The Team // A Formula One AU

Charles

It isn't Monaco, but it almost might as well be.

The winding corners keep me on my toes, focussed on every angle and every apex. The track is short, fifty laps, and a lot of traffic. Anyone who spins is almost immediately down at the bottom of the pack and it's possible for anyone to make a mistake in such tight racing. But the run-off area is wide and flat, made of compacted sand, so it's impossible to crash out of the race completely. Unless you hit another driver, which is certainly a risk.

Twenty-five laps in yellow flags wave and I slow down to drive past Nico and Seb who are sitting in a cloud of dust. That might be the end of Seb's unbeatable podium streak. There's a haze in the air from the heat and the engine smoke and that makes it hard to look too far into the distance. As well as concentrating on racing, I have to keep my eyes peeled for yellow flags.

This dust is certainly different to Monaco, with its ocean breezes and mountains to the north, but the rest I can almost imagine. The tight hairpin, the city backdrop, even the elevation changes although the hills here are all artificial. Peter guessed the circuit was probably modelled on Monaco. So I feel right at home.

Nikita is doing surprisingly well today. I overtake him for third place and find myself wondering if his grid penalties at the start of the season are the main reason he's had a slow start. But it's equally possible he's done some illegal engine tuning, you just never know with Nikita.

Max is ahead of me in second place. I assume George is leading, it makes sense given I haven't seen either of the two of them since they started from the front row together. Lando had a good start but hit Daniel on the first lap and sent them both to the back. I haven't heard from them since, but the timing board says they're both still rising through the field.

I started sixth, and now I'm third.

And all it took was taking control of my mind.

Max gains on George with every lap, and I gain on Max. The gap of four seconds is down to one within six laps, that's the beauty of a short track with a lot of laps. I start putting pressure on my Dutch friend but that slows him down and George increases his lead. I have to pass Max now to stand a chance of winning. I can't let George get away.

I try to bring my mind back to my breathing, employ some of the meditation or focussing techniques we've been practising. But the vibration of the engine is too loud, the sun through my visor is too strong, the gleam of the city is too bright. I can't afford to be calm right now. Steady breathing is not going to help me now.

I suck in a deep breath and imagine I'm in Monaco.

Balconies full of fans erupt into cheers as I fake a move down the inside and turn onto the pit straight neck and neck with Max. The ocean gleams, yachts swinging with rich people shaking their fists as I fly past. I learned a lot of alternate lines for the first corner, it just comes down to what I think Max will pick. The plus side of being close friends with him is that I know exactly what he'll pick.

He swings across to block me and I switch to the inside line, braking late and accelerating early, skidding with the extra speed but keeping out of the dust and regaining traction to come out less than a metre ahead.

Max isn't so lucky. He kicks up some sand-clouds as he runs wide and loses precious milliseconds.

But I can't look back now. The fans are counting on me.

George is up ahead, the timing board says three seconds. With my pace I think I should be with him in two laps. There are seven laps left of the race.

I'm going to win it.

Don't get ahead of yourself, Charles, you don't know who could be coming up behind you. I hazard a glance backwards and see clear track for at least a few seconds, Nikita still clinging on to one of the top positions. Maybe he loves Monaco as well.

I meet George exactly on time. I could try the same trick I played on Max, but I know George is a completely different kind of racer. His defence is more solid, more proactive than reactive, so it takes me a couple of seconds to formulate a plan.

I stick to my own lines, not worrying about what he's doing. I can see him glancing at me in the corners, almost picture the confusion on his face, the concern. I quietly gain tenth after tenth until I'm almost ready to bump wheels with him.

And I don't move out of the way.

The crowds hold their breath, eyes glued to the action. Who will move first? George's blue helmet reflects the light as he glances sideways at me, but my eyes stay fixed on the next corner. I won't move first.

He leaves it so late he almost loses control, but I gain my position. The fans are going wild, a Monegasque leading the Monaco Grand Prix for the first time in...

This is Dallas, I remind myself. Not my hometown.

But then I remember my family back home, my girlfriend Charlotte, my friends I left behind in school to come to the USA. I race for them, no matter where I am.

I'm braced for a tense final few laps, but Max catches George and slows him right down before making another mistake and being passed by Nikita. I don't even realise it's the final lap when the chequered flag falls.

I won the race.

It's all a blur after that.

I jump out of my car and run towards Tom who ruffles my hair in congratulation. Pierre engulfs me in a bear hug and Daniel punches my arm firmly, calling me a 'young rapscallion'. The podium is crazy, my trophy is far heavier than any of the previous ones have been, and my fancy lemonade is warm because Weird Old Phil forgot to put it in the fridge. But it doesn't matter, I'm not drinking it anyway.

"It's fine," Seb laughs, "I can't fit anymore trophies in my suitcase anyway."

"You can always donate some of them to me," Mick jokes.

"You can carry them, but you won't be able to scratch my name off."

I collapse in the changing room with people still congratulating me. Max is annoyed, but not as angry as he used to get in these situations. He shakes the hands of everyone who passed him.

"Okay lads, listen up. This was a really amazing race. To celebrate what was Charles', Nikita's and George's best result yet, we're going out for dinner. Get showered, get dressed and I'll meet you in the hostel lobby at six o'clock."

Checo woops. "Please let's get Mexican food!"

"Mexican food?" Tom asks the room. He's met by a deafening cheer.

I wash the sweat and lemonade off my face in the bathroom. Just one moment away from the team to soak in my victory.

So it turns out the problem wasn't the brakes.

Maybe somewhere deep inside I knew that the whole time. Maybe it was just easier to work on practical, physical problems than to look inside my own head. Maybe every time I looked in the mirror I saw someone who would rather do anything else than face himself.

But now I see a race winner.

And I'm proud to face myself.