Suddenly, the rock star was gone.
Remy Sabatino, the highly competitive and driven Formula One driver, was now the only persona present.
She was right there – back in the game.
Ready for battle.
The three-minute signal had just been lit.
All the drivers were now going through their last-minute drills. Sabatino, though, almost shuddered – having the strongest feeling that someone was watching her. In full view of the thousands of people in the stands, she knew such a sensation was ridiculous. Except, somehow, she knew she meant Baryshnikov.
Casting an eye in the direction of his car, Sabatino saw she had been right. Despite the blur of activity all around them, he was just standing there, motionless – beside his front wing – staring straight at her. Unnervingly, she couldn’t read the expression on his face.
She tried hard to ignore him by looking away and concentrating on her pre-race routine.
Carefully, she inserted her earplugs. Next, she pulled her fire-retardant balaclava down over her head, positioning it to align with the helmet's visor. Then she eased her helmet on, raising her chin to secure the strap. The zip on the turquoise suit was run fully up; the integrity of the fire-protection being ensured as the Velcro was fastened around the neck. The bulky yoke-like Head And Neck Support – HANS – device was looped over her helmet, to rest on her shoulders. Pulling on her turquoise gloves, she massaged the material up into the crook of each finger to ensure minimal loss of movement and greatest sensitivity.
Sabatino was ready.
Lowering herself into her cockpit, engineers were on hand to check her seat harness and then to secure the HANS fastenings – to support and protect the drivers’ head and neck. Mechanics were still swarming all over the car, making sure everything on it was ready for the off.
She fired up the turbo-charged 1.6 litre V6.
It created a deafening growl.
Other cars on the grid were doing the same. Drivers blipped their throttles, readying their engines – some seeming to use the growls to gird themselves psychologically for battle.
Each of these cars was capable of producing over 750 brake horsepower, in a chassis weighing half that of a road-going Mini Cooper. Each car had a package of aerodynamic surfaces that gave drivers the manoeuvrability, in two dimensions at least, of a fighter aircraft. Combatants here at Zhar-ptitsa were expected to lap this track at average speeds of 150 miles an hour.
Around this 3.1 mile circuit – with its feature corners, drops, crests and blistering straights – the dogfight was about to begin.
The modern-day aces were ready.
SEVEN
The one-minute signal was shown. Mechanics, squatting down beside each wheel to mind the tyre blankets – pre-heating all four tyres to reduce the time they would take to reach optimum temperatures out on the track – were soon pulling them away. Then at the run they, along with all the other teams’ mechanics, withdrew from the grid, hurriedly pushing their trollies loaded with all the equipment and alternate tyres back to the pits.
The race director lit the lights on the gantry.
A crescendo of sound screamed out across this south-west corner of Moscow. The cars pulled away – on their pre-race formation lap. Blue smoke appeared from several rear wheels as drivers laid rubber down on the track surface, trying to enhance their grip for the start of the race proper. This being the parade lap, they moved off at a modest pace. Even so, drivers were weaving their cars violently, trying to work higher temperature into their tyres and brakes.
Out in front – the fastest in Qualifying – was the other turquoise Ptarmigan, driven by Russia's Yegor Baryshnikov. The rest of the field trailed behind him around the circuit. Line astern.
Still moving at the modest formation-lap pace, they reached the end of Sector One. This was the beginning of the half-mile Hermitage Straight, which fed in to Turn Eleven. Sabatino was now practically fizzing, particularly given her relatively disappointing position in Qualifying. She had hoped for pole – to be right out in front – but she hadn’t achieved it. To take the fight to Baryshnikov, now – and therefore regain the leadership of the Championship table – she would have to get past him that afternoon. After Sabatino's recce in the buggy three days before, she was all the more excited about her potential element-of-surprise move at Turn Eleven.
Right now, she wanted to get up close behind the pole-sitter, to study in fine detail his line through this part of the circuit. Baryshnikov was known for his tactical brilliance, particularly in defence. He could make his car seem four metres wide, seemingly able to shut out any attempt to pass … at least where a pass might be expected. Sabatino knew she was going to have to be imaginative if she was going to get past him.
Her eyes were glued to Baryshnikov's rear wing.
Sabatino was now looking to make the most of the opportunity offered by this parade lap to understand – for the first time – the exact spatial limitations of the track while she had other cars around her. She scrutinized her Russian teammate as he set himself up for the corner.
Even on the parade lap, Baryshnikov had moved over to the left – to hug the inside line of the track.
As expected, Sabatino saw that if he did that in the race, she would have no chance of launching a challenge down the inside – the usual line of attack. Baryshnikov was showing he would be able to block that way completely. She had been right about his style of defence.
Her heart rate surged. She saw that an overtaking manoeuvre could be possible here, albeit as a two-stage move.
Instead of trying to pass down the inside of Turn Eleven, she was contemplating the idea of running wide – to the outside, to the right of the racing line and therefore the circuit. The key would not be trying to complete the overtake in Turn Eleven, per se. Her idea was to try and match Baryshnikov's pace through this bend, and end up – if she could – side by side with him on the exit. She wouldn’t care how wide she might be running at the point where they straightened up: in fact, the wider the better. A wide exit from Turn Eleven could then set her up perfectly for the next corner, where she would automatically be on the inside line after the short straight down into Turn Twelve, giving her a strong claim into that forty-five degree right-hander. That was where a challenge proper could be mounted.
Sabatino was conscious that driving wide – off the racing line – was nearly always a risk. Wide parts of a track got “dirty”. Out there, dust and debris accumulated which didn’t get cleaned by the passage of tyres. Worse, it was where marbles accumulated, the small droplets of softened rubber thrown off the tyres which, on cooling, became hardened spheres. Drive over those and a car became almost unsteerable.
Sabatino made several exaggerated zigzag, snaking manoeuvres. Anyone watching would have read these as a driver trying to work heat into the tyres. Except Sabatino's moves were more pronounced, taking her extra wide – deliberately running out over the green part of the track. Then, as another typical warm-up move, Sabatino stamped on the brakes followed by an immediate burn-out – burst of hard acceleration – all the while making sure her outside wheels were on the “dirt”. With heightened sensitivity she was gauging any reduction in grip she might experience when out on this dirty surface. What Sabatino felt through her tyres and steering, though, was putting a smile on her face. She was pumped; this ploy might just work.
She was going to take a shot at Baryshnikov.
She fully expected it to take him by surprise.
This might be the chance for her to pay him back. To even up the score – to avenge the insult of the points he’d robbed her of in Canada.
Three minutes later and the last of the back markers had retaken his place on the grid. There were now just two neat parallel lines of F1 cars on the long start/finish straight. At the very back of them all, a marshal walked out into the middle of the track, confidently waving a green flag.
Race control had its signal.
The combatants were ready.
In his box overlooking the start, the race director – his silver hair tousled by the warm Moscow breeze – looked down his rows of charges. He then watched the clock on his control panel. They were right on time. Firmly, using the heel of his hand, he hit the button.
His countdown was started.
