Her crew were out and ready.
She cruised down on the limiter. She swerved in and jammed on the brakes.
She was straight up on the jacks.
The wheel men went to work immediately.
Front right, off.
Front left, off.
Front right, on.
Front left, on.
She saw two horizontal arms held above each front wheel, indicating completion.
What about the rears? She grabbed a look in each mirror. Both their arms were horizontal too. The car dropped back down as the jacks were removed.
What about the fuel? She couldn’t see the rigger from where she sat.
Come on! Come on! — she screamed to herself.
She felt the car jolt to the right. Let that be the rig coming off. She looked at the lollipop man. The sign was swivelling round.
Yes!
Revving the engine, she dreaded a stall. Then, the lollipop was being raised, shooting up and away. First gear, now!
The car jumped forwards. It kept running.
No stall!
She was away.
She swerved left and then right — almost under the compressed air hoses of the next team — as she regained the pit lane.
She was trundling along on the limiter. Come on! Come on! It seemed to go on forever — heading down towards the cut-through in the central reservation directly opposite the Dorchester Hotel. Feeding through there, and desperate not to cross the white line, she built up speed as fast as she could.
She screamed on down to Turn One. Ahead of her she found a Ferrari and a Mercedes jostling for position. Not what she wanted. At all. To get past them would be for track position too — she wasn’t going to get any help from blue flags. She would have to challenge these two for real. For position.
Adding to the pressure, she would have to take them quickly — otherwise, any hold-up on the next few vital laps, would kill her wafer-thin lead over Aston. Aston was currently out there on an uncluttered track with a lighter fuel load in a car with bedded-in everything, while she was on cold rubber and stuck behind two cars completely absorbed in their own little battle.
‘Well done the lads,’ she said over the radio. ‘But we’ve blown the re-entry. How many laps do we think Paddy’s got?’
‘Three, max.’
‘His times?’
‘No quicker than before, thank heavens. He wasn’t really in your dirty air.’
‘Okay, I’ve got a spat in front of me. Hope it doesn’t hold me up.’
‘They’re lapping point-nine slower than you. You do have a straight-line advantage — try and take them on the straight, rather than into a corner — at least until you get a feel for your tyres.’
Sabatino fought to remain cautious until the new boots were up to temperature. She stayed behind the Ferrari/Mercedes scrap all the way down to Turn Five, at the bottom of the Haymarket.
She had to get by soon — otherwise all of her lead over Aston would be gone.
Her eyes bored into the backs of the two cars in front. They screamed down past Canada House, one after the other — the blocked one swerving this way and that, trying to get by. Would they be so preoccupied with each other that they wouldn’t see her coming? If they were, that could be both good news or bad.
Down towards Turn Six, at the bottom of Trafalgar Square, she was ready to put herself in a position to strike. Which way would the squabblers go through Admiralty Arch? Who would take the left arch? The Ferrari in the lead? Did that mean the Mercedes, behind, would automatically try for the middle one?
She had no way of knowing … yet. She got closer and closer, ready to pounce — praying for an opportunity.
Reaching the entry, it looked like the Ferrari at the front was going wider — through the left arch. But then he tried the element of surprise. At the last minute, he ducked inside, aiming for the middle one. It threw the Mercedes behind him. The Mercedes had clearly expected to be going that way himself. Momentarily, he had to lift off, for fear of running into the back of the Ferrari. But now, realizing his chance lay in going wide, he swung out to the left and tried to adjust his line. That change of direction, though, cost him a nanosecond’s delay.
It was enough.
Now! screamed Sabatino to herself.
With the Mercedes’s loss of pace at the element of surprise, she herself ducked inside, following the leading Ferrari — through the middle arch. Having taken that initiative, the Ferrari would still be travelling at top speed. Getting in behind him would be quicker for Sabatino than following the Mercedes who was probably still reacting from being wrong-footed.
She fought the wheel to keep the car heading straight through the incredibly tight fit under the middle arch. Applying the power — while still under the building — she emerged the other side, and, thrillingly, found herself drawing level with the wider-going Mercedes to her left.
She’d got past one of them already.
Now she had the Ferrari — only four lengths ahead of her.
Sabatino was quickly on terms — the Benbecular kicking out ten or so more horsepower — the difference beginning to show encouragingly soon.
They screamed on up The Mall, the scarlet Ferrari in front, the turquoise Ptarmigan behind. Two Formula One cars racing through London in front of the world-famous backdrop of Buckingham Palace.
As the Ferrari prepared for the chicane, Turns Seven and Eight, it pulled left, gingerly, so as not to open the door for Sabatino.
She couldn’t challenge him there.
Up Constitution Hill, their line-astern formation resumed.
Turn Nine, onto Hyde Park Corner roundabout. She couldn’t challenge him there.
Down the hill to Turn Ten and into Grosvenor Place. She didn’t challenge him there, although encouragingly the Ferrari ran slightly wider and a little ragged. Was the pressure of her pursuit beginning to get to him?
She hoped so.
Up past the Lanesborough Hotel, to the right-hander — and she was still on his tail. She didn’t challenge him there.
Round Apsley House and through the Queen Elizabeth Gate they raced. Nose to tail. Still no challenge.
Entering Hyde Park, Sabatino timed her moment to strike. The Ferrari ran a little wide on the exit of Turn Fourteen. Into the broad and straight Serpentine Road, Sabatino powered rapidly up through the gears, revs and speedometer until she was running flat out.
The gap started to close.
The crowds were treated to a five-hundred-yard head-to-head as the Ptarmigan mounted its inch by inch challenge to the Ferrari.
They swept up to and started rounding the lake as the battle fought on.
Sabatino pulled level.
By the time they passed the fake wattle and daub boathouse, she had gained the advantage — just about getting her wheels in front. There! She’d cleared the scarlet Ferrari. But she was pounding down to Turn Fifteen.
Losing shape into the right-hander, she breathed deeply as she fought to stabilize her line up and onto West Carriage Drive.
She’d done it, though — and made it stick.
She radioed Treadwell in the pits. ‘Where’s Paddy?’
‘Well played with those two. He’s gained two seconds on you since you pitted.’
‘Damn that Ferrari. Any clue when Aston’ll pit?’
‘Can’t be more than two laps from now.’