On Track For A Legacy (Formula 1)

Déjà vu

Racing, competing, it's in my blood. It's part of me, it's part of my life; I have been doing it all my life and it stands out above everything else.
- Ayrton Senna
____________________________________________

(Arya's P.O.V.)
The moment the car rolls to a stop outside the circuit, the whole world feels like it slows down. The Bahrain International Circuit sprawls ahead, gleaming under the desert sun, the tarmac almost shimmering in the heat. It's a surreal sight, and for a second, I just stare at the vastness of it all. But then, the moment passes, and the reality of what's happening hits me square in the chest. I'm here. For real. The F1 grid. I can see the team garages ahead, the cars lined up along the pit lane, the noise and chaos of the event already swelling in the air. But before I even get to the paddock, I know there's one thing I have to face first: the media. The press has been here all week, camped out along the entrance like vultures waiting for the slightest crack in the facade. Today, it's not just about the race. It's about me. The first woman to enter Formula 1 in decades and the daughter of a legend. Everyone wants to know what it feels like, what I'm thinking, how I plan to compete. The questions come before I even have a chance to open the door to the car. I step out, and before my feet even hit the ground, I hear it. The sharp shouts of photographers, their cameras already snapping away like a thousand cracks of thunder. "Arya! How does it feel to be the first woman in Formula 1 again, since 1992?". "Is it true you're carrying the weight of your father's legacy?". "Do you feel any pressure on your shoulders?". I pull the door shut behind me and turn toward the paddock entrance, trying not to be swayed by the noise. The air is thick with the sound of rapid-fire questions. Voices shout from every direction, blending together in a chaotic rhythm. I walk quickly, not running, but moving with purpose, ignoring the flashing lights. I can feel the heat of their cameras on my face, but I don't stop. I keep my eyes ahead, focused on the gate leading into the paddock. There's a part of me that's used to the attention, used to the questions, but another part-the part that wants nothing more than to get through this without saying a word-just wants to disappear into the safety of the pit. "Arya!" a reporter calls again. "What do you think your father would say if he were here today?". The question stings. It's always the same one. What would he think? Everyone's waiting for me to give them an answer, a soundbite that fits into their narrative. But I'm not here to talk about him today. I'm here to race. I keep walking. The gate is ahead now, and I quicken my pace. The crowd of reporters seems to grow louder as I approach, but I don't flinch. I've prepared myself for this moment. I've trained myself to focus, to tune it out, to block it out. I don't have time for the noise. I don't have time for the questions that are meant to distract. As I step through the gate, I feel a small wave of relief wash over me. There's a brief moment of silence as I cross into the paddock. No cameras here. No microphones. A world that's not filled with the noise of the press, but with the hum of racing engines and the quiet intensity of the teams preparing for the race day. The world outside is now distant, muffled by the thick walls of the paddock, the sound of the race cars, the whir of engineers working, the mechanics prepping the cars. It's a familiar comfort, the stillness inside the paddock that I've always associated with the heart of racing. I take a deep breath, my shoulders relaxing just a little, finally able to shake off the weight of the questions, the expectations, the history they keep pushing onto me. Here, inside the paddock, the noise dies down. The world slows again, and for the first time today, it feels like I can breathe. I look around for a moment, taking it all in: the buzzing team radios, the scattered engineers going over data, the buzz of the cars warming up in the garages. It's real. It's finally real. I don't look back at the gate. The press, the cameras-they can stay out there. Inside this space, I belong. And with that, I walk toward the garage. The pit lane hums with a nervous energy, the sound of tires screeching, the chatter of mechanics, but I don't hear any of it. All I hear is my heartbeat, pulsing in my ears as I step closer to the car. It's finally here. The car. My car. A beast of carbon fiber and steel, every inch a masterpiece. My chest tightens as I take in the sight of it-low, sleek, and powerful, sitting there under the harsh lights like a caged animal, ready to be unleashed. The deep red paint gleams, kissed by silver streaks and sharp black accents. It's a combination of elegance and aggression. Just looking at it, I can already feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I step forward, cautiously, like I'm afraid it might disappear if I move too quickly. I approach the car slowly, feeling the heat of the day still lingering in the air, but it's not the weather that makes my skin tingle. It's the weight of the moment, the realization that I'm standing in front of the very machine I'll race this weekend. I've prepared for this for years, but still, something about the reality of it feels different. I kneel down beside the car, my hand hovering over the tire as I start my inspection. I've studied every inch of this car in the simulator, gone over the details with the engineers until I could recite the setup like a second language. But now, standing here, it feels more real. I run my fingers lightly over the rubber, checking the tire pressures one more time. It feels familiar, like a routine I've practiced over and over. But as my fingers brush against the cool surface of the tire, something clicks. A flash of a memory hits me, unexpected and sudden. I see him, clear as day. My father, in his prime, crouching down in the garage of one of his F1 cars. The garage lights flickering overhead as he meticulously inspects every detail. His hands, strong but careful, tracing the contours of the tires, tapping against the body of the car, checking the alignment of the suspension. The quiet precision with which he moved. It was more than just a final check. It was his ritual. Every race weekend, he would do this, even though his team had already done it all. He would check it all again, his eyes scanning the car like he was reading a blueprint only he could understand. I blink, pushing the memory away, but it's stubborn. It's like his ghost is standing right next to me, watching me do exactly what he did all those years ago. His voice echoes in my mind: "Trust your car. Get to know it. Every single part of it". I shake my head slightly, and my hand moves along the side of the car, tracing the sleek curve of the side pod. The carbon fiber feels cool under my fingers, the faint texture of it familiar, almost comforting. As I run my hand along the surface, I can almost hear his voice again, a soft murmur of advice: "You have to feel every part of the car as if it's an extension of your own body. Don't just look at it. Know it". My breath catches for a moment as I reach the rear wing. I can't help but pause, the memory flooding in again. I see him-leaning over the car, his eyes narrowing as he checks the setup of the rear aerodynamics, making sure everything is aligned just right. His hand would linger over certain parts of the car longer than others, tapping lightly at times, adjusting parts as if making sure it was all working as one machine. I've seen those videos a thousand times, replayed the footage from races, watching him before the lights went out. I've even been in the garage as he did it, showing me the details of the car. Explaining why that part was supposed to be set in a certain way. It's strange, this feeling of déjà vu. As if, in some way, I'm living out a moment from the past. But I can't afford to get lost in those memories. Not now. Not when I'm on the verge of something so much bigger than nostalgia. I press on, checking the rear suspension, examining the fine details, the little things most people don't notice. A soft click of the steering wheel as I adjust it slightly, a final glance at the suspencion, the mirrors, the fine-tuning of rear-wing. It's all coming together in this ritual I never imagined I'd be part of. I've seen my father do it a thousand times, watched him go through the motions, but now I understand. This is where the connection to the car begins. This is where you become one with the machine. Everything is in place. It feels right. Another memory hits. This time it's one of him, sitting in the cockpit, adjusting the pedals, tightening his grip on the wheel before the race. The look in his eyes: calm, focused, certain. I remember how he would always make the car feel like it was an extension of his body. He never questioned it. It was always about trusting the machine, trusting himself. "You look like him" A voice snaps me out of my trance. It's Sebastian Vettel, standing a few feet away, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. I don't answer right away. Sebastian's words linger in the air, an unexpected echo of my father's presence, and I freeze for a moment, the weight of them settling on my shoulders like a heavy, unseen hand. The old memories flood back, and I see my father in his prime: calm, controlled, a force of nature behind the wheel. His quiet confidence, the way he would run his hands over the steering wheel before a race as if grounding himself, connecting with the car in a way I didn't understand until now. I always thought it was just a ritual, a superstition, but standing here, in this very moment, I realize it was something more. The car, is an extension of everything he was-focused, driven, precise. And somehow, it's become mine too. "Do I?" I finally ask, my voice barely above a whisper. I turn to Sebastian, still standing a few feet away, watching me with an unreadable expression. His smile is softer now, knowing the gravity of what he just said. "Yeah," he says, nodding slowly. "You've got that same look in your eyes. Like you're already part of the car". I shake my head, swallowing hard, trying to steady the emotions churning inside me. It's hard to explain. Hard to even process the whirlwind of pride, grief, and determination that's swarming in my chest. "Guess I'm still learning how to trust it the way he did" I say, my voice quieter now, like I'm speaking more to myself than to anyone else. My hand moves across the rear wing again, checking one last time, fingers tracing the fine-tuned adjustments, the work that goes into every little detail. I feel my father's presence again-how he'd meticulously adjust things until they felt just right. How it wasn't about perfection, but about finding the balance, the rhythm. Sebastian steps a little closer, his gaze softening. "It's not something you can rush" he says quietly, as if he's been there himself. "Trust comes over time. But it's there. You've got the instinct. And you've got the bloodline". I feel something deep inside shift-a flicker of understanding, of realization. Maybe it wasn't about making the car feel like an extension of myself. Maybe it was about trusting it to become a part of me. Sebastian looks at me for a long moment, then speaks "Don't overthink it. Let it come naturally".

Published: 24th of November 2024