Not once did she feel the slightest temptation to yield and lift off.
Screaming on up the hill in the sweeping right-hander, she saw the crest in the road where it began to level off. At that speed, even the slightest alteration in the attitude of the road could be severe. Cresting this would unweight the car and lighten the suspension, causing the aerodynamics to behave differently as the ride height rose, all of which would lighten the steering. Breathing deeply, Sabatino guided the car across the road to the left-hand side, straightened up to take the crest head-on and then, once over, reapplied the slight left lock.
She had to be immediately ready for the fast left-hander through Raidillon, Turn Four. In the blink of an eye she was through there, too.
Stretched out in front of her, now, was the awesome Kemmel Straight, a dead straight and deceptively rising section of the track, running five hundred yards up its narrow cavern between the trees.
Sabatino breathed deeply as, letting the car do the work in a straight line, she was able to savour the exhilaration of her run through Eau Rouge. A smile crossed her face at the thought. She had been through that legendary complex — absolutely flat out — faster than she’d ever done it before and with not a scintilla less than full commitment. And the car had been there for her every yard of the way.
In contrast, the Kemmel Straight was an inactive stretch of the circuit. It gave her the chance to assess the readouts on her steering wheel. Everything looked perfect. Her Ptarmigan screamed contently up to full-throttle, — power and — speed — touching two hundred and fifteen miles an hour. Up ahead she could see a car coasting home to the right of the racing line.
Sabatino breathed deeply again as she drifted to the left-hand side of the circuit ready for the sharp right-hander into Les Combes. She reached the beginning of the red and yellow kerbstones down the left-hand side of the track. She waited to brake — as late as she dared.
Wait…
She reached the latest possible point to decelerate. When, suddenly, everything went completely haywire.
From total stability — with the car running straight and true, and with the engine at its highest pitch — there was an instantaneous change in sound. Sabatino immediately thought the engine had blown.
There was a sudden — massive — drop-off in revs.
She was thrust violently forward against her straps.
The car’s rear end started skidding.
In the shock, Sabatino’s balance must have been thrown, her right hand collapsing downwards on that side of the wheel. As a result, the car’s back end swung out immediately to the left. She reacted quickly, regripping the steering wheel with full force. Instinctively, she turned it hard left into the slew of the back end in that direction. Then, having prevented the spin, she found she had over-corrected. Consequently, the car slewed its rear hard to the right, the other way. Sabatino manhandled the lock hard right.
The car started to snake violently.
Nigel Mansell’s high-speed rear-tyre burst in Adelaide suddenly flashed through her mind.
She was still doing over a hundred and fifty miles an hour.
How much longer could she hold this together?
She felt her rear wheels start to roll again.
The corner was looming.
There was no way she was going to make the sharp right-hander into Turn Five. With her full attention devoted simply to bringing the car under control, the racing line was no longer Sabatino’s primary concern. Keeping the car out of the scenery was all she could think about.
From that blistering speed, it was taking what felt like an age to slow down. She could now only go straight on at Les Combes — leaving the track. Mercifully, there was an asphalt run-off straight ahead.
Sabatino felt a massive jolt up through her body as she banged over the red and yellow blocks marking the outside of the corner, which bounced the front wheels off the ground. She was still doing over one hundred miles an hour as she crossed the kerbstones. A section of carbon fibre from the right front wing broke off and rose up the nose, shooting straight at her head. Flinching, as the rear wheels then hit the kerb and bounced violently over the raised stones, she ducked as far as her limited movement would allow, but still couldn’t avoid the broken component banging into the top of her helmet.
Once on the asphalt run-off she made several more attempts to brake. The surface was dirty. The fronts locked-up. She pumped the brakes repeatedly, until seventy metres later, and nearly onto the grass, she managed to bring the car to a halt.
Finally, the car was stationary.
Dust swirled up around it.
Sabatino’s heart rate and breathing were stratospheric with the tsunami of adrenalin coursing round her body. She’d done it. How had she done it? How had she stopped the car safely? She couldn’t think for relief. From the very top speed achieved on any Formula One circuit anywhere in the world, she had brought a stricken — practically out-of-control — car back from catastrophe to a halt without anyone getting hurt.
For a few moments she just sat in the cockpit while her whole body shook.
Two panicked-looking marshals came running over, clearly dreading what they might find. Raising her hand, they were quickly reassured that everything was far better than feared.
Sabatino, looking to get out of the way of any car following suit behind her, sensed that the engine was still turning over. She paddled for first gear.
It engaged immediately.
What? How?
Pressing the throttle, the Ptarmigan responded immediately.
What?
As the car moved forward, she quickly realized she had not suffered any punctures. She kept moving, albeit slowly, still sensing for any other trouble with the car, particularly the suspension systems for each wheel.
Astonishingly, there didn’t seem to be anything wrong. At all.
Could she get back to the pits?
She turned the car to the right so she could see back down the Kemmel Straight behind her — to check there was no one about to charge through the right and left of Turns Five and Six.
Seeing it was clear, she pulled gingerly out from the run-off area, onto the track, across to the inside of the racing line, still feeling for any damage to the car — from whatever had caused the rears to lock-up, or from her high-speed encounter with the kerbstones. The car was still responding. As far as she could tell, there was nothing wrong with it.
How could this be?
She accelerated a little, keeping a ready eye in her mirrors for anyone steaming through on a hot lap.
And … still … she sensed nothing wrong with the car.
Down the hill and into the straighter section approaching Turn Ten, she radioed in to Backhouse.
‘What the hell happened there?’ he asked — sounding, to Straker, pretty shaken up.
‘Christ knows,’ said Sabatino appearing remarkably composed. ‘Took me completely by surprise. We were on the absolute straight and level. We were running beautifully. Better than perfect.’
‘Bloody hell. How did you keep it under control? Any damage?’
‘A bit. I’ve lost a chunk of the right front wing, and I’ve got major flat spots on both rears.’
‘Nothing wrong with the engine or gearbox — suspension?’
‘Not that I can tell.’
‘Come in. We’d better check you over.’
‘Where am I lying?’
There was a pause. ‘Twelfth,’ Backhouse said reluctantly.
‘I’ve got to log a hot lap — I’m going to miss the shootout. How much longer have we got of the session?’
Straker was staggered. Moments from a death-defying disaster, and Sabatino was already thinking about her lap and grid position.