Page 35 of The Fast Track

The stillness takes a sharp turn when we get within a couple miles of Silverstone. The atmosphere goes from peaceful pastoral to pure pandemonium. Fans are lined up along the path leading to the paddock entrance, the vast majority holding signs celebrating Dietrich or Orbital Racing. There are also a few signs dissing Orbital’s biggest rival, Marino. The windows of our car are tinted but not nearly dark enough to hide from astute fans. The adulatory screams start as soon as they realize who’s inside.

Entering the paddock with Dietrich is an otherworldly experience. As soon as we pass security check, what feels like every single journalist covering the race weekend comes swarming over. They walk backward in front of us, next to us, behind us, giant cameras held high, boom mics dangling inches in front of our faces. Fans on special-access behind-the-scenes tours whip out their phones when they spot us coming.

For the first time since I’ve been in Europe, all eyes are on me—and it’s not because I’ve spun.

“How do you fancy your chances today, Dietrich?”

“Otto said it’s looking like a tough weekend. Thoughts there?”

“Justine, any comments on the Grayson Holmes F1 rumors? How’re your prospects for an F2 seat next season with this move?”

My heart skips a beat at the voice. I’d recognize the legendary F1 commentator anywhere. I’ve been watching him on TV as far back as I remember, and now he’s asking me about my career like he actually cares.

“H-hey, Martin,” I stutter, hoping I sound less starstruck than I feel.Keep your cool; they won’t take you seriously if you act like an obsessed fan (even if you are one). I’m so distracted trying to think of a response that balances professional confidentiality with the truth, I almost walk into the mic hanging in front of my face.

“Gentlemen, let her breathe, please.” Dietrich places his hand on my back and azingshoots up and down my spine. He guides me gently so I’m walking between him and Niels.

The reporters around us laugh, and for a second I’m afraid it’s because I’m blushing so hard at Dietrich’s touch, then I realize they’re chuckling at themselves. It’s kind, indulgent. The definition of “laughing with you, not at you,” which I’ve rarely experienced up until now.

We make our way toward the Orbital garage with our entourage of reporters hovering, weaving around PR teams on their way to briefings, mechanics pushing trolleys of tires, caterers toting food trays. Everyone either pauses to stare or tries to play it cool by looking away, but in a way that makes it obvious they’ve noticed.

Even Mateo Bianchi, the CEO of Scuderia Marino, nods at us as he walks past. “Good luck, Dietrich. Justine.”

I almost faint.Mateo Bianchi knows who I am. I’m pretty sure I saw his assistant whisper my name in his ear right before he greeted us, but still, that he bothered to acknowledge me at all is huge. Marino is the oldest and most successful team, ever. I was—and still am, not that I’d ever admit to Frank—a massive fan. Their red flag, emblazoned with the iconic leaping-leopard logo, has been hanging on the wall of my old bedroom for years.

I’m giddy and lightheaded at the attention and adulation. If this is what it means to be an F1 driver—finally seen, finally taken seriously—I want it even more than I already did.

Orbital’s Formula 1 garage is not only three times the size of our F3 team’s but also magnitudes more sophisticated. Their setup resembles a NASA mission control center. The space teems with people—150, to be exact, and that’s not including the army back at headquarters working on upgrades for the next race. Trackside, there’s aerodynamicists at their screens calibrating last-minute configurations, mechanical engineers checking setup, race strategists analyzing historical data—everyone dedicated to squeezing out every last ounce of advantage and speed.

My heart thrills. More than anything, I want this—the relentless pursuit of competition, of winning.

I’m shown to my seat next to Otto Warner, Orbital’s F1team principal, while Dietrich disappears to prep. When Frank told me I’d be sitting next to Otto for the race, I thought it was a place of honor, but then he said it’s to ensure I stay out of everyone’s way. Otto wasn’t a big fan of letting me shadow in the first place, according to Frank, but Dietrich insisted.

Being such a good driver that you can overrule the team principal—though apparently not to get out of giving factory tours—that’s the kind of influence I can only dream about having.

From the giant broadcasting screen, I watch Dietrich and nineteen other F1 drivers complete their installation laps and line up on the grid. Pit crews swarm around the cars, mechanics wrapping tires in heated blankets to keep them warm, assistants holding jumbo umbrellas over the drivers to make sure they don’t get dehydrated.

An FIA official gives the all-clear signal. At the very last second possible, the mechanics strip the warming blankets and other performance enhancers away and retreat, leaving only the twenty cars and their drivers on-track.

There’s action from the very start. Dietrich and the pole-sitter, Warren Thompson of Marino, swap places starting on the first turn. Dietrich sweeps past around the outside, but Thompson fights back on the next corner, coming so close they nearly touch.

“Send it, Dietrich!” I yell, slipping off my stool and jumping up and down.

He finally gets the better of Thompson at Woodcote. The garage erupts as he overtakes and stays ahead.

“Your son is amazing!” I shout at Niels Lange, who reappeared at some point prior to the opening lap and is now hovering to my right.

He gives me a thin smile. “He is driving well, but the race is not over yet.”

Dietrich proceeds to give a master class. By Lap 38, he’s pulled out an incredible fifteen seconds ahead of second place.

“Come on,” I mutter. “Get that pit window.”

“It’s on purpose,” Niels says. It’s the first time he’s spoken in at least thirty minutes. “He’s got the pace to be a full window ahead of Thompson, but he’s preserving his tires.”

The words are barely out of Niels’s mouth when a Williams driver loses control and goes spinning out, taking a Haas with him. They crawl to the side of the circuit and the drivers get out, marshals armed with fire extinguishers rushing in.

Like clockwork, the hunter-green Aston Martin safety car pulls onto the track in front of Dietrich, halving his speed. Behind him, the others rapidly cut away the fifteen-second gap he built. I ball my fists. All that lead work put in, gone to waste in less than a half minute.