Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 73568 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73568 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
She starts to chew me out, but I slip my helmet on, cutting off the noise. “I’ll see you after the run,” I call, very pleased with myself and, as always, getting a kick out of the blush I put on her face.
When Ronan is done, it’s my turn and I settle into my car. The HANS—or head-and-neck support device—is deployed, connecting my helmet and seat belts to the carbon fiber safety device that limits my head movement to prevent injuries during high-impact collisions.
Now it’s go time.
There is no turning of a key or pushing a button to start the engine of a formula car. Rather, it’s a precise, coordinated dance between me and the pit crew, and nothing happens without them. Using an external starter motor, they slot it into the rear of my car. That thing is the key to firing up this beast of an engine, which is so finely tuned, it needs an extra boost just to wake up.
As they work at the back, I’m already in the cockpit, fingers moving over the steering wheel like a pianist. I bring everything online—electronics, fuel pumps, hybrid systems—watching the lights flicker on my dash. The engine doesn’t roar to life until all those systems are perfectly synced.
But once the engine fires, the sound flows through me in a powerful wave. It’s a guttural growl vibrating through the entire chassis, a promise of power just waiting to be unleashed. I grip the paddles behind the wheel, engaging the clutch with a precise squeeze. Can’t rush this. One wrong move, and I could stall the damn thing. With a gentle shift into first gear, I feel the car tense, like a predator ready to pounce.
Now it’s just me, the engine and the track.
My first lap out is for the team to calibrate all the upgraded components. Next, I run a few installation laps to check that all systems are functioning correctly, a process dictated by my feel of the car and the engineering team reading real-time data collected by sensors. Telemetry systems track everything from brake temperature to suspension load, and engineers analyze this data to evaluate how well the upgrades are performing.
While all the science and technology can be boggling at times, when it boils down to it, it’s the feel of the car all around me in my tightly enclosed space that enables me to give the best feedback.
“Lex,” Randall’s voice crackles through the headset. “One more lap before you can open her up.”
“Copy that,” I reply, my voice steady. The car responds to every slight movement of the wheel, the tires gripping the asphalt as I push it through the broad turns. The adjustments we made are working—there’s more stability in the corners, and the power is smooth, controlled.
“Feels good,” I say as I push harder, the car accelerating smoothly down the straightaway. “Rear’s holding well through turn three.”
“Noted,” Randall replies. “Watch the braking into the Vale chicane. We adjusted the balance slightly, so it might feel a bit different.”
Chicanes are sections of a racetrack consisting of tight turns designed to slow down the cars, usually before a straightaway. They’re good places to test braking since braking is essential going into one.
I hit the pedal, the car responding instantly, and glide through the left corner with precision before coasting through the right turn. “Brakes feel solid. I’m not losing any grip.”
The laps fly by, each one faster than the last as I get more comfortable with the setup. By the time I pull into the garage, my adrenaline is pumping and my mind buzzes with the thrill of the run.
I climb out of the car, pulling off my helmet as I walk over to Posey instead of to the garage where I’ll chat up the engineers. It’s a legitimate move to anyone watching. She is, after all, writing an article about me and the team.
She watches me as I approach, her eyes wide with excitement. I pull off my balaclava, but when I get close, she holds up her hands, taking a step back.
“Keep your distance,” she says, her voice light but firm. “I’m not going to give everyone a show.”
I chuckle, respecting her boundaries as I stop a few feet away. “Fair enough. But I’ll make it up to you when we get home.”
She smiles, and it makes me want to close the distance between us, but I resist.
“What did you think?” I ask.
“I think my heart was in my throat the entire time you were out there,” she gushes. “It was both thrilling and terrifying. I can’t imagine what it’s going to be like watching you in qualifying and not sure my nerves will be able to take watching you in a race. It was just…”
She trails off as my smile widens. That’s a whole lot of worries over me, and blimey if it doesn’t feel good. Doesn’t feel like a fling but rather someone who genuinely cares for my well-being.