Turbulence [𝗠.𝗩.]

♦ Qatar, Race Day Cont ♦

"You don't want to be passing out when you're driving at 200mph down the straight, and that's how I felt at times. Any hotter, I think I'd have retired because my body was going to give up."

⸻

QATAR
17TH RACE OF THE SEASON
OCTOBER

I snap back to reality as I fly around a corner, fresh, hot, dusty air assaulting my nose. I almost passed out. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I pop my visor up a little more. The sandy air will potentially be able to hit my eyes now but I need to do anything I can to stay awake. Looking at my dashboard, I see we're on lap 24. Not even halfway. And I've almost passed out. Christ.

I can't retire from the race because I feel unwell. I'll be ruthlessly mocked. Doubted. Called inferior to the men on the grid. I can imagine it now, the renewed cries of women clearly not being good enough to keep up. I have to stay here. I have to finish this race.

"Box, box."

Another double stack, undercutting Alonso. Another in and out. I'm alert as I come in and alert as I come out. The change in pace, briefly, helps me become more alert. It makes the exhaustion and waves of nausea die down a bit but my god the car is on fire, I swear.

"I'm fucking burning."

"If you need to retire—" Mateo starts, but I'm cutting him off.

"No, I've got this!"

I have to have this. I've got no choice. I will finish this race. Behind me, I see a Haas, but not for long. These pit stops are constantly making the order jump around. I keep my attention on the car ahead. Keep Mick in front. Stay on him. Let him guide the race pace for us.

"At this rate, we'll have double points. Stay together."

Mick goes deep into a turn. It makes me jump into full awareness again. He recovers easily because I'm backing away to give him space, but I know now that he's struggling too. He'll have a track limits warning for that.

The hard braking for turn 6 makes my eyes roll back as the g-forces attack my weakened body.

I'm still conscious by sheer determination. I won't let this beat me. I won't. I can do this. If Fernando Alonso could survive Bahrain in 2005, I can survive this. In fact: if Alonso doesn't quit this race, I won't either.

"Tell me if Alonso retires from the race."

"Sorry, repeat that?"

"If Alonso retires from the race, tell me." I don't provide any explanation as to why. It's not for anyone else to know. I won't quit if he doesn't. I won't. I won't.

More pit stops go around; now we have Räikkönen behind us. Okay. Okay. I can do—

Alonso goes off. The yellow flag doesn't last long. He must be okay. I can't use him as a focus point and now the team plan is ruined. We had wanted to use the speedy Aston Martin to cut through the pack for us.

I take my sweat-drenched gloved hand off the wheel again to inch my visor up just a little more. I can't put it up any higher, or my eyes will absolutely get belted by the dusty air. I take another mouthful of the vile drink that makes acid creep back up my throat a few seconds later.

The Mercedes on my rear is going to get me.

"Keep talking to me, Mateo. Please."

"Jess." That's Oliver's voice instead. "If you're not well, call it. Your health is more important."

"No, I've got this. Just keep Mateo on the radio." I can't give in. Alonso is still in the race. I won't give up till he does. I won't.

Mateo is telling me who has warnings, listing them off slowly as I try to stay on Mick's rear. He's listing off penalties too. It's helpful. Sure, it's more information to process, but I feel like he's right here, and I'm not the one with burning knees and this awful pain in my back.

He helpfully tells me each lap as we pass the line. We're going to have to pit soon, but not yet. The tyres they put me on were fresh. Lap 38. Russell is still behind, but he's not keeping with the pace Mick and I have set. Lap 39. Ricciardo has another possible penalty coming. Lap 40. Four more till we hit the pits. Others are pitting, but we will still finish with points. Last warning on track limits for Stroll.

He doesn't ask how I'm doing. He just keeps talking.

Lap 41. A confirmed penalty for Ricciardo. Russell is losing pace. Sargeant has retired due to sickness. The yellow flags are because he can't even drive safely to the pits, he's moving out of everyone's way. Lap 42. The mechanics are preparing for a faster double stack. Sargeant is being helped out of his car. My knees hurt so bad.

Lap 43. Sargeant is at the medical centre. My drink is gone. I have to make it to the end of the race without a drink. Mick is closer to me than he was before. We're to pit the next lap. Lap 44. Penalty for Stroll. We're in the pits, but it's slower, the mechanics are all struggling. Alonso cuts past us. The plan is back on. Gasly has a penalty. No more pitting. Get to the end of the race.

I do all I can to mimic everything Mick is doing, without burning up my car any more than it already is. My back hurts so bad. My knees are still on fire. My feet ache. My hands don't want to move off the wheel so I can put my visor back down but I don't think I want to, the horrid air is at least something.

Lap 46. Mick is slowing to help me. He's disobeying team orders and the team have decided to let him get away with it. Oliver is on the radio now. He's promising a few days off the sims after this. Lap 47. Mateo returns to the radio. P7 and P8 is fine by the team. Albon has a penalty now. Ocon won't catch up, his pace is weaker.

Turn 6 tries again to take me out. Each time. I can feel my mind slipping towards blissful unconsciousness but I'm hanging onto Mateo's every word like a rope holding me up over an abyss.

Lap 49. We're doing good. Mick has another brake balance suggestion. I barely get it sorted for myself. My hands are cramping and the wheel is as hot as the rest of the car. Lap 50. Seven to go. Sargeant has been cleared. He's fine.

Lap 52. Ocon is slipping further away. Lap 53. The last few. Mateo starts talking about the fighting down the back of the pack. Alonso is still ahead. I will not be quitting, no matter how hard it is to stay in this race. Even if my limbs are turning to stone, I will see this to the end. Lap 54. Stewards will talk to Gasly about leaving the track and gaining an advantage over Stroll.

Lap 55. The end is very much in sight. Mick slows to tow me down the straight. Nausea rolls in my stomach as the hot air hits me again. Another penalty for Stroll. Lap 56. Gasly might be in trouble again. Final lap. Bring it home. Russell has a final warning for track limits. We each have two warnings, but they don't matter. Finishing the race matters.

I hear Oliver as we go across the line. He's telling me he's proud of both of us. That we can come in, he's made sure the team have called a doctor from the medical centre down for us. The mechanics are waiting to help us get out of the cars. I take the in lap as show as I reasonably can, somehow finding the strength to pop my visor up completely.

But as I pull into Parc Fermé... I just can't move. Exhaustion slams into me. My body feels like a dead weight. I sit there, engine off, unable to move. There are familiar voices, helping hands removing the belting and extracting me carefully from the car. My helmeted head hits another helmet— Mick. He looks unnaturally pale. I'm trying to cling to him to stay upright as someone helps peel the top half of my racing suit off me. My other arm is slung over someone's shoulders.

My head drops down and the world turns into nothingness.