Debutant. Chapter 6. Test of the pen. Part 1

This novel is fictional; there is no need to look for intersections with historical events. This is a continuation of “Debutant” by Nikita Savelyev, the first readers of which were readers of F1News.ru…

Chapter 6. Test of the pen. Part One

Upshift, one more, accelerate on the straight line. We look at the number of revolutions on the tachometer. Time to slow down. Transfers down. Take your foot off the accelerator. The lever is tight, let the mechanics fix it. And it’s just an indescribable feeling: Henry is in another world again. There is only you and your iron horse, only tremendous speed and incredible passion, a strong wind in your face and every second of risk in every turn.

The configuration of the French circuit resembled a fat stingray: four long straights, connected by flowing curves, and a short winding “tail”. For a novice racer, the distance is easy to remember. There is even something from the favorite American ovals, but you have to get used to the new reality – in Europe, as a rule, there are much more turns in the circle.

Previously he had passed this corner in second gear, but he felt strong enough to get through it in third gear. To eat! Happened! Henry wrote out the first laps as carefully as possible, now he has to add pace. He didn’t just start this adventure to fall behind. And let us not delay in vain here either. Eh! How could Henry live so long without racing?!

What Henry feared most on his first day at the track was not the track itself, but the participant registration process. Who is he actually, by European standards? An amateur racer who only competed in American competitions on a national scale and only one world competition, with everything falling into the abyss. How can they not allow that? But no one thought to dig deep. The neat, neat old man from the sports federation was not at all surprised by the certificate from the American Auto Club. It has not yet occurred to officials to introduce restrictions depending on experience or results, so that every young person from tens of thousands of racers around the world could, thanks to such a small ticket, participate in top-level competitions.

Henry identified himself as a private pilot from Minnesota and habitually lied about his achievements to avoid looking like a complete black sheep. The main thing is not to usurp the laurels of the winner – they will suddenly check it, but they have never seen a complete register of winners here. You can always point to an error; Henry’s surname is the most common. The old man diligently recorded the data in a list and routinely wished him good luck in the opening stages.

Henry clearly felt how another sound was mixed with the smooth chirping of his engine (it is difficult to get used to low-power European engines). What is this? Oh you… Henry realized as he looked in the small rearview mirrors: a stocky, predatory silhouette with a sharp nose loomed very close. Red is Monetti’s color. The opponent is clearly faster, it seems that Henry “dragged” him for a while. What better way to skip it? Now they just make some slow turns. Henry pushed himself to the side of the road, it’s quite narrow here. Probably better on a straight line? But pilot Monetti did not wait and rushed into the narrow corridor. The scarlet side came very close, Henry saw a grinning face behind the wide lenses of his glasses. It was blown by a hurricane wind. Henry’s left edge hit the side of the road and completely lost momentum. The opponent rushed forward and Henry came to his senses after a few turns. It’s so dangerous to fuck him, but this is just training. It turns out that over the years I have lost the habit of fighting from wheel to wheel.

During the three-week period between the first and second legs of the championship, Baker purchased a second Thomson chassis without any problems and BGS engines were agreed. So far they had only given two engines, so they had to be used sparingly. The result was that under Henry’s ass was a three-year-old chassis and last year’s engine. Well, to add to this somewhat time-stained design, there’s a fresh-faced Henry, without the slightest performing experience. We urgently need to get back into shape. No joke.

Henry pulled the leather gloves from his hands, his fingers trembling a little from the unusual tension, unfastened the clasp of his goggles, took the helmet off his head and stepped out of the cramped cockpit. Stretch your legs – in Europe the pilot controls the car in a lying position. It’s unusual, to be honest.

– How is my time? – Henry asked Sandra cheerfully.

“Honestly, not really,” she clicked the stopwatch button. – Nearly twelve seconds behind Murphy’s first place.

– How many?!

– Sorry, Henry.

– And Georges?

– In eight seconds.

Out of anger, Henry almost kicked the innocent tire. Of course he did not expect excellent results in the opening, but not so depressing…

– Don’t be angry, the main thing is that you learned the track and saved your car. You’ll do better next session,” Baker puffed serenely on his cigar.

– Shall we try to do something? – Henry looked helplessly at the mechanics.

– We have selected the most optimal settings. “Get some rest, you’re excited,” Adam advised.

Georges came with his usual sour mug and chuckled faintly when he heard Henry’s result. The Frenchman was very concerned that the idea of ​​his partner would undermine his authority in the team. But contrary to expectations, the triumph is not noticeable on Georges’ face.

“Almost no one succeeds the first time,” the Frenchman shrugged. “Come on, let me introduce you to the boys, they’re gathered there.”

– Let’s go, shall we…

“I’ll give you a few tips on how to find the best route,” Georges said along the way. – This is the seventh or eighth time I race here.

– Wow.

“Hold old Georges.”

The racers stood in a semicircle wearing identical white and gray fireproof overalls, pure peas from the same pod. Zippers are unzipped because of the heat, goggles are pulled down like fighter pilots’, helmets hang from their hands, gloves are in their pockets. The smell of cigarettes and carefree laughter can be heard.

Carlo Rinaldo, an agile, dark-haired Italian with sharp features, was having the most fun. His main competitor, Murphy, on the other hand, stood to the side and smiled somewhat embarrassedly. As befits a true Brit, he appeared to be slim and fit. Among the others, Henry recognized his acquaintance, the Australian Michael Stanton, and the handsome Frenchman Jean-Luc Dubois, Monetti’s co-pilot. He also drew attention to a young, short man wearing shoulder-length tunics. Of course, following the example of the world famous Fab Four. This must be Jeffrey Spencer, like Henry, a newcomer to the championship. Thomson races the same one, but for a factory team. There they obviously used the most advanced model of their chassis and sold the previous variants alongside it. And the difference in speed between them and their customers was quite noticeable. After the race in the Netherlands, all that was talked about was Jeffrey’s brilliant debut. It’s okay, give it time, and Henry will catch up.

When they showed up, the conversations didn’t stop; only a few riders nodded hospitably to Georges, without interrupting their activities. As Henry understood, the conversation was about Rinaldo’s purchase of a new house. His comrades gave advice with great interest; they heard absolutely unfamiliar names of places, apparently Italian or French. The required number of rooms was hotly debated: it turns out that the productive Rinaldo got not only a wife, but also two offspring.

– None of us would refuse to live on the coast, admire the sunsets, dive into the morning waves, play with the children on the sand, but where do you get so much money, my friend? – Stanton asked reasonably.

“I’m going to America to conquer the Brick,” Rinaldo smiled carelessly. – The prize is one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I think it’s enough for a modest house on the coast.

The comrades gasped with joy; the amount was truly astonishing.

“Not once has a European run on an oval,” Spencer noted.

“Someone has to be first,” Rinaldo shrugged carelessly.

“We all dream about it,” Murphy agreed. – But what about the championship calendar? There is no extra time to go abroad. No matter how much I racked my brain, it just wouldn’t work, racing both here and in the United States on the same weekend.

“We have time, we’ll think of something,” Rinaldo waved away.

– How do these Yankees do it?! – Dubois was indignant. – What luck if we take ten for the win!

– Do you remember which stage this top ten is for?! – Rinaldo supported him. – One more time for the American one. But you don’t always want to go to Belgium or England.

“That’s why you’re so eager to trade,” Stanton nudged him cheerfully with his elbow.

“Youth takes its toll,” Rinaldo snapped. – I always wanted to eat enough.

Henry sighed to himself; National pride was of course flattered because the arrogant inhabitants of the Old World spoke respectfully of American royalty, but there was one clarification. There are tons of different racers in the United States, but there aren’t that many winners among them. Everything is as usual: the cream of the crop goes to the lucky minority, and the majority is forced to vegetate. And you can’t do anything about it. However, Henry is not against such laws of life, only on the condition that he himself will be among the privileged pilots.

“Of course they are rambunctious guys there, but celebrities are home alone, don’t forget that,” Murphy added. – The status of our championship is much higher.

“We remember that you are a world champion, have no doubt about it,” Dubois teased him.

“It has nothing to do with it,” Murphy said, somewhat embarrassed.

“But sometimes it is tempting to pocket twice or even three times as much for a race, even if it is called a city championship,” Rinaldo shrugged.

“I won’t argue about it, but we’re not racing for money,” Murphy said. “Otherwise everyone would have moved abroad by now.”

“But something really needs to be resolved with the prize money,” Stanton noted with concern. – Knowledgeable people whispered to me that the circuit management actually makes quite a lot of money on tickets, beer, hot dogs and other nonsense. The zeros there are off the charts. But for some reason only pennies reach us.

“I heard it,” Rinaldo grumbled. “The local authorities will cut off a piece, then the bigwigs of the capital, and then the motorsport committee will catch up and all kinds of strange people. Everything fell apart. And of course the autodrome doesn’t rob itself. And when the prize money for victory is almost in our hands, it is the stable owner’s turn. But old Mario, I tell you, does not forget his advantages.

– Does the team leader take half of everyone’s profits? – Jeffrey Spencer asked politely.
“If it’s half that, you’re lucky,” Rinaldo chuckled. – And you, my friend, don’t you start thinking about victories too early?

“I’m talking about the future,” Jeffrey smiled modestly.

“Then figure out how to survive,” Rinaldo said, pointing to Murphy. – We share victories mainly with this man. And even fewer are entitled to your share. Get used to it. Not in America.

– Friends, meet, this is Henry. Just a racer from the United States,” Georges interjected. – We are now exhibiting a second car.

== To be continued…