Driven

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The Formula referred to in this story is a fictional composite. While it includes authentic elements used by the FIA over the last few years, no similarity with any given year’s Formula should be looked for or expected.

Remy Sabatino’s heart rate held steady at a hundred and forty up the hill from La Rascasse and through the exit of Turn Nineteen as the Ptarmigan Formula One car entered the pit straight. Screaming up to eighteen thousand revs, the engine was throwing off seven hundred and twenty horsepower. Such fierce acceleration affected the timbre of Sabatino’s voice — heard in a message over the team’s radio:

‘This time, Andy,’ sounding juddering and strained, ‘I’m … in the zone.’

The Ptarmigan hit one hundred and seventy miles an hour as it crossed the line — to start a flying lap.

Images flashed down either side of the extraordinarily narrow Monaco street circuit — trees, lampposts, overhanging balconies, and an astonishing array of advertizing hoardings. All of this would have melded into a blur if Sabatino had even tried to take any of it in: the driver’s gaze was boring between the convergent barriers either side of the road ahead, flicking down only once to check the LED display on the steering wheel.

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