Until my Last Breath

70

"Radio check."

My gloves tremble slightly over the steering wheel as I grip it tighter.

"Check," I respond, my voice crackling through the radio into Marco's ear. Just one word. One breath. One beat in a heart that's racing faster than the lights on the gantry above the pit lane.

My visor's down. My name stitched onto the suit along with the number 6. The Red Bull crest heavy on my chest. I can barely believe it's real-but the roar of the crowd beyond the halo, the low growl of the engine behind me, they tell me: this is happening.

I'm sitting in an F1 car. In P18. On the grid. On race day.

No more simulations. No more watching from the garage. No more hypothetical scenarios scribbled into strategy notebooks. This is real. It's now.

Checo's seat had only been mine for twelve hours. And yet-this cockpit, this chaos, this pulse-it feels like I was born for it.

Marco's voice returns in my ear. Calm. Grounding. "You're all set. Expect traffic early on-watch for turn one divebombers. You know the plan."

"Copy," I whisper, more to myself than him. And then, louder: "Tell me I can do this."

"You don't need me to," he replies. "But you will."

My hands adjust the clutch bite point. I lower my head.

Until my last breath.

The five lights blink above me. Each one a nail, a fire, a countdown.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
And then-

Lights out.

I launch off the line. Not perfect, but clean. I immediately swing left to avoid a sluggish Williams, holding the inside. The cars ahead bunch into a blur of color and smoke as brakes lock up into turn one. I avoid the carnage. Two cars run wide-I hold my nerve and slip through on the inside.

P16 by turn two.

Marco updates me through turn five: "Good start, keep it clean. Temperatures look good. Breathe."

I barely do. My chest is tight. But I keep going.

Every corner demands perfection. Every throttle input, every gear shift, every defense and lunge-my entire body is in tune with the car. I can't think about being the only woman on this track. I can't think about the headlines or the history or what Christian said this morning when he looked me dead in the eyes and said, "Make them remember his name."

All I can think about is the car. The race. The next overtake.

By lap 5, I've climbed to P14. My tyres are holding well, and Marco gives me the go-ahead to push.

I make a move on Zhou around the outside of turn three, late braking and trusting the grip that isn't fully there-but it holds. I hear a "Beautiful!" from Marco, but I don't answer. I'm too focused. Focused on the next car. And the next. On surviving. On thriving.

Lap 10. I'm in P13. The pace is good, but I'm starting to feel the rear sliding slightly-mediums beginning to wear. Marco calls me in.

"Box, box. Strat 6 on entry. Watch the pit limiter."

I come in fast and hit the marks perfectly. Tyres off, tyres on. 2.5 seconds.

Back out in P17-but several cars ahead haven't pitted yet. We're on the alternate strategy. I need to push. I need to make this work.

I overtake Sargeant in the DRS zone, dive past a Haas into turn nine, and defend hard into the final chicane. Marco is feeding me data, split times, who's boxing next, what sectors are mine.