Driven (35 page)

W
eather, on the Sunday, was as close to a perfect English summer’s day as anyone could wish for.

Once the cars had formed up on the grid in the southbound carriageway of Park Lane, the great and the good were swarming all around them. The hooter went.

The engines started their roar.

All the media and hangers-on soon dispersed and, within a few moments, all that was left on the track was the might of fifteen thousand horsepower screaming for a fight.

The lights went on, and Sabatino pulled away, sedately leading the field off round the 3.75 mile circuit on the formation lap.

A few minutes later, Sabatino – on pole – was ready.

This was it.

The wait seemed interminable.

One red light came on.

The second red light.

Third, fourth and then the fifth.

The five lights seemed to burn for an age.

Then GO!

The roar peaked as twenty-two cars pulled off the line.

Sabatino, on the clean side of the track, got a blistering start. She was away well, and hurtling down to Turn One. Behind her off the grid was a Mercedes, not a contender in the Championship this year. Behind him – in P3 and very much a challenger – was Simi Luciano in the Massarella. Over Sabatino’s right shoulder was her closest rival for the title, Paddy Aston in the Lambourn. Championship-wise, this race could see the leader board turned completely on its head. If she wasn’t careful, she could be dethroned that very afternoon.

All of that pressure was hurtling down the road behind her – every pursuer hell-bent on taking her lead.

But Sabatino was focused.

Judging her line, she held her ideal position down Park Lane and got a clear entry into Turn One on Hyde Park Corner roundabout, kissed the apex, and exited powerfully into Piccadilly.

Those behind her weren’t so lucky. There was a bottleneck. The Mercedes in second place was challenged by Luciano, which queered his entry into, and line through, the apex. In the exit, the Mercedes managed to hold P2, while Aston made the most of the enforced funnelling, getting a jump on the Massarella.

Sabatino snatched a glance in her mirrors. She saw the order between Luciano and Aston had been reversed. Damnit, she swore to herself. Paddy Aston’s Lambourn was now up to P3. Her hope that Aston might be held up further down the field for a while had evaporated round the very first corner. Sabatino, now, needed Paddy Aston behind the Mercedes in P2 long enough for her to break away and establish something of a lead.

Reaching Turn Two, round Piccadilly Circus, Aston’s purple Lambourn was in the Mercedes’s mirrors and getting bigger all the time.

Sabatino pushed hard while her chance remained. She had a clear sweep through Turns Two, Three and Four – and could just about see the spat going on between Aston and the Mercedes behind her. She didn’t want that scrap to end anytime soon. The Mercedes was a vital four-point buffer between her and the man who was only one point behind her in the Championship.

Round Turn Five, at the bottom of the Haymarket, and Sabatino was feeling confident. Her car was up to temperature and performing as well as it had all year. Passing Canada House, she had a one-second lead on the Mercedes, and could see how much of a challenge Aston was mounting behind him. Aston, very clearly, was not going to let Sabatino get away.

Down towards the bottom of Trafalgar Square.

Sabatino planned to take the left-hand option under Admiralty
Arch and set herself up accordingly. Looking back, though, she saw her unchallenged claim to the lead was about to end. The second-placed Mercedes was clearly following her route into the entry, but Aston was already swinging wider. He’s going to cut in through the middle arch, she thought to herself as she lost sight of them both in her mirrors rounding the corner herself.

Lo and behold – as she screamed through under the arches into The Mall and looked back – she saw what she feared. The Mercedes was emerging through the left-hand arch, while Aston’s Lambourn was coming through the middle one.

A little Scalextric-like, but that unusual split in the track had already livened up overtaking – while the TV shot along the length of The Mall to Admiralty Arch, with cars racing for position emerging through the different arches, was quite sensational.

Aston now had a clear track to his front. The Mercedes had lost its advantage: Aston, with the Lambourn’s extra grunt, soon drew level and was past.

Paddy Aston was now in P2 and only a hundred and fifty yards behind Sabatino as they headed through Turns Seven and Eight, the chicane outside Buckingham Palace.

Sabatino breathed deeply, as she resigned herself to her closest rival for the Championship emerging from that squabble and mounting a serious challenge to her lead. If she wasn’t able to pull away, she would have to drive error-free, defensively – resolutely, holding her rights to the line. This race, now, was far more than simply the London Grand Prix. It was, de facto, for the Championship. It was her or Paddy Aston. Only one point separated them on the Championship leader board. Sabatino could extend that to three points, if these positions were held to the end of the day. Or she could be a point behind him if the places were reversed. Her not finishing the race did not even bear thinking about.

T
he two gladiators raced on, lap after lap. Their relative positions held constant. At least for the moment.

Straker was watching avidly – and hearing analysis of her telemetry and performance throughout the race from the team in the motor home. By all technical measures – as well as sporting ones – Sabatino was driving with extraordinary sang-froid and consistency.

They were only ten laps in. There were sixty more to go. How could she retain that level of concentration for that long? And under that mental pressure – knowing that the tiniest of mistakes would let Aston pounce and take advantage?

What
must
it be like in the cockpit? Straker wondered.

T
o the spectators, the tension heightened significantly during the pit stops. After thirty laps, Sabatino and Aston were still only two seconds apart on the track.

Any slip-up in the pits – a wheel nut that wouldn’t budge, a wheel gun that refused to work, a problem with the fuel rig, a misunderstood signal from the lollipop man, or a snatched start causing a stall – could easily cost her two seconds. Thirty laps of brilliant racing – not to mention the Championship lead – could be thrown away that easily.

‘Box this time,’ came Treadwell’s instruction over the air.

Sabatino, just passing the Serpentine, responded: ‘What’s my lead?’

‘Two-point-four seconds.’

‘Okay, ask the guys to do this one for me!’

Straker held his breath.

Sabatino approached Cumberland Gate and Marble Arch. She rounded Turn Eighteen cleanly and was pointing up to Nineteen. Round there, she was about to re-enter Park Lane when, pulling over further to the right, she threaded herself on round Cumberland Gate before turning left into the top of the other carriageway of Park Lane. There, she headed south down the pit lane in front of the row of temporary garages. Flicking the limiter, she kept her speed down – to an agonizingly slow – eighty kilometres an hour.

Her crew were out and ready.

She cruised down on the limiter. She swerved in and jammed on the brakes.

She was straight up on the jacks.

The wheel men went to work immediately.

Front right, off.

Front left, off.

Front right, on.

Front left, on.

She saw two horizontal arms held above each front wheel, indicating completion.

What about the rears? She grabbed a look in each mirror. Both their arms were horizontal too. The car dropped back down as the jacks were removed.

What about the fuel? She couldn’t see the rigger from where she sat.

Come on! Come on! – she screamed to herself.

She felt the car jolt to the right. Let that be the rig coming off. She looked at the lollipop man. The sign was swivelling round.

Yes!

Revving the engine, she dreaded a stall. Then, the lollipop was being raised, shooting up and away. First gear, now!

The car jumped forwards. It kept running.

No stall!

She was away.

She swerved left and then right – almost under the compressed air hoses of the next team – as she regained the pit lane.

She was trundling along on the limiter. Come on! Come on! It seemed to go on forever – heading down towards the cut-through in the central reservation directly opposite the Dorchester Hotel. Feeding through there, and desperate not to cross the white line, she built up speed as fast as she could.

She screamed on down to Turn One. Ahead of her she found a Ferrari and a Mercedes jostling for position.
Not
what she wanted.
At all
. To get past them would be for track position too – she wasn’t going to get any help from blue flags. She would have to challenge these two for real. For position.

Adding to the pressure, she would
have
to take them quickly – otherwise, any hold-up on the next few vital laps, would kill her wafer-thin lead over Aston. Aston was currently out there on an uncluttered track with a lighter fuel load in a car with bedded-in everything, while she was on cold rubber and stuck behind two cars completely absorbed in their own little battle.

‘Well done the lads,’ she said over the radio. ‘But we’ve blown the re-entry. How many laps do we think Paddy’s got?’

‘Three, max.’

‘His times?’

‘No quicker than before, thank heavens. He wasn’t really in your dirty air.’

‘Okay, I’ve got a spat in front of me. Hope it doesn’t hold me up.’

‘They’re lapping point-nine slower than you. You
do
have a straight-line advantage – try and take them on the straight, rather than into a corner – at least until you get a feel for your tyres.’

Sabatino fought to remain cautious until the new boots were up to temperature. She stayed behind the Ferrari/Mercedes scrap all the way down to Turn Five, at the bottom of the Haymarket.

She had to get by soon – otherwise all of her lead over Aston would be gone.

Her eyes bored into the backs of the two cars in front. They screamed down past Canada House, one after the other – the blocked one swerving this way and that, trying to get by. Would they be so preoccupied with each other that they wouldn’t see her coming? If they were, that could be both good news or bad.

Down towards Turn Six, at the bottom of Trafalgar Square, she was ready to put herself in a position to strike. Which way would the squabblers go through Admiralty Arch? Who would take the left arch? The Ferrari in the lead? Did that mean the Mercedes, behind, would automatically try for the middle one?

She had no way of knowing … yet. She got closer and closer, ready to pounce – praying for an opportunity.

Reaching the entry, it looked like the Ferrari at the front was going wider – through the left arch. But then he tried the element of surprise. At the last minute, he ducked inside, aiming for the middle one. It threw the Mercedes behind him. The Mercedes had clearly expected to be going that way himself. Momentarily, he had to lift off, for fear of running into the back of the Ferrari. But now, realizing his chance lay in going wide, he swung out to the left and tried to adjust his line. That change of direction, though, cost him a nanosecond’s delay.

It was enough.

Now! screamed Sabatino to herself.

With the Mercedes’s loss of pace at the element of surprise, she herself ducked
inside
, following the leading Ferrari – through the middle arch. Having taken that initiative, the Ferrari would still be travelling at top speed. Getting in behind him would be quicker for Sabatino than following the Mercedes who was probably still reacting from being wrong-footed.

She fought the wheel to keep the car heading straight through the incredibly tight fit under the middle arch. Applying the power – while still under the building – she emerged the other side, and, thrillingly, found herself drawing level with the wider-going Mercedes to her left.

She’d got past one of them already.

Now she had the Ferrari – only four lengths ahead of her.

Sabatino was quickly on terms – the Benbecular kicking out ten or so more horsepower – the difference beginning to show encouragingly soon.

They screamed on up The Mall, the scarlet Ferrari in front, the turquoise Ptarmigan behind. Two Formula One cars racing through London in front of the world-famous backdrop of Buckingham Palace.

As the Ferrari prepared for the chicane, Turns Seven and Eight, it pulled left, gingerly, so as not to open the door for Sabatino.

She couldn’t challenge him there.

Up Constitution Hill, their line-astern formation resumed.

Turn Nine, onto Hyde Park Corner roundabout. She couldn’t challenge him there.

Down the hill to Turn Ten and into Grosvenor Place. She didn’t challenge him there, although encouragingly the Ferrari ran slightly wider and a little ragged. Was the pressure of her pursuit beginning to get to him?

She hoped so.

Up past the Lanesborough Hotel, to the right-hander – and she was still on his tail. She didn’t challenge him there.

Round Apsley House and through the Queen Elizabeth Gate they raced. Nose to tail. Still no challenge.

Entering Hyde Park, Sabatino timed her moment to strike. The Ferrari ran a little wide on the exit of Turn Fourteen. Into the broad and straight Serpentine Road, Sabatino powered rapidly up through the gears, revs and speedometer until she was running flat out.

The gap started to close.

The crowds were treated to a five-hundred-yard head-to-head as the Ptarmigan mounted its inch by inch challenge to the Ferrari.

They swept up to and started rounding the lake as the battle fought on.

Sabatino pulled level.

By the time they passed the fake wattle and daub boathouse, she had gained the advantage – just about getting her wheels in front. There! She’d cleared the scarlet Ferrari. But she was pounding down to Turn Fifteen.