I slip through the gap, swiping in front of Miguel going into the second turn of the track. It’s sure to cause some chaos around the field, but that’s not my concern now. I’m leading the Bahrain Grand Prix.

‘You are P1 at the moment, Darien, P1,’ confirms Afonso through my radio. That’s all I need to get me through the rest of this race. The heat is scorching, the conditions abysmal, but in that moment, I’m the highest I’ve been in a long, long time.

‘Let’s get it,’ I reply.

We do. I’m taking turns even faster than last year in this car. It’s like I’m driving in the Corvette with my dad, the only thing I’ve ever wanted, the only thing I never got to experience. The track morphs into the streets of Cantagalo, the turns into winding paths down hills dotted with vendors and houses and stray dogs. It’s going as well as it could until the second pit stop of our race looms before us, and just ahead of me, a yellow flag comes out. Moments after I’ve slowed for the flag, it’s inevitable: SAFETY CAR flashes across my steering display, coupled with the arrival of a new car to the track just ahead of me, a Hybridge 250 with flashing yellow lights.

‘Car,’ I groan over the radio. ‘There’s a car. Dude, I had such a delta!’

‘I know,’ Afonso returns my sentiment. ‘Let’s just stay ready to box. Box on next lap, box.’

I bring the car into the pit lane the next time I pass the exit, and my team gets us all set up in good time. We’re back out, back behind the car, and back in place before we know it.

‘Miguel out behind you, also on new tyres,’ says Afonso.

‘Shit.’ I keep my eyes on my line, but that signature numb feeling in my hands is starting to creep in. Crumbling at the wheel is every driver’s worst nightmare, because every driver has once crumbled at the wheel. It’s embarrassing to lose control on the track, lose form, but the part about it that remains a long time after is the shame. It’s the weight of knowing that you were expected to perform, and when that moment came, you just … couldn’t.

I take a deep breath. Get a grip on yourself, dude. Come on. You were leading. You are leading. You can do this.

‘We’ll try to get ground when the flag goes up. Darien, listen to me, he is going to fight you.’

‘Okay. Okay, yeah. What scenario?’

Afonso pauses for a moment. ‘Scenario B. We fight back.’

I swallow. Fighting back is a gamble. I’m not suffering tyre degradation right now, going this slowly, but if I go in for the fight and he fazes me enough, it’s possible.

I think of the indoor turf in Leblon, and I picture Shantal on the field as I darted around her with the ball. I remember the way she saved her movements for the moment when she knew they’d hold value – when she knew she could take advantage of my exhaustion, sneaking an orange-cleated foot around mine and towards the ball. Explosive motions, or whatever she’d called it.

I chuckle quietly. Time to say a little prayer.

‘Car going in on the next lap.’

With a careful exhale, I adjust my grip in preparation for the fight. He’s right up behind me. When we restart, we’ll get in easily – his medium compound tyres are brand-new, same as mine.

In front of me, the safety car moves aside, and it’s up into the ramp. Green flags wave clear ahead.

I just slightly accelerate into the next gear, turning to close a potential gap when Miguel lurches forward behind me. The fight is on, and Miguel is pushing with as much aggression as he has. No order from the team means open season.

Miguel is the most terrifying son of a bitch anyone would want to see in their mirror, and when he darts into the barest of gaps on the next laps, I’m too rattled to catch it. He’s slipping into it, and the only thing that saves me from obliteration is the end of the turn, when we straighten up, and I’m still slightly ahead. Crap.

It’s a hunt for the next few laps. I up my pace just enough to keep him from closing in. He’s got DRS – he’s pushing harder than I am. I need Miguel’s tyres to have suffered just enough to slow him down, preferably within the next few minutes.

‘Delta closing. One point five. One point three. One one five. He is about point three faster. Point five faster,’ Afonso reports to me as we log lap after lap. Faster? How is this guy going faster ?

All I can do is push. I push until we have three laps. I hold him off, defending like my life depends on it – which it might. No gap. No gap.

My tyres are the first to cross the line on the last lap.

I’m practically dizzy, light-headed with shock when it hits me that I did it . We’ve won the first race of the year, which is exactly what Afonso is yelling as I yell with him.

‘FIRST RACE, DARIEN!’

‘YO! WE DID THIS!’

‘WE DID THIS!’

I pump a fist in the air as I slow my car down close to the fence along the straight where our pit crew have climbed up on the gates and lean over the top with huge grins that I return, even though they can’t see my face. And among the throngs of crew members, hands gripping the fencing, is Shantal.

I’m not completely sure what’s gotten into the woman, owner of the most upset scowl under the sun, but she’s grinning like nuts right now, and I’m not mad about it. Sure, that’s in part because it’s her technical genius that helped me in this race. But there’s something else under the surface. Seeing her smile – seeing her – is a dream come true.

My visor is still down, but I like to think that our gazes meet for just a moment when I take the flag from my mechanics and hoist it in the air, waving it over my head as I run my victory lap before pulling up to the P1 marker at the end of the line. It’s unreal, the front of my car touching that board as I stand on my chassis and raise the flag.

Screw the ultimatum. Screw the stakes. I’m here to stay.