Little Hurricane. Chapter 19

      This is a fictional story; don’t try to find overlaps with real events. A continuation of "Little Hurricane" by Nikita Savelyev for the readers of F1News.ru...

      Chapter 19. A Slippery Spectacle

      French women’s magazine. Article “Not the Weaker Sex.”

      At the 1952 Olympics women paddled canoes and rode horses. Twelve years later in Tokyo we took part in a team sport for the first time: women’s volleyball was added to the Games. In a couple of years in Montreal the Olympic Committee plans to include women’s basketball and handball. Three years ago women’s football was granted official status. There are many examples like this. Year by year we are carving out our place in big sport.

      Auto racing was no exception. Paris-born Valérie Demar is a full-fledged participant in the world championship. Unfortunately, so far it’s extremely hard for her to compete on equal terms with the best drivers on the planet: for several races in a row she couldn’t even make it through qualifying. And the girl’s poor results have given acid-tongued chauvinists an excuse to say: no wonder we’re called the weaker sex.

      Short-sighted people who laugh at Valérie forget: she has to fight a bunch of well-prepared men, and she still somehow manages to get ahead of some of them.

      In qualifying before the British round Valérie took twenty-third place out of thirty entrants. Of course someone will say: that’s an eternity from the front. But she’s only learning, and she lacks experience — with all due respect to her choice, Valérie rushed her debut at the top level of motorsport — she could have spent more time on the lower rungs of the racing ladder.

      So until other, more successful women come into racing, an extremely responsible mission rests on Valérie’s not exactly fragile shoulders — to represent the better half of humanity with dignity in such a complex and high-tech sport. Let’s cross our fingers and wish her luck.

      As usual, ten minutes before the race it was impossible to move on the pit straight. The drivers and team personnel were not the main part of the crowd. There were plenty of officials, various celebrities, team guests, journalists, camera crews, police and performers. On top of that, beside every car stood a girl holding a board with the driver’s name and number. Valérie glanced unhappily at hers, where, of course, the cursed “eighty-eight” gleamed. Over the last races the pretty number had turned into a taunt for her.

      She tried to hold herself together, but kept biting her lips by the minute. Before long she’d eaten all the lipstick she’d so carefully applied before stepping out.

      “You nervous?” Enrique asked.

      “How do you think?” Valérie snapped.

      “Should I go? Leave you with the mechanic?”

      “I’m better with someone close.”

      “Want me to distract you somehow?”

      “Don’t invent things! Just stay near, that’s all.”

      “Just asking, have to cheer you up. I don’t even know what to wish you at the start. Be careful? You’re a racer, not a taxi driver. Fast? As I understand, that’s no guarantee either.”

      “I don’t know. Cautious,” Valérie answered irritably. “So you don’t smash into anything. Better yet — don’t wish me anything, I’ll manage myself.”

      “I believe in you. See, new car — and you’re right on the grid.”

      “Small consolation, Maurice’s ahead by eleven places.”

      “That’s nothing yet.”

      “Oh, shut up.”

      Next to Valérie was the car of her pit neighbor — Albert, driver Sheffield. Unlike usual, today he was sober and even clean-shaven. The young man gave Valérie a broad smile and continued a merry conversation with the girl holding his board. Everyone could use that composure and optimism. For Valérie the British round was, in essence, her first real race. She couldn’t afford to make a fool of herself. There were no more excuses of a wonky chassis, and now her reputation was in her own hands.

      Her mood sank further: along the pit straight walked Messrs. Vitran and Xavier. The same crumpled jackets and conservative ties as a couple of days ago — apparently their wardrobe wasn’t wealthy. They were allowed right into the heart of the circuit. On seeing Valérie Vitran predictably raised an eyebrow, and Xavier barely nodded.

      “Did you come to the race especially for me?” Valérie asked Enrique.

      “Doubt it? I stayed in Paris, finished everything for the weekend, and then it’s just a hop across the Channel. And a hundred-mile rattle from London to your backwater, but that’s nothing.”

      “You stayed in France a long time, surprising actually.”

      “My company’s local office is growing — they need help.”

      “Where is it?”

      “In Le Havre, most suitable place, a major transport hub. You interested in my work before the start? Or is it a distraction? Then I can tell you about bills of lading, customs duties or bareboat charters.”

      And what are you supposed to ask him? What were you doing in Paris if your office is in Le Havre? What made you busy enough that a couple of policemen clamped onto you like bull terriers?!

      “I’m going to the grid. Bernard’s been waiting,” Valérie snorted and, without saying goodbye, went to her car.

      Report from a British photojournalist about the race in England.

      Usually the papparazzi camp in the first corner — how could you not: the main stands, the start straight, the atmosphere and all that nonsense — but I prefer the fourth. Before it the boys get to open up fully, then lift slightly, dropping only one gear. You can see without flourish who’s what: the idiots floor it and risk running off, the cautious ones overdo the braking, and the very best don’t waste a fraction of a second.

      Of course, if you manage to catch a decent shot — otherwise you’ll end up with a blurred strip. Everything’s in your hands. And the marshals are nicer here — while the bosses aren’t watching, they let our lot get right to the edge. I used to lurk at the final bend. But now it’s obscene there. The soul of old, good Jewelrock is going.

      Some of the young photographers even like it: cars are slower, the shot’s better. But is it just about the shot? Is that how you enjoy a race? What can you expect from those kids?!

      Photos right after the start! Crowd of people. Twenty-five cars — mad. In qualifying there were thirty-four, they threw out the slowest — and rightly so, what do you need so many for, they’re walking barriers. Grossi was first, Lindegard second, and Coraso climbed into third. The fastest lads in the whole peloton.

      First laps. Look, Grossi’s pulling away. He never spares the tires. But Lindegard and Coraso in one frame — I don’t even know how I managed to catch them so sharply. Note how Lars brakes later and catches the back end, while Ramon follows the line cleanly. Still both masters. Don’t see it? Then it’ll come with time.

      Now Lars is right on Grossi’s rear wing. The Italian’s hanging on with difficulty. He didn’t err with the switch — he slipped out of Monetti at just the right time. And how did Lobbert cobble together such a car in a year? He was languishing at the back! That’s what a fresh cartridge means. To be honest, our lords and sirs often lack pep. They’re deserving men, of course. But times are changing, no wonder there’s talk. You need some sharp ones too.

      Now the Italian’s without Lars. A shame! Only the sixteenth lap. And the car’s gone. Too bad, not in my corner. Just when he took the championship lead — and it’s gone. Coraso’s clearly going to score some points. I knew it — Crocus shouldn’t have pinned hopes on the fashionable miracle. The semi-automatic clutch — who comes up with this stuff.

      Charlie Rodwell, of course, is a talent. But this time he overdid it. The title might slip away to the Uruguayan again. Luckily Ramon’s car is ours too. Although their founder — Michael Stanton — is Australian, after all these years the team is still very much English. I remember Michael well — what a daring head and an excellent designer. You couldn’t invent it on purpose — for your own swallow to crush you. Fate!

      That’s Maurice Ober in the Trellier. What a beauty it turned out to be. A proper car, not Maurice. A pure elephant. Yes, I’m talking about the air intake. Those French showed off — they should’ve modeled after Stanton. But the construction is amusing. Maurice was driving a bit far back. At the start of the season he somehow managed to score six points while everyone else sorted their cars out, then only one. He thought the homegrown Napoleons had arrived and he’d be crowned right away. Won’t happen. We cleared our patch for years.

      I wanted to snap his partner, that lady, for interest. She was driving cautiously, neatly, a woman. Although, I lie, she even overtook someone from the back. Why she’s bothering herself, she should’ve found a husband and had children. Equality be damned. There are purely men’s things — no business sticking one’s nose in. As for doctors or teachers — that’s fine. If my missus tried to say she’d go shoot alongside me, who’d keep the house? And even if she went — what would she shoot?! Just sweet little faces, probably. You need character and endurance here. Try lying on the ground for hours, not like on the beach, but in constant tension.

      Middle of the race. See, my hand shook a bit. Everyone’s tired. Them too. Grossi’s just about to run wide. Coraso’s not pushing — he’s patient. He understands, better the bird in the hand — those sure six points. Lindegard retired long ago. And in the championship Grossi isn’t much of a rival to him; the Italian’s not consistent race to race.

      That’s Jenkins — chugging along alone in third. I’m of course rooting for him — Darren’s one of ours, born and bred Liverpudlian — but I’ll admit he doesn’t match Lindegard yet. He could have nibbled a couple points off Coraso. At least he’s safe from Perrier. He also rarely contests with his teammate. Chatting away, the French have a swift young crop growing, and the authorities don’t deny them support. Our clever ones in Parliament could take note.

      Look, McGree’s not in the frame anymore. He wrecked his car at the other end of the track. The lads were saying the wheels flew off. But no one was hit. Bad luck — why didn’t it fly off at my spot. Tom himself wasn’t harmed — though they say the tub was pretty torn up. But the Australian, a seasoned wolf, is used to everything.

      Honestly, the race wasn’t much. What did you expect? Previously the lads averaged over two hundred and ten kph, now you’d squeeze out a hundred and ninety. Marshals were already having cigarettes on the grass, some spectators drifted off, some of my so-called colleagues had already packed up their gear. But I know — you have to wait.

      And with five laps to go it started to drizzle — surprising it hadn’t poured earlier in this weather. I got wet, but I nailed some quality shots. Look how Grossi started working the wheel more, and Coraso, though a pro, nearly lost the rear axle. Being able to handle a car on a wet track is no joke. Tell me when my instinct failed me?!

      Reporters perked up, snug in their warm booths. I endure — waiting for something more interesting. But the snag was that the teams decided to be patient too. The finish was near, the rain light. Only a few lads from the back gambled — fitted wet tires — but they didn’t have time to make up much ground.

      And the German from Monetti with the rat face dived into the pits — thought they’d service him in no time and he’d fly on rain rubber. Yeah, right! Joke — a wheel rolled away somewhere, while they looked, while they refitted, he wasted two minutes. And he blew the position he had.

      And that woman — Valérie — washed off the track. Of course, where would she get wet-weather skill?! Pity, not in my corner again. And the leading four held on to the finish. But how they slid!

      To be honest, not the most fun race at Jewelrock. Who asked for officials to meddle? Fifteen years ago, when I first picked up a camera, Jewelrock by then-standards was considered almost the safest circuit. And now?!

      Next race in Austria. They say the track is fast, obviously not our cup of tea. Curious to see. But the climb’s getting heavy already. But I sense the fight will be fierce. Sometimes Lars leads the standings a bit, sometimes Ramon. Such catch-ups. But only one will be champion.

      To be continued...