He knew he never had the straight-line speed to catch him. If it had to be done, it would have to be done on the braking. And soon, they were on the last lap.
“And Schumacher starts the final lap still in pursuit of Hakkinen. Will he finally be able to make this one count, or will the McLaren’s straight line speed keep him ahead till the chequered flag?”
He felt the sheer adrenalin making him sharper, more focused. He had been called the greatest driver of his times by many, and the greatest driver ever by a few but all of that was immaterial right now. He tightened the grip on the steering wheel and pushed himself deeper into his seat by a fraction of an inch. That’s what this sport was decided on, fractions of inches.
“We turn into Beckett’s now, the series of long, sweeping left-handers that will suit the Ferrari’s balanced chassis. Can Schumacher gain ground here?”
He knew this circuit like the back of his hand. He could drive it single-handed through blinding rain, and had actually done it a few times as well. He went along the same route so many times that he knew exactly where to brake late, where to move that fraction of an inch closer to the edge of the road, where the upward slope was so that he could get on the accelerator early…
“Coming up to the first intermediate marker here, and Schumacher’s first sector time is faster than Hakkinen’s! He’s gaining here surely. Not by a lot, but he’s definitely gaining.”
He hated that his car was not just simply faster, and he had to drive his way out of this if he was to win it. But then again, wasn’t that what great sportsmen were made of. If everything was set for you- the best car, the best team, the best conditions, then what was to differentiate you from anyone else who got those. Thus consoling himself, he screwed his eyes closer and leaned forward ever so slightly, as if egging the car forward. The grip got harder still, the seat was pressing against his back now more than he was pressing against it and the legs had practically become welded to the gas and brake pedals. He was as close to being one with the car as he ever could be. As close to Nirvana.
“We’re past the second intermediate and it’s still anybody’s race. There’s barely half a second in this one now, and we are not making any calls. Hold on to your hats folks, this one’s going all the way to the last corner”
This was it now, he knew it. The last chicane, the sharp left-right before they floored their pedal to the finish line. He braked really late, as if making a move for the inside of the left turn. Predictably, the car in front defended, closing the inside line and leaving him no room to move. But then, he had known that. He hadn’t done 25000kms in a vehicle to forget the basic rule of racing, ‘Always defend your inside line’. He turned sharply right, simultaneously accelerating hard even while turning. A cardinal sin of course, but what the heck. He was now on the outside of the car in front, but more importantly, on the inside for the upcoming right. He practically stood on his brakes for the right turn, perfectly clipped the edge of the kerb to make the racing line and gave a quick glance towards his left. He could see the nose of the McLaren, in line with his seat. This was it!
“And Schumacher’s just pulled off the most amazing move! All the way around the outside on the left turn before diving inside for the final corner and flooring it all the way to the finish line. What. A. Finish!”
* * * *
There she was, in her usual seat next to the CEO’s office. She looked up, flashed him that brilliant smile of hers and asked, “You’re in a bit early today, aren’t you?”
He smiled back and nodded. Then, still smiling, he made his way to his desk, the noise from the grandstands still ringing in his ears.
It had been another record-breaking lap from his house to office.
“And Schumacher starts the final lap still in pursuit of Hakkinen. Will he finally be able to make this one count, or will the McLaren’s straight line speed keep him ahead till the chequered flag?”
He felt the sheer adrenalin making him sharper, more focused. He had been called the greatest driver of his times by many, and the greatest driver ever by a few but all of that was immaterial right now. He tightened the grip on the steering wheel and pushed himself deeper into his seat by a fraction of an inch. That’s what this sport was decided on, fractions of inches.
“We turn into Beckett’s now, the series of long, sweeping left-handers that will suit the Ferrari’s balanced chassis. Can Schumacher gain ground here?”
He knew this circuit like the back of his hand. He could drive it single-handed through blinding rain, and had actually done it a few times as well. He went along the same route so many times that he knew exactly where to brake late, where to move that fraction of an inch closer to the edge of the road, where the upward slope was so that he could get on the accelerator early…
“Coming up to the first intermediate marker here, and Schumacher’s first sector time is faster than Hakkinen’s! He’s gaining here surely. Not by a lot, but he’s definitely gaining.”
He hated that his car was not just simply faster, and he had to drive his way out of this if he was to win it. But then again, wasn’t that what great sportsmen were made of. If everything was set for you- the best car, the best team, the best conditions, then what was to differentiate you from anyone else who got those. Thus consoling himself, he screwed his eyes closer and leaned forward ever so slightly, as if egging the car forward. The grip got harder still, the seat was pressing against his back now more than he was pressing against it and the legs had practically become welded to the gas and brake pedals. He was as close to being one with the car as he ever could be. As close to Nirvana.
“We’re past the second intermediate and it’s still anybody’s race. There’s barely half a second in this one now, and we are not making any calls. Hold on to your hats folks, this one’s going all the way to the last corner”
This was it now, he knew it. The last chicane, the sharp left-right before they floored their pedal to the finish line. He braked really late, as if making a move for the inside of the left turn. Predictably, the car in front defended, closing the inside line and leaving him no room to move. But then, he had known that. He hadn’t done 25000kms in a vehicle to forget the basic rule of racing, ‘Always defend your inside line’. He turned sharply right, simultaneously accelerating hard even while turning. A cardinal sin of course, but what the heck. He was now on the outside of the car in front, but more importantly, on the inside for the upcoming right. He practically stood on his brakes for the right turn, perfectly clipped the edge of the kerb to make the racing line and gave a quick glance towards his left. He could see the nose of the McLaren, in line with his seat. This was it!
“And Schumacher’s just pulled off the most amazing move! All the way around the outside on the left turn before diving inside for the final corner and flooring it all the way to the finish line. What. A. Finish!”
* * * *
There she was, in her usual seat next to the CEO’s office. She looked up, flashed him that brilliant smile of hers and asked, “You’re in a bit early today, aren’t you?”
He smiled back and nodded. Then, still smiling, he made his way to his desk, the noise from the grandstands still ringing in his ears.
It had been another record-breaking lap from his house to office.
