**Liquid Balance: A Riveting Tale of Wealth, Speed, and Unseen Perils**
Embark on an adrenaline-fueled journey into the opulent and treacherous world of "Liquid Balance," the gripping novel by Viktor A. King. In this spellbinding narrative, follow t...
It was late June, the tires needed to be cooled. The track was Monaco, the first official Formula 3 race.
Crowds thronged the sides of the road, racing through sinuous curves in short gears, few straights, lots of shifts. The temperature touched 29 degrees Celsius.
It was 11 a.m.
My family had greeted me as soon as we arrived at the pits and had gone to seek refreshment from the heat in one of the many bars on the circuit, they would be back shortly to wish me a good race.
I had told them that I needed their presence, to flatter them all. In truth, my mind was already computerized to the dynamics of driving applied to that complex circuit. I was living and materializing the race in my eyes, in my efficient mental computer, to better analyze the timing of the changes and the steering angles.
The car was extremely powerful, but suffered from agility, very fast on the straights but a wood on the curves compared to other nimble competitors. Yet it was light and reduced to the minimum of equipment. However, the times achieved proved to be right and they were well placed, among the first three at the start.
It was critical not to get behind the others.
The wake admittedly limited friction with the air, but it took away maneuvering space, increasing collision risks.
He was known for someone who slipped in without fear.
Now the fear, if it was there at all, was transformed into the desire for his women to be proud of him. Of his expression as a man, of his virility manifested in the four smooth and black Good Year wheels and smelling of tire heated by the temperature of the asphalt.
He put on the leather suit. He saw Elisabetta arrive in the paddock with her girls holding her hand. The environment was swarming, better to keep them close.
"I saw the cup, it would look good on the fireplace in the hall.... " Elizabeth looked at me with cheerful eyes and a nice reassuring smile.
"Do you like it?"
"Yes modern but authoritative."
"It's hot today. I'm sweating."
"Would you like a cold drink?" She was as thoughtful as I liked.
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"No honey, better to be fasting. Wait I'll wipe off the sweat." I took a soft white towel from the pilot cabinet, my own. and wiped it on my sweat-soaked forehead.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes."
"You are of few words, I can tell you are very focused. We go to the bleachers, we watch you with binoculars."
"Yes, you're a treasure my love, the car on the Sainte Devote curve, it gets away from me, I can hold it but I lose seconds."
She smiled.
"Do you really want to win? Start second, you've placed very well, don't overdo it, you'll see that everything will be fine. You have a very powerful car and you are a skilled driver."
The words were matter-of-fact, he had heard them similar for two weeks, but the tone reassured him. It was a suave tone, if he could adopt a translation, those same words meant that it wouldn't matter to her that he won, but to have fun, certainly.
Instead, it was critical to him.
"Maybe I can downshift before the turn and accelerate in the middle as it opens to the straight, of course these are considerations that would be better tested at practice, it's late now."
"I believe you will win. Now wipe off your sweat and get ready, in about 1 hour you'll be on the podium, you'll see. We are by your side."
"Yes dear, go to the bleachers, sit back and watch your man earn a measly piece of glory." I smiled.
Time was relative inside a machine expressing such power, an hour could feel like a few handfuls of minutes in the stress of details and visuals, in the effort to focus on the most appropriate choices to expand its power rather than compress it.
Elizabeth walked away, I put on the helmet protector, and then below the helmet, instead of warming the tires, they were cooling them down.
Perhaps he could have drunk some fresh water, but a principle of nausea from tension gripped his stomach.
As soon as that circus was over, he would take them to the theater. To listen to classical music, violin or piano, or to some cheerful symphonic interpretation, in a cloister, or in a deconsecrated church. To make them passionate about art.
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The mechanics started the engine and disconnected the battery.
The roar of the cars from the paddocks was deafening.
I got in, slipped on my gloves, buckled up, inserted the steering wheel and stopped it.
Suddenly calmness invaded me, wise Elizabeth, she had focused the sense of that great theater, to have fun.
