Quick

by Steve Worland

  He keeps the revs at just over four grand, turns the steering wheel back and forth, sends the car across the track then back again to create friction between tyres and tarmac to raise the rubber’s temperature. The more heat he can get into that rubber the stickier the tyres will be and the more grip they will give him. He has no idea how old these tyres are but they looked like they had a bit of meat on the tread so he hopes he’s actually heating them rather than fatally wearing them out. He’ll find out soon enough.

  By the end of the lap he feels like he’s getting a feel for the thing. He turns onto the extremely long pit straight and sees the glowing tail-lights of the other two Gullwings that wait at the distant start-finish line. His chest tightens.

  Oh yeah, here comes the adrenaline.

  He takes a breath and enjoys it—his second shot for the day. It’ll be interesting to see how it compares to the chase on the golf course earlier.

  He noses the Gullwing up beside the other cars and glances across at the drivers. Both helmeted and with their race faces on, they look over at the Australian, Juan to Billy’s left, Kurt to Juan’s left. This might be an impromptu match race but these boys are clearly taking it very seriously. They want the bragging rights of beating Iron Rhino’s reserve driver, which, Billy is sure, they will both receive. He’s rusty and out of condition in a car he doesn’t know. He raced against Kurt for years when they were teenagers and knows he has talent, though it was never top-drawer if Billy’s being brutally honest. Kurt probably thinks his job driving the safety car in F1 is a disappointment and means he hasn’t lived up to his potential, which is what all serious racing drivers think when they don’t reach the apex of their sport, but the truth is that he has surpassed almost all his contemporaries and exceeded his own skill set to make it this far.

  On the other hand Billy has no idea about Juan-in-a-million. He, in fact, may actually be one-in-a-million. If he’s a genuine reserve driver he’s no bunny, but if he’s a pay reserve driver then he might be. Or he could be one of those very lucky, extremely rare drivers who make it to the circus because they have a Daddy Warbucks but stay because they’re quick. One way or another Billy’s about to find out.

  Kurt points to a thin blond guy on the roadway in front of them. The guy raises his right arm above his head. Billy realises this is the start as he hears the other cars’ revs rise. He was going to use the Gullwing’s Race Start mode, which is designed to give a fast, wheel-spin-free launch, but he’s not familiar with the system and doesn’t have time to learn it —

  The guy drops his arm and the flat blast of one thousand five hundred and ninety German horses reverberates across the empty grandstands. Two of the Gullwings surge off the line—but not Billy’s.

  Oh dear.

  He gets a whole load of wheel spin and bogs down. The other cars skip away.

  Christ.

  He missed the start. In fact if he’d been taking a nap he couldn’t have missed it any worse. Not only does it immediately put him on the back foot but it looks ugly, especially to the crowd who watch from the pit wall to his right.

  Well this has turned out to be an absolute clusterfuck.

  He waits for the rear tyres to hook up, which seems to take an eternity and is the worst feeling in racing, spinning your wheels while your competitors escape into the distance. His tyres finally find some grip and the Gullwing jolts forward.

  The best way to make up for such a shocker of a start is to do it at the first corner, and the only way to do it at the first corner is to be the last of the late brakers. That means Billy will need to brake as late as possible, the idea being that he’ll still be running at full throttle while the others are slowing and turning. The downside of this approach is that if you miss the corner you can end up in a sand trap.

  Billy plays the steering wheel paddles and ratchets through the twin-clutch gearbox, the changes smooth and punchy, the throbbing V8 always with more to give. He’s at one hundred and fifty klicks within a handful of seconds. The other Gullwings reach the first corner, a tight right-hander, side by side and their brake lights blink on at the same moment. Billy takes in the spot where they braked and looks twenty metres beyond it. If he can be close by the end of the lap he’ll have saved a little face and the result won’t be a complete bums-in-the-air farrago.

  Full throttle, pass the others’ braking point, wait, wait some more, then hard on the brakes. The car’s nose dips and he turns into the corner. This thing isn’t really designed for serious track work so its weight works against him. He’s turning the wheel but the car is understeering, which means the nose isn’t coming around fast enough.

  Careful.

  The kitty litter at the edge of the track is right there. If he slides into it he won’t be able to extricate such a heavy vehicle and that really would be embarrassing. To muff the start and end up like a beached whale at the first corner would be mortifying.

  What would Ms Jolie Laide say about that? He doesn’t know why he’s so concerned about what she thinks. Well, he does actually. He felt something when he met her. And did he get a bit of a vibe from her in return? He has no idea. His sense of the ‘vibe’ is consistently wrong. He can’t remember how many times he thought he was receiving a come-on from a woman and acted on it, only for her to stare at him blankly and say she was happily married or newly engaged or a resident of the Isle of Lesbos.

  The nose of the Gullwing slowly pulls around and Billy hits the gas, aims it up the short straight towards the other two cars. With the combined illumination of three vehicles he can see just enough to know where he’s going and eliminate some of the guesswork. That little bit of late braking has earned him about fifteen metres, so that’s a result, but still, he has a lot to make up over the course of one lap.

  It happens easier than he imagined it, at least with Kurt. Good old Kurtly never met an apex he didn’t avoid. It’s common knowledge that for drivers to be quick they need to hug the inside of a racetrack, and specifically clip or touch the apex of corners, as the inside edge is the shortest the distance around the circuit. Well, Kurtster avoids apexes like the plague, worried the white painted lines that delineate the edge of the track and can be slippery might flick his car into a spin if a tyre touches it at speed. Kurt had a nasty shunt and broke an arm after doing that when he was a boy racing karts and it forever plays on his mind.

  Within the first three corners Kurt has dropped well behind Juan-in-a-million and is just ten metres ahead of the Aussie. As the cars have the same straight line speed the race will be won in the corners, and Kurt is just leaving too much time on the table by avoiding those apexes.

  At the next corner, a right-hander called the Langkawi Curve from memory, Kurt again drifts wide and avoids the apex. He allows what appears to be enough room, maybe two and a bit metres, for Billy to take advantage.

  The Australian slides his car up the right side of Kurt’s vehicle and hugs the apex. Kurt brakes but not Billy—he gets his Gullwing’s nose ahead by half a metre, then brakes hard. Both cars slow at the same rate as they turn into the sharp corner. Is there enough room? Billy glances left, sees Kurt’s car is right there, just three inches away.

  Five words reverberate in Billy’s ears.

  Do. Not. Dent. The. Car.

  One false move and he will dent both cars.

  They safely navigate the turn, side by side, but because Billy hugged the apex, he now has track position and controls the corner, and the entry into the next straight. Kurt can’t finish his turn and get on the power until Billy is through.

  The Australian’s Gullwing bounds away. Billy glances in the rearview mirror, sees Kurt’s headlights shrink behind him, then slip away to the right.

  Oops, looks like he overdid the exit and slid off the track. Oh well, one down, one to go.

  So, as far as being taken seriously as a driver is concerned, beating Kurt helps his cause, but not by much. If you can’t beat the guy driving the safety car then y
ou really have no business being in the F1 paddock and calling yourself a racer.

  Billy ratchets through the gears and sends the hulking Merc down a short straight. His eyes flick forward to the Gullwing being driven by Juan-in-a-million. He’s a good forty metres ahead as he turns his car into a long, languid left-hand turn. He’s not extending the lead but he’s not coming back to Billy either. A moment later the Australian turns into the long curve too. It’s so long that it’s what he calls a ‘hurry up and wait’. Billy’s driving as fast as he can, in this case just under two hundred kilometres an hour, but he can’t go any faster; if he does the weight of the Merc will overpower the tiny rubber contact patches the tyres have on the tarmac and turf it off the track. So he just has to wait until the curve ends while finely balancing his steering and accelerator input.

  This kind of long, high-speed curve is the fastest way to wear out a set of tyres because the friction of turning and accelerating generates heat which erodes the rubber. Over a race distance the heat management of tree sap, as rubber comes from trees in the form of liquid latex, is the most important element of maintaining tyre life and, therefore, winning or losing a race.

  The long curve finally ends and Billy works the wheel, turns into the Genting Curve, which is almost exactly the same length and shape as the last turn except it bends right instead of left. He watches Juan’s Gullwing approach the exit of the curve, still forty metres ahead. He seems to have good car control, appears to handle the Merc’s weight quite well, though from the body English of the vehicle it does appear that it’s on the ragged edge.

  He’s thrashing it because he really wants to beat me.

  Of course he does. He wants everyone to know he spanked Iron Rhino’s new reserve driver because he believes he should have the job, and maybe, if Dieter finds out about it, he’ll install him in the position instead. Yep, Billy knows that’s what Juan’s thinking because it’s exactly what Billy would be thinking in the same situation —

  Oops. Juan’s not going to beat anyone if he keeps doing that. A puff of blue smoke blasts from his Gullwing’s front right tyre as he locks up going into the Sunway Lagoon Corner—a very tight, one hundred and twenty-five kilometre an hour right-hander that leads onto the track’s second last straight. He was overzealous, tried to brake as late as possible, realised he’d gone in too deep, jumped on the anchors a fraction too hard and locked up. He’s now worn a big chunk of rubber off that tyre and will be experiencing a nasty vibration from the flat spot, like he’s driving around on a wheel shaped like a dodecagon. It won’t really slow him down but it will rattle his teeth.

  Billy turns into the corner and aims the Gullwing up Panang Straight, almost a kilometre of flat-chat fun, the Merc’s low-down torque doing a great job pulling the car’s bulk out of the corner. He paddles up the gearbox, hits sixth, keeps accelerating, listens to that glorious V8 do its business. Juan’s Gullwing is still a good forty metres —

  Hold the phone. What’s going on there?

  Juan is coming back to Billy. The Spaniard’s only about twenty-five metres ahead now. He didn’t lock up because he braked too late, he locked up because he’s taken too much grip out of the tyres. They only have a finite amount of grip to give so you don’t want to use it too early, otherwise you’ll have nothing left at the end. Even so, Juan’s lead is substantial so there’s little chance Billy will catch him. The Australian’s still paying for that piss-poor start.

  Billy pulls back on the steering wheel paddle shifter once more and slots the gearbox into seventh. The smooth power delivery of the V8 belies its manic, thundering bass note. It’s better than listening to AC/DC, his all-time favourite rock band.

  He draws closer to Juan’s car. Halfway along the straight there’s only fifteen metres between them. Yep, the Spaniard has worn out those tyres like a favourite pair of Ugg boots and now they need to be resoled.

  For the first time Billy realises something: I can get him.

  Adrenaline pumps. Interestingly, this rush is no greater than the feeling he had while chasing Schumacher on the golf course today.

  Billy wills his Merc onwards, pushes on the steering wheel as if that will somehow make the car go faster. He glances at the speedo, watches it pass two hundred and thirty kilometres an hour, then two thirty-five, two forty. This engine is the gift that keeps on giving. It never seems to run out of puff. Two forty-five, two fifty.

  Hot damn.

  Juan is right there, just five metres ahead, but Billy doesn’t get cocky. Catching a car is one thing but passing it is something else all together. Getting around the apex-averse Kurtmeister was easy money because the guy left so much room, but this kid can really drive and has no intention of letting Billy through.

  The Gullwings bellow towards the tight U-turn that leads onto the pit straight where the finish line awaits.

  How the hell do I do this?

  Billy’s eyes flick to the apex of the corner and search for a way past. As he does it Juan drifts his Gullwing across the tarmac, places the car right on the edge of the track, cuts off any path up the inside, then stops hard, its brake lights glowing bright red. The Spaniard has track position and owns the corner.

  The Australian has a tenth of a second to make a decision. Does he brake and give the guy the advantage of leading him into the corner, an advantage that will be difficult to overcome during the short run to the finish line, just five hundred metres up the pit straight, or does he try something else?

  I try something else.

  Billy doesn’t brake, just flicks the wheel and steers right. He’s going around the outside of this curly-haired mofo. It’s a longer way to take the corner but at least this way he won’t be stuck behind the other car. He waits and waits and waits, then brakes late, ratchets down the gearbox. Juan hugs the inside of the track, pulls his car through the tight left-hander before Billy’s even started his turn. The Australian yanks the Merc hard left and aims it up the straight. He now has a clear run to the finish line, Juan’s Gullwing ten metres to his right, but only five metres in front.

  Time slows.

  It’ll all come down to the tyres’ grip.

  Or the heat management of tree sap.

  Billy mashes the gas pedal and gets on the power. The V8 barks, the rubber instantly hooks up and the big car bounds forward.

  Juan’s Merc thunders too, but catches a load of wheel spin. He loses precious tenths waiting for traction from the tyres he has worn out. Then the rubber finally bites the tarmac and launches the car forward. He’s surrendered more than half his advantage and is just two metres head.

  Now we have a drag race.

  Time speeds up.

  The Gullwings scream towards a chequered flag that hangs over the pit wall.

  Accelerator flat to the carpet, Billy ratchets up the gearbox, hits sixth, pushes on the steering wheel again, wills the car onwards. ‘Come on.’ The finish line is just two hundred metres away.

  Billy pulls level with Juan. ‘I got you.’ The Spaniard turns to him and they lock eyes—then he swerves his Merc across the track towards Billy’s. Ten metres becomes five becomes two.

  ‘What the —?’ Billy steers away, his car now just a metre from the cement pit wall.

  Do. Not. Dent. The. Car.

  Kurt’s words ring in his ears. Billy doesn’t want to get his old apex-avoiding broseph into hot water by damaging this Gullwing. His eyes find the chequered flag which approaches quickly, just a hundred metres away now.

  Juan’s Merc slides towards him again, and again Billy steers clear, the pit wall barely a foot away now.

  He thinks I’m going to hit the brakes and wuss out.

  Well he sure got that wrong.

  Billy flicks back the steering wheel paddle and drops down to fifth gear. The engine shrieks, the needle on the rev counter swings around to the red line and the Merc surges forward.

  Juan’s Gullwing swerves to cut him off one last time —

>   And misses.

  Zerrch. The Spaniard’s car clips the cement pit wall with its wing mirror and golden sparks light up the night.

  Billy sees them in his rear-view mirror as he sweeps past the chequered flag. ‘Yee ha!’ The Australian cracks a grin. Well that went better than expected. It was only one lap so he’s not sure how he would have gone if the race had been longer, but really, not a bad evening’s work all told. He met some of the other drivers, handed them their ass on the track, and proved, at least temporarily, that he’s worthy of the Iron Rhino reserve driver’s gig. And on a personal note he, hopefully, impressed Ms Jolie Laide. He really does need to find out her real name.

  Now what? He’ll chuck a U-turn and drive back into the pit lane, use this victory as a way to introduce himself to some of the spectators, see if he can identify anyone, or any group, that might be worth investigating. He’s especially interested in finding out more about Juan-in-a-million and his whole ‘long sleeves’ situation. The Australian realises he’s probably grabbing at straws in lieu of other leads but at least it’s somewhere to start. He turns the car into the pit lane.