Little Hurricane. Chapter 11

      This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to real events is purely coincidental. A continuation of "The Little Hurricane" by Nikita Savelyev for the readers of F1News.ru...

      Chapter 11. The High Kerb

      From the pre-race press conference of world champion Ramon Coraso:

      – Ramon, five rounds have passed and you’re already ten points ahead of your nearest rival — Lars Lindegard? An impressive result, isn’t it?

      – I could use your optimism, mate. Did you watch the last race? Lars started first in the new car and was comfortably leading. Had he made it to the finish, he could have won.

      – Lars lasted only fifteen laps out of seventy-five, it’s hard to draw conclusions from such a short stint.

      – Thanks to his car’s designer that it fell apart so quickly.

      – But Darren Jenkins finished second, right in front of you. Did you notice his rear wing? Picked up anything useful for your engineers?

      – Apparently it works perfectly; I used to always outspeed Darren, but this time he pulled well on the straights.

      – Will you have trouble with Darren and Lars in Belgium?

      – Where would we be without them? But their new car is very difficult to drive — that means mistakes will come. And I’ll be nearby. Darren’s easier to handle, while Lars is, of course, a tough nut to crack.

      – What about Nicola Grossi? After Lars retired he was the fastest and deservedly won.

      – I’m happy for him — he led so many times this year only for something to go wrong. In Holland they found the right setup — their car wasn’t devouring its tires like usual.

      – Your rivals are piling up, aren’t they?

      – The fight is tight, the leaders change every race. But I like that. What would I do if one of the guys had a fast car and was churning out win after win? In these conditions the main thing is to score points consistently and have a reliable car. So far my car and I are coping.

      – How do you like this circuit? Last year luck wasn’t on your side here, was it?

      – Back to that again? Come on. Which one of us hasn’t retired because of someone else’s stupidity in the first corner?

      – Since we’re on the subject of Valérie Demar! How do you assess the only woman’s performances?

      – As far as I remember, she didn’t start in Spain or Holland. Right? Let her start first. If she can, of course.

      – Do you think Valérie will finally make it through qualifying? The track isn’t considered difficult for drivers.

      – True. It forgives mistakes — have you seen the runoff areas here? A whole airfield. Who would have thought a circuit could be so safe?! As for how Valérie will handle it — ask her.

      A sharp turn — the car slides onto the verge, and there’s a high kerb. The cars are very light compared to road cars, but the speeds are huge, and only the wings provide downforce. When that suddenly disappears, the car turns into an uncontrollable airplane, and the driver becomes a passenger. Nothing depends on you — a disgusting feeling! Your stomach drops somewhere into the void. The car lifts almost vertically at a slight angle. The rear wheels are up — the nose barely touches the ground. If it flips — it’s game over. A split second of sickening terror. And… the car comes down with a crash and a grind, heavily landing on all four wheels. It feels as if your insides were mixed in a blender. The helmet bangs on the wheel. Painful and humiliating.

      No matter what the pathetic scribblers think, she is a professional racer. A second to gather herself. The engine didn’t cut out. The wheels are still there. The wings aren’t broken. The asphalt is within reach. Foot on the pedal, and Valérie is back on the track.

      In the pits those present reacted to her airborne episode with extreme melancholy. She’s alive, and that’s that. Only Monsieur Trélier, for form’s sake, asked if she’d damaged anything. Girard rushed to examine the car. Bernard pulled a sour face — he could already picture the repairs he’d have to do.

      Surprisingly, everything was fine. Valérie was born with luck: she saved herself and the car. From the outside it must have looked spectacular. However, the place was remote — at best the idle, shabby correspondent managed to photograph the accident. But most likely it wasn’t preserved for posterity. And that’s fine — not exactly an achievement you want to boast about. Especially if there’s nothing else behind you. Talking about how you skillfully get out of dangerous scrapes suits experienced drivers; newcomers should be boasting about results.

      Valérie glanced at herself in the mirror. Her nose was intact and there was no blood. Not even broken. Though it aches, damn it. Lucky, just lucky. A quick check of the car showed nothing broken. Gloomy Bernard adjusted the wings again — maybe they had worked loose; Valérie ran her fingers through stuck strands of hair. She was ready to return to the track. There was no time to brood. Maybe in the evening she’d allow herself a little whining to Enrique and grant herself a small mercy — a glass of light white wine. And that would be enough.

      Over the years in the sport Valérie had learned to deal with stress and mistakes. A racehorse is not a car, but it reaches formidable speeds, and a fall from it can lead to serious injuries or even tragedy. Especially if the horse falls on the rider. She had seen others injured or even die. She had herself sometimes been in scrapes — but pulled through; little things like broken bones didn’t count.

      Time to get back. Daydreaming is for romantics; she had other tasks. In a few minutes Valérie found herself again on the Belgian circuit. It was a pity she had never tried the enormous track in Liège. In terms of difficulty and treachery it was no less than the monstrous German "Hell."

      The current autodrome where the Belgian round took place really looked like a dwarf compared to its sibling that had been dropped from the calendar. Fourteen-kilometre laps against three-and-a-half. One track had elevation changes of up to two hundred meters, the other was flat as a pancake. One featured the trickiest corners requiring exquisite skill; this one had mundane bends without a special touch. Trees along the edges of the track to smear your car against after a mistake, versus huge runoff areas that forgive even a serious miscalculation. On the other hand, one had to find the right groove on the old track, and on the new Valérie had already raced.

      A year ago, in June, nobody cared about her setup preferences as long as she paid the money, but here compatriots and the proximity of her native France were supposed to give her strength. All that remained was to continue the fine Belgian tradition and make it through qualifying. Besides, it wasn’t hard.

      Thirty-two entrants were entered for the race; under normal circumstances they would have allowed at most twenty-five to start, but ubiquitous Richard negotiated with the organizers on behalf of the teams. How he managed it nobody knew, but he persuaded the circuit management to expand the starting grid to thirty places despite the fairly short lap, on which the faster drivers would have to lap the slower ones often. Obviously Richard’s motives were far from sporting, but what difference did it make.

      The qualifying leader did a lap in about one minute ten seconds with an average speed of one hundred and ninety kilometers per hour; the slowest losing driver was about six seconds down and ten kilometers slower. A trivial task. You only had to be not the slowest. During her riding youth Valérie had met characters in the national team who followed a similar approach: the coach shouted mostly at the worst athlete, and the next in line got much less fury. Sadly, for now she had to try to be second to last. Nothing more.

      Coraso could easily talk about the easy track — he had a crew of polished mechanics and a team with ten years of experience — they’d surely found the right settings. But Valérie struggled in practice this time. She couldn’t find the correct balance of the car. And, on top of that, she’d almost wrecked herself and the car.

      In this series of laps you had to give everything. Straight — up through the gears — maximum speed. Now braking — a series of quick, winding corners. The main thing was to find the rhythm. The exit from one determines the entry to the next. Not just to slip through them without mistakes. On approach a long, sustained bend: to keep the car on the desired line you have to work the throttle smoothly. Twice Valérie caught the car to stop it from spinning. Up through the gears. Just don’t make a mistake again; if it takes off again — you won’t be so lucky next time. And anyway, how clumsy must one be to mess up twice in a row.

      Here it’s not hard: brake at the right moment and then accelerate out of the corner. Don’t clip the curb with a wheel, you lose the pace immediately. Another gentle bend, but very small. The start-finish straight. Too many blemishes. If only to make the start, and there she’d sort it out. How she longed finally to take part in a proper race — in qualifying her main rival was the stopwatch.

      "One minute eighteen," Bernard clicked the stopwatch shut. The mechanic didn’t even bother to announce the tenths and hundredths. Though he was right — they didn’t matter.

      "What?!" Valérie’s eyes widened. "No way."

      "Look yourself," Bernard rudely poked the device under the girl’s nose.

      "I couldn’t have knocked off only half a second," Valérie wondered.

      "Don’t believe it — go to the stewards. We’re packing up," Bernard waved at the mechanics and they rolled the unlucky '88' into the pits.

      "Wait!" Valérie grabbed his sleeve. "The car is behaving terribly nervously. Let’s change the setup!"

      "We already changed it — it didn’t help," Bernard snorted.

      "It’s nonsense: increasing the wing’s angle of attack should lead to understeer. But nothing changes. I still have massive oversteer. How do I get rid of it?"

      "Are you sure it’s the wing?" Bernard chewed on an unlit cigarette.

      "Are you hinting about my abilities?" Valérie flared up.

      "Nope," Bernard shook his head.

      "Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I don’t know anything about setups!"

      Bernard shrugged and stared at Valérie; they measured each other with looks, and finally the mechanic squeezed out:

      "I won’t turn the wing any further — you’ll kill yourself."

      "Fine — leave the wing alone. At least the gear ratios."

      "We won’t have time. Just fiddling around."

      "Please!"

      "Let the boss decide."

      Bernard audaciously puffed on his cigarette. Valérie rushed into the inner pits looking for the boss. How could she fail to qualify in such ideal conditions? But she somehow did. And with a huge deficit even to thirty-first place.

      "Monsieur Trélier! Monsieur Trélier!! I need another attempt! Bernard’s lazy!"

      The team director reluctantly tore himself away from a conversation with Robert — the lead driver’s mechanic. They were discussing whether to reduce the anti-roll bar on Maurice’s car.

      "The car’s acting weird!" Valérie gasped. "We can change the setup before the session ends!"

      "Valérie, we changed it several times but to no avail," the team director sighed. "You’ve been complaining since the start of the weekend."

      "Exactly! I can’t be losing so much! Yes, I’m not the best driver, but I know the circuit pretty well. Something’s wrong with the car."

      "Why do you think that?"

      "In Holland I understood what I hadn’t finished — I needed to add just a little, and here the car stubbornly won’t listen to me."

      "Valérie, dear, we did everything you asked, didn’t we? You point to serious oversteer. Where did it come from, do you think? No obvious reasons? The car is the same. What else? Then it’s simply not your track. That happens. At the next round the handling will sort itself out," the director shrugged and turned to Robert. "I suppose we should save this set of tires for…"

      "Monsieur Trélier! One more attempt! Please!"

      "Roger, let the girl go out," Robert rumbled through his thick mustache. "Want me to look at her ride myself?"

      "Don’t waste time," the director shook his head. "She can’t claw back four seconds before the pass. Focus on Maurice — maybe we’ll sneak into the top ten."

      "Four seconds!" Valérie cried. "In Spain and Holland I missed by tenths. And I got experience, and I know this track. Everything should have worked. It’s mystical!"

      "What do you want from me?!" the director spread his hands, noticeably irritated. "Do you think I’m pleased? Third race without starting fees for one car. Well, it happened — forget it and move on. We’ll break through somehow!"

      And he turned away demonstratively. Robert winked at Valérie and resumed his talk with the director. That was that. You’ll break through, sure — but without Valérie. The girl bit her lip until it bled. Three races in a row end for her on Saturday. And whereas before there was hope: just a little bit more and she’d get through, this round turned into an ice-cold sobering shower. But she can’t be regressing, can she? Or is the Belgian circuit truly unlucky for her? All that’s left is to wait for the next chance. It happens to fall on the most unusual round in the calendar — the race along the narrow streets of the tiny principality on the Côte d'Azur.

      To be continued...