Chapter Text
Red Bull threatening Mercedes’ dominance on the grid
👤 F1 Correspondent Ahmad Park
The tyres are smoking. For Red Bull’s Brad Colbert pre-season testing started with spinning out in Bahrain on the first day, but topped on the third together with his teammate Ray Person. The latter reporting that their new machine is stable, with the RB16B responding quickly to set-up changes. The Honda power unit seems to be in a great shape this year, promising to be a real match against Mercedes. Our data suggest they have a 0.5s advantage over the reigning world champion in terms of short-run pace. Colbert wasn’t quick to celebrate, it’s early days of course, but seemed pleased when looking back on his performance.
Rivals Mercedes’ W12 was a handful. On opening morning Mike Wynn finished after a pitiful six laps due to a gearbox problem. World champion Nathaniel Fick doesn’t seem to have a lot of confidence in the car as of yet, spinning out not only on the second day, but again on the third. The rear end not behaving to his liking. “We still have a lot of work to do,” Fick commented. Mercedes only managed 304 laps. The team concerned by their lack of performance on low fuel, not improving as much on the softer compounds as anticipated.
READ NEXT: Wynn claims 2021 title still possible despite the challenges during pre-season
BAHRAIN GRAND PRIX 2021 - POST QUALIFYING
Ray offers him another soggy custard cake uncovered from god knows where. Likely some dank, hidden cabinet in his trailer, which Brad declines, dipping the plastic spoon in the puddle of minty ice cream instead. It tastes like globs of toothpaste scooped out of a fucking cesspool.
Brad tells him as much.
“Tough shit.” Ray tips his head up towards the night sky. His idiotic sunglasses reflect the lights. “I’m not the sissy playing peek-a-boo with SkyNews.”
Brad may be a little bitch about it, but he’s already exhausted from the traveling circus.
The season has just kicked off and the hyenas without the right passes are back yapping away behind the barriers of the paddock. It’s not just SkyNews or ESPN or the cons at Eurosport, nowadays it's a whole different fucking breed. Fueled to get the scoop behind the trending headline or hashtag from the latest shill writing for MotoGP.
Vapid smiles and questions so asinine he theorizes legitimately answering them will give anyone cerebral hemorrhage.
Theorizing is Ray’s artistry. Brad makes sure he’s skedaddled before they come running and thrust a camera into his face. However, he can’t evade them all. It’s part of the package. The downside of knowing what the fuck you’re supposed to be doing in a modded soapbox.
Too bad his talents don’t include effectively pleasing them without straining his sanity, to the chagrin of dear Kelly and her lady nuts. His PR manager knows how to pick the supporters from the vultures to talk shop, but tonight is qualifying and even she can’t cease all the drivel.
Is he hiding? Maybe.
RBR’s motorhome does have a nice little dugout at the back, though, and they haven’t been able to jump him yet. Outside of the required obligations that is.
“Our prodigal son returns,” Ray announces, peeking over the rim of his glasses.
Of course, Fick finds him, but then again he always does. Materializing out of thin air fresh from the media pen like a dog seeking scraps. Even if Ray’s junk is anything but desirable.
He’s still red. Hair in disarray, plastered against his sweaty forehead with a few tufts sticking up. The outer layer of his suit is rolled down to his hips, exposing the white fireproofs underneath.
“Congrats on pole,” Fick says while he walks up and he means it. “Close call.”
Qualifying had been full of surprises. Giddy excitement intermingling with a healthy dose of nervosity and good-natured feuds sprouting from the tarmac.
Newcomer Trombley notably upchucks in Patterson’s and Hasser cereal by rudely overtaking in the final sector, followed by losing control on the first corner and parking his suspension into the wall. Ruining their changes to set a better lap time and throwing them out for Q2.
Ray fell victim to an unsuccessful tyre gamble, as did Christesson and Stafford. Mclaren did well, Poke knew what he was doing. Williams fell short. The Alfa Romeos ended the session on 12th and 14th.
Brad had already wiped the floor during free practice, but that had been nothing but cocking around and boasting feathers. The real excitement came with Q3 and he would’ve been lying if he denied the buzzing in his fingertips while he gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.
If Ray wants to add being a whiny bitch to his resume, he can be painfully melodramatic too.
That, the exhilaration building up around every corner undercut by a frigid focus mounting his brain, like a tunnel vision with a chequered flag at the end, is why he dealt with anything and everything. He wakes up every morning chasing a high. Climbing a ladder where the steps keep giving out under his weight.
“You almost kissed my ass off the circuit. No need to snivel about it,” Brad says, squinting to catch Fick’s eyes gleaming brilliant cut in the floodlights.
Not everyone gets caught up in the same snare. The passion is there, of course, but sometimes it delves a little deeper. He only found it sparingly in others. A need that can’t be scratched as easily. It’s never enough, there’s always more. There’s always faster, faster.
Nate Fick understands.
“Almost,” he retorts, quietly but not lacking any bite. “Not yet.”
Brad doesn’t even need to hear him utter the words, he sees it clear enough. That same determination that runs through his own veins staring back. He felt it stalking his rear all the way down the track. It only intensified when he claimed pole with a 0.013s advantage. Fick taking 2nd and Mike 3rd. The Ferraris filling the gap.
Now it steps over his spread-out legs, settling next to him on the ground. Shoulder to shoulder, rubbing the sweat from his face and smelling like a cheap five-in-one body wash from Walmart.
Brad hands him the moist tub of ice cream. The desert air is cold now, but the carton of the tub is starting to crumble, disintegrating underneath the warmth of his fingertips.
“You’re shivering my fucking timbers, Fick.”
“Not bad for a spineless driver,” Fick shrugs. He presses the tub against his forehead and closes his eyes, a little smile pulling on the left corner of his lips.
Brad swivels his gaze forward.
“I told them you could use a bit more spine in your overtaking,” he explains as if Fick can’t read between the lines. “Skip over to Haas’s, their new cretin has enough for the whole fucking grid.”
Ray huffs. “Man, that kid is something else. Why do we always get the psychos?” He dips a custard cake in the remains of his ice cream, staring at the mixture like it holds the answer to their current predicament. “Bets on dear Timmy getting another ulcer removed in Portugal.”
Not that far-fetched. Brad saw him storming off the pitlane.
Putting Trombley in an open-wheel will be the sword of Damocles propelling their fucking heads in a ditch if he isn’t carefull. On the other hand, he sees the potential. If only the kid knew the difference between braking and full-throttle.
“Jog my memory Ray,” he starts, leaning back against the ribbed wall and switching to his familiar wry derision. “But didn’t you cause a six wagon pile-up during your latest stint jerking off on that barnacled tetanus trap with the inbreds?”
Ray makes a face.
“Don’t bring NASCAR into this, you uncultured swine,” he sneers, turning his attention to Fick. “Not to dump on your parade, but Kelly told us not to fraternize with the enemy.”
Fick opens one eye. “By all means, Person.”
“You’re on the wrong side of the border, homes.” He abandons his ice-cream on the ground. “What the hell did you Mercs do between pre-season anyway? Was that gay ass Autodromo commercial a metaphor? You can say it. We’re not going to tattle.”
Fick pauses. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth and Brad knows that whatever comes out of his mouth next is built on the same deranged, incontestable claptrap he delivers doe-eyed on the daily when winter turns into spring.
“The team has been working very hard,” he says, all cordial. “We’ve had some issues due to the-”
“Yeah, yeah. Jesus- You’re no game Fick,” Ray cuts him off. “What? Are they swapping brains now back at the factory?”
He wildly gestures around, either insulting the surrounding motorhomes or hinting at what miracles lay undiscovered beyond.
“I swear to god, it’s like I’m talking to a motherfucking build-a-bear on-”
“Ray, shut the fuck up,” Brad says, a bit too harshly.
Ray pushes his sunglasses higher on the bridge of his nose and squabbles upright. Brushing the dust from his knees. “Gotta take a piss.”
“Ray-” Brad tries, but he’s already walking off, waving his concerns away over his shoulder before disappearing around a corner.
The balloon filled with pent-up frustration since that botched strategic decision close to popping. Brad doesn’t know if it would be wise to hunt him down or let him stew a little. Ray being Ray either finds another nook to square his shit or some unsuspecting soul to subject to his voluble mind.
Fick is one step ahead.
“Leave him be, he’ll be fine,” he says, softly. “It’s been a long week.”
Sure, he’ll be, but it’s only one week of many.
Brad sighs. “He’s just pissed because Julian and the Brady bunch ditched on the softs.”
There is more to it. Fick isn’t stupid. He regards him closely, pupils darting back and forth in search of something. The light scattering of freckles doubled during the course of the week, a pink hue blooming underneath his skin.
“It’s fine, Brad. Everybody’s tense.”
“Even our reigning world champion?” Brad asks, juggling the topic on its head, and grins when Fick suddenly reclines and refuses to meet his eyes. No wonder only the mention of the title shies him away, even if he spilled the blood under his nails to earn it. There’s pride there, too, strumming in the quench of his jaw and stiffing posture. As if Brad would ever undermine it.
Fick shakes his head.
“That hard to believe?” he asks in return, raising a brow.
“You tell me,” Brad prods, following a drop of sweat rolling down the hollow of his throat. “Did the fanboys at F1 TV Pro spy with their little eyes a stowaway tear?”
Fick wipes at his neck, conscious of Brad’s gaze. “I don’t think my body is capable of losing any more fluids,” he remarks dryly. “If you’re trying to insult me, try harder.”
“Is that a challenge?”
Fick turns back around. Alight with an intensity that is both alluring and intimidating at the same time.
“Sure Brad, make me weep.”
* * *
BAHRAIN GRAND PRIX 2021 - POST QUALIFYING, TOP 3 PRESS CONFERENCE
There’s nothing inherently fucked-up about daring to fantasize of a career bound to be in the spotlight. Some kids dreamed of being doctors. Neuro, orthopedic or thoracic surgeons spelled with a Z. Unaware in their youthful innocence that most aspirations of that nature include becoming part of the 44 million Americans owning a combined $1.7 trillion in student loan debts. Some aspired to be firefighters, dancers, evolving into the next karate kid without the wedgies during recess. Crudely drawn in crayons to be carried home and stuck on the fridge.
Brad wanted to drive.
He imagined it when he spotted the turquoise livery in a magazine on a rack and wanted it the moment he saw Räikkönen overtaking Fisichella in Suzuka on the boxy television in the living room.
The world within the Formula 1 bubble is colored in various nuances of fucked, be it the politics, contracts that don’t hold any value at all, and the FIA with their double standards. There was never anything fucked-up about his little fantasy until it turned into a reality and the boogeyman was no longer hiding underneath the bed. Adorned in a three-piece suit instead, who deals the most severe finger-wagging or carries a microphone with a Panasonic looming over their shoulders.
It’s a cutthroat business. They can make you or leave you the legacy of a meager annotation on a Wikipedia page.
Brad doesn’t need the bootlickers and the affirmation. He knows he’s good, there’s no reason for any half-baked mental gymnastics to undermine that argument. It’s the sole reason he’s here. Good enough to handle the RA620H power unit and good enough that Red Bull GmbH hasn’t booted his ass out on the curb three years running.
“-and taking the eleventh pole position of his formula one career, his first here in Bahrain in fact, our pole-sitter Brad Colbert. Brad,” Jon catches his eye, “Congratulations. That was a very exciting session to watch. How was it from behind the wheel?”
Brad screws the cap back on the bottle and scrapes his throat. “First lap wasn’t anything to write home about. Hit a curb. We switched to medium tyres in Q2 and getting in Q3 is just looking back on your references. The team did a great job, as always.”
He likes Jon. He absconds from dragging a dead horse through the room and poking it with a stick for good measure. The small island on the crown of his head has grown in prominence, poorly hidden by wisps of grey combed to one side.
“And Brad, can you describe the feeling of taking pole position? It’s the first race of the season after all. You’ve proved that the pace is real. Is there a sense of relief among the team?”
“It’s what you aim for,” he says.
Unbeknownst to many who haven’t done their research, in a bid to try and beat Mercedes, it was decided to push the Honda unit for this season instead of 2022. Fully aware of the risks of only having six months in total to complete the design before pre-season testing.
They got lucky.
“Weaknesses from last season have been addressed and improved. The regulations didn’t change a lot, which turned out to be in our favor.” He sniffs. "So- Yes. It's safe to say we're pleased with the results."
Jon nods. “You mentioned hitting a curb in Q1. Any damage?”
“Nothing major.”
“Great stuff, well done.”
Tony said to him one time, in his infinite wisdom, that the white man has the uncanny ability to either willingly fuck up anything he sets foot upon, or fuck up any given situation that was already fucked-up regardless trying to un-fuck it.
Brad wants to drive.
Brad wants to drive even though he knows driving includes the fucknuttery.
He can’t change it without vaporizing the glass palace he’d spent so many years constructing on the cliff-side. He’s not sure he ever could now that he acquired a taste for it. Brad dreamed and now he’s living his dream and at times like these, feet planted in the dark blue carpet while Jon drones on and sipping imitation Gatorade, he wonders what kind of fucked-up parents ever allowed him to.
Right, they didn’t. Not really.
It’s mostly his own goddamn conviction and lucky sponsorships that paved the path.
On his right, Fick shifts his weight on the plastic chair. He must’ve taken a quick shower, changed into a black shirt to match the logoed cap, but hasn’t managed to wash away the remains of the sun. Even his ears are blushing.
Jon shuffles his little stack of cards.
“Nate, turning to you. Close on the timesheets today! Closer than you expected after winter testing?”
“Definitely.” Fick leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. His gaze strays from Jon to the gaggle of journalists gathered before them. “We predicted the gap would be double the amount of what we’ve seen tonight, so it comes down to some amazing work from the men and women back at the factory. Collectively as a team, we’re really pulling together.”
“And what was the car like to drive? How much and where have you improved since testing?”
Fick doesn’t miss a beat. Ray’s outburst holds some value; it’s like listening to a pre-recorded voice stitched into a bio-engineered person suit pieced together on an assembly line between the chassis and bargeboards.
That’s what Brad tries to tell himself, but truly, it isn’t.
“There wasn’t really a big development.” Fick pauses as if gauging the room. “It’s been more about fine-tuning the car and trying to understand the- the envelope that we have is different from last year’s.”
Put “the car is a colossal downgrade from last season and now we have to compete with the team better known to the ignorant public for its foul, caffeinated drinks” on the transcript.
It’s arresting how Fick doesn’t need to raise his voice much at all to capture all the attention, a slight stutter the only crack in his vocal barrage. All perfectly packaged in an irrefutable gift wrap with paper roses singing bull the cherry on top. He could claim the sky is neon pink at night and the stars made out of hunks of cheese and anyone would fucking believe it.
Somewhere hidden in the shadows, Kelly is silently fuming in a corner. Brad can smell it.
“Final question from me Nate, do you think you’ve got the pace to challenge the guy on your left in the race tomorrow?”
“It’ll be difficult to say, with the pace gap they had tonight. Usually, they carry that through into the race.” Fick smiles. “I think we can close the gap a little.”
“Thank you Nate, well done. Mike, coming to you. It seemed your pace improved throughout the session. Just talk us through it and where the car improved from Q1 to Q3.”
Mike shrugs.
“Tricky. Took a while to find confidence in the car. Lost a bit of grip in a few corners. Lap Time wasn’t top-notch.” Like his teammate his response has the same melody of PR injectate, though unlike Fick colored with an innate nonchalance born from years upon years of facing the same drivel. “I disagreed with the set in Q1, so we wasted the tyres when switching again in Q3. It- Uh... Wasn’t optimal, but in the end I’m pleased with the results.”
“Thank you Mike, well done.” Jon swivels in the chair towards the journalists. “Now let’s open this to the floor now, and we’re going to start with Teddy Rhodes from Autosport.”
“This is a question to both the Mercedes drivers. You seem to be in genuinely good spirits despite the defeat. Is that because of the turnaround that you feel from testing? Or is it the excitement of a genuine battle with Red Bull?”
Fick shares a glance with Mike, who gestures for him to take the lead, before clearing his throat. “Of course, we want to be first, but we knew from day one on the track that the Red Bull was faster than us- We had an uphill battle, so we’re just very proud of everyone’s efforts.”
Teddy Rhodes from Autosport nods.
Brad fiddles with the bottle in his hands and wonders if the palm tree at the back of the room is real.
“Well, we’re not really happy to be behind Red Bull, but at least we can see we’ve made progress. It’s been some positive steps forward, but there’s a lot more work to do.” Mike throws a fat wink in Brad's direction. “We’re upbeat because we have two cars against one of them.”
Brad snorts. “Hold thy breath until the humgruffin gets unleashed.”
The microphone doesn’t fully catch his words, as intended. Mike snickers good-naturedly and Teddy Rhodes from Autosport opens his mouth again for a follow up.
“Thank you, we will be going to Errol Schaefer from ESPN.” Jon quickly redirects the room. Parting the Yam Suph of slight confusion to the next compelling inquiry.
The journalist is a gaunt little fellow, with a dark green suit jacket that is too wide in the shoulders.
It's not a face that turns on a lightbulb in Brad's brain.
“Two questions for Nate and Brad.” The journalist starts. “Nate, the long runs on the medium suggested you and Brad were pretty much neck on neck for pace on average, why the pessimism from you on that basis in terms of race pace? Do you think Red Bull has a good chance of outrunning Mercedes entirely this season?”
Fick answers, voice even and guarded. “That’s just from the information that I’ve been given and from what I have seen on the track. Our balance wasn’t that spectacular, but it wasn’t the worst run.”
Then he turns slightly to Brad, lashes gold where they rest on his skin when he casts his eyes to the table. Almost demurely.
“I think it’s a bit too early to speculate, but I’m looking forward to having a strong competition on the track.”
Jesus. Brad wants to take a dump in the Trevi fountain. Topple the discobolus and draw some eyebrows on Mona Lisa’s pompous face.
The journalist trudges on. “And Brad, do you have the confidence in taking a shot at the championship this year? We’ve seen some nail-biting battling on the track in the past. Are you worried about being left in the gravel again?”
Make me weep. Sure, he can try.
“No gravel this year.” Brad leans forward, mirroring Fick’s figure. “Fick needs to realize he’ll be turned into an unsalted beef patty found in the parking lot of a fucking Wendy’s if he tries,” he says, not even aiming for a flawless delivery or dragging out a vowel.
The journalist opens his mouth, closes it, and sits back down. In his periphery, Fick angles his face just so. Hiding his eyes but not quite the uptick of his lips.
Brad swallows a laugh.
It’s all balls-to-the-wall fucked, but besides the rush behind the wheel, he can at least try to get something out of it.
* * *
🐊 @smoothalligator02
catfight! https://youtube.be//tl7_fr34 via YouTube #colbertvsfick #bahrain2021gp
↪ Bentastic 🏁🏎️ @formulafick985
istg if we don’t get some good dueling this season #fuckhimupfick
↪ Heahter @heathersssparklesss
i smell #peanutbuttergate2019 #peanutbuttergate2021 anyone??
🥤 @raysmilkshake114
ray drinking his fucking monster with a hotpink bendy straw talking shit.
this season is going to be so unhinged i’m calling it #raypersonforpresident #bahrain2021gp
what the tin says @hostileshrimpp
as a ferrari fan i’m gonna prepare myself for the pain #bahrain2021gp
↪ RR supportgroup @rudyinfinity
Girlies even if we don’t get podium this year, at least we’ll have another shirtless Rudy.💕
#bahrain2021gp
↪ SAMMIE @casserolesam1999
thats a win in my book #bahrain2021gp
Andy Wolf @aardwolff
This sport is a joke #bahrain2021gp
↩ Tony Espera ✓ @antonioespera
↪ Andy Wolf @aardwolff
lmao
* * *
Brad [02:43]
Person where are you
Ray [02:47]
stfu
go to sleep
Brad [02:49]
Good night
Ray [02:49]
🦠
* * *
BAHRAIN GRAND PRIX 2021 - RACE DAY
Brad opens his eyes thirty one minutes before the alarm clock. Takes a piss, drinks half of the lukewarm water from the nightstand and sticks his feet in a pair of kicked-off Nike’s. The Bahrain Grand Prix is a nightrace. Consequenting in a rather dramatic drop of temperature the moment the sun sets on the Kingdom of Dilmun. Aside from affecting strategy and tyre management, the floodlights capture the circuit for a broader audience worldwide.
For Brad, it feels like being stuck in a petri dish. In the cockpit of the RB16B it feels like waiting inside a burrow. Anticipating the moment to strike out. The noise and pomp are reduced to a slight droning in the background and Brad feels a familiar calm washing over him. Like the rain after a muggy summer day it seeps through his veins, slowing his heart, before the first flash of lightning kicks it up a notch. Blinding his vision. It thrums and pounds and then it's gone, transforming into a tuft blotting the sky. -radio check, radio check, Brad.
Brad blinks.
“Loud and clear Kev.”
Hours prior, before a whirlwind of debriefs and other less thrilling inescapable obligations, Brad had pressed his dry lips on the cheek of Tony’s wife at the gate to the Paddock.
“You look tired Brad,” Aisha said, rubbing her manicured hand through his hair.
Brad gave her a full-toothed grin. “Must be the company I keep. How are the kids?”
“Little Bella is in an animal phase and is convinced cars are bad for the whales,” Tony remarked quasi peeved. Brad thinks back on their skiing trip during winter break where the rugrat had looked Uncle Brad straight in the eye and told him that, no, we are the waiters because we are waiting on chicken nuggets.
“I won't claim our congregation does shit all for the polar bears but this paints me as the Antichrist of the Espera tree,” Tony scowled, eyeing said cirque of pollution around them.
“The humanity.”
Rudy, wearing nothing but a pair of cerise running shorts, signed the Ferrari cap of a pocked teenager. The father, standing behind the nervous stripling, looked on the verge of bawling. Wordlessly Brad took the proffered felt tip and scribbled his name on the visor. The teenager mumbled something unintelligible and quickly wandered off.
“Brother,” Rudy said, twinkling like he just stepped out of a catalogue ready to dip in the Persian Gulf.
Brad returned the one-armed hug and gave him a full one-over.
“Does lack of modesty count for the paycheck?” he nodded at the thick wristwatch.
Rudy easily shrugged it off. “We’re in the garden of Eden now.”
“I don't believe the land of eternal harmony where the lamb lived with the wolf included waxed chests and fanny packs,” Tony argued.
Brad surmised the ones to attest to that were long devoured by the desert sands. Aisha thought Tony should look into waxing the jungle on his back. They scanned their passes, weaving further through the bubbling crowd rounding upon them like vultures.
“Word is a squabble broke out yesterday,” Rudy started. “Something, something about a beef patty?”
“Natter on with your girlfriends,” Brad retorted, adjusting his backpack. “I’m too busy today.”
“Always busy Brad, and what is the fun in that?”
Brad rolled his eyes. “Winning. Can’t imagine that’s in the cards for the proud prancing pony with that shitbox.”
Rudy only laughed and Brad almost envied that pure, never-ending optimism, counting in their horrid season last year. It was nauseating. The bright red of Ferrari’s motorhome loomed in the distance and Rudy gave him another brotherly pat on the back.
“Tell Pappy to shave that god-awful squirrel off his front-anus.”
“It's all about the aerodynamics,” Rudy shouted over his shoulder, disappearing into the throng.
“Cocky motherfucker.” Tony shook his head. “Speak to me again in about three races, maybe they’ll be able to fit that inflated cranium in the cockpit then.”
“No decorum for the dunces, Poke.”
“Sure, Iceman.” Tony halted before they parted. Searching for something on Brad’s face. “You good man?”
Brad blew the air out of his nose. “Yeah.”
Beef patty. He’s getting rusty.
Through the mirrors behind him on the grid, the Mercedes crew orbit Fick’s car and Brad wonders if he, too, had a friendly email waiting in his inbox detailing concerns on aberrant behaviour.
Not likely.
Doesn’t matter.
He efficiently warms up the tyres during the formation lap. Kevin, his engineer, is a silent presence in his ear.
You good man?
He feels like flying.
Well-wishes were exchanged back in the garage among the navy blue. Brad had shook them off. Part of him wants to join the jolly atmosphere. It’s the kick-off of the season, after all. The track is his second home and it not only feels good to be back into the cockpit, it feels right.
Melodrama? Please. This is where he is meant to be, but the whole darn universe has to wait and see until Brad smokes out the competition before ever admitting to the rigmarole of feelings that eclipse his psyche in his weaker moments. Or, god forbid, thinking this was going to be a stroll in the park.
It’s never easy. Not with Mercedes’ reigning world champion and seasoned veteran wheezing in his neck.
The circuit stretches out before him when he positions the RB16B in between the lines of the pole position. Waiting, breathing. The fiery orange sun disappears behind the grandstands as the BIC tower looms overhead. At his back, all the personnel scatter off the tarmac while the last cars fall into line.
The Bahrain circuit is notable for its two long straights, broken up by difficult braking zones and medium to low-speed corners. Fifteen turns in total. Turn one testing precision with its heavy braking zone. Turn ten is a sly one. Making or breaking time. Turn eleven followed by the high-speed turns of twelve and thirteen a challenge to hold the car under his behind while navigating the rush.
The DRS zones will make it easier to overtake. Though the wiles of the Sakhir desert are another obstacle in keeping the car in check. An abrupt gush of wind can fuck up his corners. The sand on the track affects the grip.
Brad has faith in his team. Faith that they adapted the aerodynamics accordingly and their strategy won’t screw them over. He crams the waffle of the past 48 hours far into the back of his mind to be revisited in a few business days.
All that there is left to do for Brad is drive.
And drive Brad does.
Another breath.
Focus.
The red lights above flicker.
One, two-
Out.
Brad releases the clutch.
And, fuck. Fick shoots forward like a rocketship, having better traction. The wheels of the W12 almost caress Brad’s side.
They rush past the packed grandstands into the first turn. Brad brakes extensively, positioning his car deep into the corner, cutting Fick off. The G Force pushes his body into the opposite direction when the car straightens out.
Brad catches his breath.
“Distance?”
Kevin is quick. “0.4 Seconds.”
He has no clue on the fate of his teammate, or whatever else is happening at the back of the pack. Kevin doesn’t say a word, so the start must have been clean enough.
In the rear view mirrors Brad can see the black gleam of the Mercedes’ front wing chasing his exhaust. Calculating, watching for any weaknesses in his defense. Brad won’t let him. He anticipates it before Fick has a chance to swerve right. Brad follows, pushing the Mercedes back. Fick swerves left, accelerating and Brad nudges him away once more.
Like a horse powered ballet on crack and carbon fibre tutu’s.
Come on, Fick. Let’s dance.
“Person P4, Person P4. Keep up the pace,” Kevin tells him on the third lap.
“Will do.”
Good boy, Ray.
During the seventh lap, on the first straight, Fick drives him wheel to wheel.
He’s a constant omnipresence. Either flashing in the mirror, the short-clipped responses of Kevin in his ear, or the counter attacks being predicted in Brad’s mind. It’s strenuous, but Brad manages to keep him at bay.
Ferrando will admonish him for fucking up his tyres so soon, however Fick isn’t close behind on that regard. His attacks are becoming more and more frequent and Brad revels in every second of it. Every corner seems to strain on the other driver’s patience, but Brad knows that’s a fallacy.
Fick is measured. Extremely so. And he’s onto something. Must have found a dent somewhere hunting him down the previous laps.
Like Brad, Fick is no stranger to aggressively pushing competitors off the track.
Hell, Brad has gotten a taste of that in the last two years since hopping from Toro Rosso to Red Bull. It’s not a question of how, it’s a question of when.
On the next long straight, the combustion happens.
Brad is ready.
“Fick has DRS,” Kevin informs.
The lights on the steering wheel dance before his eyes and Brad steers to the left, but Fick doesn’t overtake him. Doesn’t cut him off into the following turn either.
The attack doesn’t come at all and the W12 disappears from the rearview mirror.
Brad pushes the radio button. “Where is he?”
Kevin is silent for a total of five seconds, and then;
“Fick DNF, Brad. Fick DNF.”
“He good?”
“Yes, yes. Engine failure.”
“Flag?”
“No. Keep pushing. Wynn 0.8 seconds behind.”
“Copy that.”
Fick must have been able to steer his moribund vehicle back into the pitlane. A feeling nags in his abdomen, catching him off guard, makes him brake too late in the corner. The wheels lock up and Brad curses. Kicking it back down. There’s no time to decipher what it is. There is not enough room in his head.
In the mirrors, Mike is catching up in place of his teammate.
Brad pushes.
* * *
Colbert wins spectacular season opener in Bahrain
Report
Red Bull’s Brad Colbert wins an exciting Bahrain Grand Prix season opener, outpacing the Mercedes of Mike Wynn with the Ferrari of Rudy Reyes crossing third over the finish line.
On his sixth pole position of his career, Colbert quickly took control of the desert circuit. Battling Nathaniel Fick on the first eight laps until the latter’s Mercedes had to pull out of the race due to an engine failure. Mike Wynn was able to undercut the Red Bull after the first round of pit stops, but Colbert took back the lead after a nail-biting overtake on the straight.
RELIVE THE RACE: All the action from the 2021 Bahrain Grand Prix
* * *
Nate Fick [23:06]
Congrats Brad, amazingly done
Seen 23:58 PM
* * *
alexx 🐼 @aleksaleks56
“WHERE IS HE?!” tell me you have a crush without telling me you have a crush #bradcolbert #bahrain2021gp
↪ catscratchfever @luda923479
...They are literally racing
✨ Daily Walt Hasser ✨ @keepingupwithhasser
In other news, Walt adopted a puppy during winter break!
Instagram.com Walt Hasser ( @walthasser88) • Instagram photo
↪ walts elbow @daisydriftt
Cute!!!!💙 #princesswalt
↪ Eileen21 @eileen21367
can he adopt me too