Driven (24 page)

Q
uartano flew the team back with him from Shanghai to London in the Quartech Falcon later the same day. There was an exuberant mood on the plane as they toasted and revelled in the prospect of the Mandarin Telecom sponsorship.

For Ptarmigan, there was the excitement of knowing the team had secured an unprecedented budget and the wherewithal to challenge unhindered for the two Championships in Formula One over the next three years – providing an opportunity, with a level of financial predictability, none of the staff would have known in their motor racing careers.

For Quartano, there was the satisfaction of having done it again – even in his seventies: of spotting an opportunity, of committing to a distressed commercial situation, of providing leadership and business expertise, of appointing the right people, of building the right team, and of then seeing his judgement bear fruit. Rarely, though, had such a turnaround yielded such a quantifiable – and sizeable – benefit quite so quickly. Ptarmigan, bought for a symbolic £1 when the team was on its uppers nine months before, was now attracting third-party funding worth three-quarters of a billion dollars.

S
traker, still thinking about the tension in Monza, was so buoyed by the mood on board he decided to take some initiative. Firing off a text to Sabatino while they were in the air, he wrote:

I think we need to talk about things. Can we grab some time in Singapore? Matt.

He felt it was unemotive, short – to the point.

He felt better just with the sending of it.

T
wo days later, though, he had not had a reply.

This did not do his frame of mind any good. Unresolved tension threatened to drag his psyche down. He craved a distraction, but the bank holiday weekend was long and empty. Straker found solace occupying the part of his mind he always felt energized when playing bridge – except the last thing he wanted was to be sociable. Instead, he played – alone in his flat – against his Pro Bridge Professor. He played the machine for hours on end, making, among other contracts: two small slams, a dozen game calls, and managing on one occasion to get the machine four down in three no trumps. For Straker, an electronic game didn’t come anywhere close to playing the game for real, particularly the feeling of being on a wavelength – when bidding tightly – with a partner. And, he was well aware how sad playing this game – alone – truly was. But, at the same time, he also knew that, currently, he was not himself.

Whatever the stigma of such a solitary occupation might be, he didn’t care. Its mental stimulation – made possible in delicious isolation – served a therapeutic purpose, and worked for him. It managed to tide him over psychologically, until he was ready to leave for Singapore.

As Straker left for the Far East, though, there had still been no reply of any kind from Sabatino.

T
he press conference announcing Mandarin Telecom’s sponsorship of Ptarmigan was to be held in the Ballroom of Raffles Hotel on the morning of Qualifying for the Singapore Grand Prix.

Quartano flew out to join the Ptarmigan team – to present this coup to the sport and to the world.

The ballroom was heaving with journalists and TV cameras.

Everyone was there.

At the appointed time, the lights were dimmed and a video was run. Dramatic music and a stirring voice-over announced the tie-up between China’s largest telecommunications business and the glamorous world of Formula One racing.

The imagery was spectacular, but so was the message.

A substantial business from an Eastern communist country was ready to break out globally and embrace the consumer markets of the West – through the medium of the world’s most exciting sport. Formula One was showing itself to be significant enough to begin breaking down geopolitical barriers.

At the end of the video, Quartano took to the stage accompanied by Dr Chen, the CEO of Mandarin Telecom, and Tahm Nazar, Ptarmigan’s Team Principal.

The room fell silent.

Quartano’s rounded baritone voice commanded complete attention as he declared the partnership with Mandarin and introduced Dr Chen.

The Chinese tycoon, ironically a card-carrying member of the China Communist Party, declared his company’s delight in the sponsorship of the team and stated that their aim was to enjoy the exposure of motor racing around the world to build the most successful telecoms company on the planet.

Having made their statements, there were questions from the journalists. Their recurring theme was clear: ‘How much is this sponsorship worth?’

Quartano, with unwavering control of the floor, replied: ‘We still have some discussions ongoing. In any event, we consider this is an issue of confidentiality, and the final amount will not be disclosed.’

There was a considerable clamouring to ask related follow-ups, all of which Quartano batted away. One journalist launched an oblique attempt to elicit the magnitude of this number.

‘In light of this sponsorship,’ he asked, ‘will Ptarmigan still need financial help from other sponsors, or even Quartech, anymore?’

Quartano’s face remained neutral, even though he appreciated the subtlety invested in the question. ‘Need and want are two very different things.’

The journalist came back with: ‘You haven’t answered the question.’

‘How about that?’ Quartano replied and smiled broadly. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we thank you all for coming. We’d like to thank the Singapore government for hosting this spectacular Grand Prix, and look forward to an exciting weekend of motor racing.’

I
t was to be an exciting weekend, all right.

At lunchtime on Saturday the heavens opened.

The rains, substantial even by Singaporean standards, were torrential – likened by everyone to an out-of-season monsoon.

Driving conditions were little short of treacherous.

S
traker, although taking comfort from their switch away from the troublemaking Trifecta Systems to Cohens, and having been sabotage-free in Monza, was still vigilant – set up as usual in the headquarters motor home.

B
eing a night race, Qualifying One started at the same time of day as the race proper – therefore after dark. Singapore looked all the more impressive at night. Lights burned across the towering skyline – not for cleaning or weekend servicing – but because, in all probability, the Lion City was still working, even on a Saturday evening. Industriousness, not birthright, earned this entrepôt its respected status as an economic powerhouse

Five minutes into Q1 there were six cars out on the track. All were on full wets. And while the treads and sipes on each tyre may have been designed to displace sixty litres of water a second, they were as near-useless against the standing water around half the circuit, some of which was over an inch deep. Driving an F1 car through this was like walking in leather-soled shoes on sheet ice. Cars were sliding about all over the place.

Against the lap record of one minute forty-five, no one had completed a lap in under two and half minutes.

Six minutes into Q1 a backmarker lost control under braking into the Singapore Sling, Turn Ten. First the front left locked-up. Then
it started aquaplaning, there being virtually no help from the aerodynamics at such slow speed. The car simply headed on in a straight line. Going deep into the corner, it showed no response to the direction set by the steering wheel. Then, suddenly, with full left lock on, the car hit a dryer patch of road, caught some grip, and started to turn. But the back wheels, still on the surface water, kicked out to the right. The driver steered aggressively into the slew, but in vain. The water had made the track like ice. The car started to spin.

Going at only fifty miles an hour, the driver was merely a passenger. The car spun, slammed into a section of the circuit’s unforgiving barriers, ripped off its right-front wheel, the whole of its front wing, and shattered the nosecone. Debris, from the splintered carbon fibre, skidded out across the chicane like ducks and drakes across the water.

Race Control immediately red-flagged the session. The remaining cars teetered back to the pits, the drivers soaked to the skin in their open cockpits.

Marshals were able to clear the wreckage away fairly quickly. But the rain would not abate. Down it came.

Race Control really had little choice. They called a halt to Q1 and declared that Q2 would only start when the rainfall diminished.

For two hours nothing happened.

Finally, well into the evening, the weather began to ease. Q2 was started and all teams were able to try and post a time.

In Qualifying Three, the track even started to dry out. The key decision – gamble – each team had to make was whether to run on full wets or intermediate tyres. In the current conditions, the time difference in lap times between the two types could easily be up to ten seconds. Be on the wrong tyre, and a competitive position on the grid would be lost.

Sabatino took a massive gamble.

She and Treadwell waited until the last possible moment. They opted for intermediates. Only Paddy Aston had done the same thing – managing to clock up the best time so far by six seconds, but his
lap was absolutely heart-stopping. Twice he came within a whisker of colliding with the barriers.

His punt, though, had paid off.

Driving into his garage, Aston could subsequently sit back and watch the rest of the field fight for second place, no closer than three or four seconds behind him. Tyres were clearly critical.

On her hot lap, Sabatino started well. Sheares Corner was dry. Turns Three and Four were okay too. Into Turn Five, though, the car became a boat. Sabatino surfed on the top of the water for fifty yards in a dead straight – no-control – line. Miraculously, the tyres found some grip somewhere – somehow – before it was too late. With a massive yaw and twitch, she regained control, kept the car pointing down the course, and accelerated on hard down the straight to the kink at Turn Six.

Round she went. At the end of Sector One she was nearly a second up on Aston. Then there were the treacherous bends – particularly in the wet – around Memorial Corner, Turn Seven, and the one-hundred-degree rights of Turns Eight and Nine. With everyone holding their breath, she powered on, barely lifting off at all.

Another scary moment at Turn Thirteen.

At the end of Sector Two Sabatino was a full three seconds up.

Then came the extraordinarily unforgiving sharp turns of Sixteen through Twenty-one. The car was barely on two tracks throughout these bends. Only Sabatino’s feel, ability to anticipate, and her lightning reactions kept the car on the road. Water was flying off all the tyres – spray hurtling into the air, creating the classic cock’s tail in the night behind her.

Round the relatively slight bends of Turns Twenty-two and Twenty-three she brought the car into the end of the start/finish straight and hammered the Ptarmigan, as hard as she dared.

Crossing the line, she chalked up an extraordinary time of one minute fifty-five seconds. Although much slower than the lap record in the dry, her drive – in these conditions – was quite astonishing. Moreover, she was a full four seconds clear of Paddy Aston in the Lambourn.

It took Sabatino most of the following in-lap to steady her breathing and nerves as the waves of adrenalin slowly ebbed out of her system.

But the endorphins soon flowed in their place. Pole position, particularly fought so hard for in the wet, had a rush all of its own.

And for the Championship this was a good – and a very necessary – result. She needed to keep Aston at bay. Currently, she only enjoyed a two-point margin for the title. Any mistake by her over the weekend could easily see that lead slip through her fingers.

N
ext day, Sunday, the weather if anything worsened. Unbroken rain fell all morning. Being a night race, everyone was hoping the change in temperature around nightfall would reduce the intensity of the rain.

That didn’t happen.

Umbrellas were everywhere, particularly on the grid; under the floodlights, the teams put the final touches to their cars.

Rainfall did nothing to dampen the usual anticipation and turnout of all and sundry – and certainly not among the fans. If anything, the crowds were bigger, everyone coming for the added excitement of seeing a race in such hazardous conditions.

T
he red lights came on, and the formation lap started round the 3.2 mile circuit.

From pole, Sabatino led the field slowly away. As pole sitter, she should have a major advantage. So long as she was in the lead, she would have clear air in front of her. All the others behind would have the misery of trying to see and drive through everyone else’s spray. And two, three rows back – in the dark, to boot – it would be almost impossible to see more than fifty feet ahead. These conditions would dilute the commitment of some drivers. To capitalize on this significant advantage, all Sabatino needed to do – really – was keep ahead of Paddy Aston into Turn One. If she came through that unscathed, she would have the unique advantage of clear vision for the rest of the circuit. Her anxiety rested on the speed with which the car would reach all its operating windows and the ability of the tyres to grip through the surface water.

Round they went on the parade lap, all feeling for just how far they could push their cars – and themselves – in these conditions.
Even with the usual short sprints and swerves to raise the temperatures, the cars were frequently losing control, prompting the drivers to back right off.

Forming up again, the race was soon ready to start. Still the rain fell. Every wet surface was given a diamond-like sheen and sparkled in the intensity of the arc- and floodlights.

The first red light came on.

Then the second.

Fifteen thousand horsepower screamed into the night, as the sound of the engines bounced off Singapore’s high-rise buildings.

Three lights. Four.

All five lights were now lit.

Then … they all went out.

GO!

Sabatino released the car and started accelerating, feeling every nanosecond for any loss of traction through the rear wheels. She shot forward. Changing up, she applied more power. God bless the Ptarmigan. It was accepting the monstrous power without complaint. On she accelerated.

In the mirror, she snatched a glance behind. Her spray ballooned up into the air. Let’s hope Aston’s getting a visor-full, she thought to herself as she refocused on the corner ahead. The car was up to eighty miles an hour. Water was still lying on the surface of the track.

She claimed the racing line into Turn One.

After the first corner, Sabatino grabbed another rearward glance. She saw exactly what she had hoped for. The rich purple livery of the Lambourn was very clearly confined to her wake.

She’d done it!

Gingerly, Sabatino opened up out of Turn Three – feeling for both the grip behind and the responsiveness of the steering in front. So far, she was comfortable. Marginally up on qualifying speed from yesterday, she was a long way down on the lap record.

Even with the significant advantage of clear air, she still had the disadvantage of a sodden track.

On the fourth lap came the very faintest hint of a drying racing line – just about visible on the surface of the road. By lap eight, it was becoming more pronounced. By lap twelve, the dry line was pretty much permanent, despite the continuing fall of rain.

While good news from a grip point of view, this triggered a new dilemma. Sabatino’s intermediate tyres, on the dry line, were starting to degrade fast – they were getting far too hot and blistering badly. She took the precaution of moving off the dry line while on the straights, to drive through wetter parts of the track to keep her tyres cool.

‘When do we switch to drys?’ Straker heard her ask Treadwell over the radio.

‘It’ll cost us in strategy – if we stop so soon.’

‘Sure. But these tyres are dying. What if we fuel for a longer middle stint?’

‘We’ll run the numbers.’

Over the air Straker heard the team talking to each other. Those in the headquarters truck were immediately talking through the trade-offs between being faster on dry tyres, heavier with extra fuel on board, as well as estimating the position Sabatino would feed back into after a stop to change the tyres.

Suddenly everything changed.

There was commotion and lots of radio traffic.

Aston had dived into the pits – throwing down the gauntlet.

He was clearly making an early dash for drys and taking a chance on the racing line staying dry.

‘Remy? Paddy’s in – Paddy’s in – we’ll bring you in next lap. We need to try and estimate his fuel level.’

All the Ptarmigan team members in the headquarters truck and on the prat perch followed Aston’s purple car into the pit box. Stop watches were triggered the moment the Lambourn came to a halt. Aston’s mechanics removed the intermediates, replaced them with drys. In the artificial light, the crew seemed to move as a blur.

‘Drys – definitely drys,’ shouted Treadwell over the radio. ‘How long?’

The Lambourn rigger was still pumping fuel into the car. He heaved the ring around the nozzle up and lifted the hose away. The lollipop man swivelled the paddle. And then lifted it clear. Aston powered out of his box, slewing the back end as he made for the exit of the pit lane.

‘Nine seconds. He’s going for a long middle session – long – around thirty laps.’

‘Right,’ called Sabatino. ‘I’m coming in next lap. Drys, and let’s fuel for thirty-five.’

Treadwell acknowledged her shortly afterwards.

‘Okay. Where would that put me back in?’

Treadwell paused as he studied the electronic plot of the cars around the circuit, and used the touch screen commands to run some “what ifs” through the computer. ‘It would put you in behind Aston. He’s already lapping at one forty nine, three seconds faster.’

‘Okay, let’s do it now, and let’s do it quickly.’

Less than a minute later Sabatino was into the pits. Her crew executed a perfect stop. She was out in a matter of seconds on drys, fuelled for thirty-five laps. She regained the race in tenth position, three places behind Aston on the circuit.

Within half a lap, as the new tyres bedded in, she was significantly faster than the intermediate runners around her. On the next lap she overtook three cars, without breaking a sweat. The difference between the two tyres in these conditions was huge.

But Paddy Aston, of course, was benefiting equally up ahead of her – slicing through what were the soon-to-be backmarkers.

In response to the leaders’ clearly successful switch to drys, the other cars started peeling away, each one coming into the pits to do the same. Within three laps, the race order had shaken down – all the front runners having switched to the faster tyre. The order ran: Aston, Sabatino, Luciano, Mercedes, Ferrari, Cunzer and Barrantes.

The race continued. Aston should have been able to make ground on Sabatino by virtue of being five laps’ lighter in fuel. Sabatino was able to keep in touch, though – still holding on to P2.

T
wenty laps later, everything changed.

Again – dramatically.

Treadwell had been asking – just about every minute of the race – for updates from the weather guys in the headquarters truck. They were now ready to make a significant call. ‘Remy, we’re forecasting heavy rain – imminently.’

‘How heavy?’

‘Heavy.’

Straker was able to switch one of his screens over to the same one as Treadwell.

‘Let’s go intermediates, now,’ she ordered. ‘I’m beginning to lose out to Paddy anyway. Let’s take a punt on the rain. I’m coming in.’

A
lap later Sabatino had pitted, switching back to intermediates, and fuelled to the end of the race.

Within three-quarters of a lap on the new cold tyres, she pushed the car back up to race pace.

Except, very soon, she was desperately questioning whether this was the right thing to have done. In no time at all, her tyres started getting hot.

Worse, they were making her slow.

For two painful laps, she stayed off the dry line for most of the way round the circuit – keeping on the wetter and dirtier parts of the track. Even doing that the tyres weren’t cooling down. Much longer at these temperatures and they would start to blister – degrade – badly. They were not going to last any length of time.

Unfortunately, it soon looked likely that she would
have
to make another pit stop, which would seriously cost her in time, position, and points.

Over the next three minutes Sabatino lost ten seconds to Aston.

And there was no sign of the rain.

What the hell had they done?

‘Where’s the damn rain?’ she bawled.

This switch of tyres was
killing
her performance.

Three minutes after the predicted arrival, there was still no rain.

Another eleven seconds lost to Aston.

Four minutes and twenty seconds after the time predicted, the rain did start to fall. And when it came – it
came
. Water smothered the track in a matter of seconds.

All those still on drys were completely baulked – right back on the ice again.

In no time, Sabatino was running fully on the racing line – the line itself soon wet enough to keep her intermediates cool. Her tyres were no longer overheating.

By contrast, the pace of the dry runners fell away immediately, all of them tottering round the rest of whatever lap they were on – at less than a fraction of the pace they had just been setting. From laps in the one minute forties, they were now lapping at well over two minutes – and slowing all the time. One of the Ferraris lost control on Turn Twenty-two, slamming into the wall.

Before any of the front runners had made it back to the pits to change tyres, the safety car was deployed.

Suddenly, Sabatino was laughing. The field was completely bunched up, thus reducing the gap between her and Aston in P1. Not only that, she was the only runner on intermediates – while none of the other cars were permitted to switch their tyres until Race Control reopened the pit lane.

Two laps later the lights on the safety car went out – meaning they were racing again.

Less than three after that, Sabatino was twenty-five seconds clear of the field, Aston having pitted the moment he could but still losing out to Luciano, who had managed to get in and out again in front of him.

S
abatino romped home at the end of the Singapore Grand Prix by over thirty seconds clear of Luciano in second. Aston was third with Cunzer putting in a late surge to finish in the points, in P5. Adi Barrantes made it to P8.

This was encouraging news for Sabatino in the Drivers’ Championship. Enhanced by the points being tapered, her lead was now extended from two points to six – her 66 to Aston’s 60. Luciano’s eight points for second kept him in third, but in closer touch with 58.

People dismissive of Sabatino’s Monaco success as a rookie fluke had to credit her, now, with true all-round motor racing skill – evidenced by her phenomenal equanimity under the pressure, her tactical opportunism, and her brilliance of racing in the rain.

The Sabatino band wagon was rolling once again.

But not for long.