Page 33 of The Fast Track
After what feels like the world’s longest second, Dietrich speaks again. “You were patient at Paul Ricard.”
“I promise it wasn’t a one-time—” I start, but he holds up a hand.
“Listen, please. That’s what I need you to do if we’re going to get you to Formula 1.” He smiles. That bright, light-up-your-entire-face smile I’ve only seen on TV so far. Witnessing it live, I feel like Fourth of July fireworks have gone off inside me.
I leap out of my chair and hug him. “Thank you so much.”
Dietrich jerks back in surprise, but loops his arm around my shoulder and pats it once.
“When can we start?” I ask. “Orbital said once a month, so do we count from now? Or maybe our last meeting? Or—”
“Too many questions too quickly.” He chuckles. “I have an idea. Would you like to come shadow me at the British Grand Prix?”
“Oh my god, are you serious?” I screech, fighting the urge to hug him again. The British Grand Prix takes place at Silverstone, one of the most storied circuits. Every legendary driver has raced there. Some people want to spread their ashes there. Just watching the race in the grandstands would be incredible; shadowing Dietrich for the race weekend is beyond my wildest dreams.
“I guess that’s a yes?” He grins, blue eyes twinkling.
“Hell yes!” I yell, feeling like I just scored another podium.
11.
Silverstone Circuit is located thirtyminutes away from Orbital’s campus, making the British Grand Prix as close to a home race as we have. It’s technically the home race for the five other teams that also have their factories nearby, but with Dietrich’s popularity, the grandstands will be packed with fans dressed head to toe in Orbital gear.
The first thing I learn under Dietrich’s tutelage: Formula 1 drivers have a way more demanding marketing schedule than us schlubs in F3. I thought shaking a few hands was annoying, Dietrich is tasked with giving hourlong tours of the OTC to visiting sponsors, big-name journalists, and even foreign dignitaries.
“This,” Dietrich announces as two marketing interns theatrically open the circular vault door to the wind tunnel, “is where we test what the engineers created in the lab.”
Our audience of ten visiting VIPs murmur appreciatively at the all-white, thirty-by-five-hundred-foot cylinder-shaped chamber. The steel turbine at the end of the room, at leasttwice as tall as me, glints like a newly polished spaceship component.
“Magnificent.” The guest nearest me nods. He has a head of thick white hair and is dressed in a plaid blazer with color-coordinated elbow patches. According to Mom, who reviewed the guest list beforehand, he’s none other than Willem Hendriksen, chairman of Orbital’s title sponsor.
“It is remarkable, no?” an Arab sheikh, the CEO of a state-owned investment company, says. He’s rumored to have written Orbital Racing a check for fifty million pounds and Mom specifically instructed me to get airtime with him during the tour. Anyone who has that much money to spend on a team, her reasoning goes, also has money to drop on individual drivers.
I scoot closer. “It took three years to build, and the wind power can go up to one hundred meters per second.”
He jumps, like it’s the first time he’s noticed my presence, even though Dietrich introduced me and I did perfunctory small talk with all the guests at the start of the tour. “Interesting,” he says, then turns away politely.
I roll my eyes internally. Not the first or last time I get the cold shoulder. Billionaires drop checks to talk to F1 champions, not junior drivers tagging along.Sorry, Mom. I tried.
“I could turn on the wind turbine, but Orbital tells me that’s a lawsuit, so we can only look today.” Dietrich delivers the scripted joke with just enough of a twinkle in his eyes that everyone laughs.
“What is the wind speed?” Willem Hendriksen asks.
“One hundred meters per second,” Dietrich responds, and everyone—including the sheikh who brushed me off when I told him the same fact—lets out a string ofoohs.
We continue on, Dietrich in the lead, one of the interns bringing up the tail, and me in the middle doing my best to circulate but mostly getting the same courteous, disinterested treatment from everyone.
Dietrich is impeccable through it all. Knowledgeable, charming, patiently answering 101 questions you’d think someone who’s doling out an astronomical amount of sponsorship money would already know.
“You’re so good at this!” I exclaim as soon as we’ve dropped the group off in the OTC lobby, where Britt will usher them to the next leg of their campus tour.
“Thanks.” Dietrich’s shoulders slump, as if he’s a giant balloon someone’s let the air out of.
“It’s like Britt cooked you up in a PR lab.” At this rate, I’m convinced there’s nothing he can’t do.
“I’m frightened to ask, is that good?”
“Yes! If the goal is to impress sponsors.” Which, according to my understanding of Formula 1 driver duties, is one of the most important markers of success outside winning grands prix.
