- 33,155
- Hammerhead Garage
What do you get when you add equal parts boredom and procrastination? The answer is a tendency to write short stories. I'm not sure how this is going to work or if it will ever get finished, but I figure it's worth a try. I fancy myself as a bit of a writer, and so I decided to throw something together in the world of Formula One, largely because I'm yet to see a film or read a book that deals with the subject effecitvely. When it turned out much better than I expected it to, I thought I might share it here. Please bear in mind that this is a work-in-progress and I make no guarantees as to when it will be updated, if it will be finished or if it can even be considered good. Nevertheless, I find that any feedback I get on any of my writing is always welcome, especially constuctive criticism. You'll probably notice I've drawn on a few elements of the current F1 scene (most notably Buttongate and a poor team); however, I don't intend this to simply be a rip-off of current events. I've got big plans for where I want to take this (including an interactive element, if I can make it work), assuming they come to fruition (I don't even know if this sort of thing is alright with the mods ...).
And so without further ado, I present ...
BLACK FLAG
A story by Do you race?
Disclaimer: the characters and events portrayed within this story are the intellectual property of the owner. The unauthorised use of any characters or events that follow is strongly fronwed upon. Please don't do it. I know where you sleep.
Chapter 1 - Early Days
“Do you want me to tell you what I think,” Ashley Wroughton asked almost as soon as he had removed his fireproof balaclava, “Or what you want to hear?” he finished, jerking his head in the direction of the Formula One racing car he had just climbed out of.
“What you think, of course,” said Andreas Kaplaner, the team’s racing director. “We didn’t buy you out of your contract for nothing.”
“In that case, it’s a piece of crap. You’ve managed to pedal backwards on this one. What did you do, spend several million dollars on ballast?” Technicians swarmed over the Total-sponsored racer as Wroughton spoke, downloading test data from his previous run.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It can’t generate any downforce at speed, and when it does, I lose it all the moment I start to turn in.”
“We can deal with it.”
“I’m sure we can, but it won't be for a while. That's how bad it is; the first few races are going to be a real slog. I hope whoever I’m driving alongside this year is sharp, because he’s going to need all the help he can get. I’ve driven bad cars before; I know what to do. But if you put a rookie in there, he’s going to make headlines for all the wrong reasons. Assuming you’ve actually found a second driver,” he added. The team had stalled on the announcement of the driver paired with Wroughton for weeks, though it seemed that the sport’s worst-kept secret would be that he driving with fellow Briton Jason Emery, the Next Big Thing in motorsport.
“Funny you should mention you new team-mate,” Kaplaner said seriously. “Because we’ve found one for you.”
“About time. When do I get to meet him?”
“Meet her,” a voice corrected from behind. Wroughton turned to find a tall woman in identical leathers to his. A pair of bright blue eyes glittered below thick yellow-blonde hair. A helmet painted red and orange hung at her side. “You’ve never seen a female racer before?” she challenged at roughly the same time Wroughton realised he had taken too long staring.
“Ashley Wroughton, meet Stephanie Fantl,” Kaplaner said, trying and failing to keep the smugness out of his voice. Wroughton simply watched as she turned and busied herself with a second, identical racer on the far side of the garage.
“Andreas … a word?” he asked quietly before leading the German out of the garages. He knew Fantl would notice, but he did not care.
“Is there a problem?” the director asked.
“What the hell are you playing at? What happened to Emery?”
“He signed on with another team two days ago. Don’t tell me you’re threatened by Fantl, Ashley. People have been clamouring for a female driver for years. Why shouldn’t she race?”
“Come on, Andreas! You’ve been a racer; you know what the media attention is like for new drivers. It’s going to be worse for her because she’s a woman. And you’re going to stick her in a car that might as well be a pushbike! I’m not saying she doesn’t have what it takes, but this is professional suicide.”
“What do you want me to do, Ashley? The deal’s done; signed, sealed and delivered. Fantl will line up on the grid alongside you whether you like it or not. If you think it would help, I don’t see what’s stopping you from helping her along. You’ve been a driver for nine years; no other rookie this year will have a more experienced partner. And maybe you’ll start getting results again,” he finished acidly. More than anything, it was this last remark that silenced Wroughton. In his debut year he himself had been toted as the sport’s Next Big Thing, though he had quickly proven solid if unspectacular. He had scored points and the occasional podium since; even winning a handful of races, but no other driver in the field had driven for more teams than Ashley Wroughton.
He re-entered the garage to find Fantl had already climbed into her car and was talking rapidly with her technicians as they prepared to send her out onto the circuit. Wroughton climbed into his own racer and pulled the sweat-stained balaclava back on. Seizing his trademark jet-black helmet he looked over at Fantl. She was staring back at him, pointing in the direction of the track. In response, Wroughton simply closed his visor and accelerated out into pit lane.
*
The two red-and-white racers took to the Catalunya Circuit on the outskirts of Barcelona, each emblazoned with the multi-coloured logo of the French petroleum consortium Total. Wroughton drove easily for a few laps, generating some heat for the Bridgestone tyres all the teams in the championship would be using in the coming year. Fantl followed his lead until Wroughton moved over and slowed down on the main straight, coming to rest within the grid position for the front row. Fantl noticed what he was doing and copied him, lining up for a race between the two team-mates.
“If someone would mind starting us?” he asked into his helmet’s radio. “Let’s call it ten laps, superstar.”
“Sounds good to me,” was Fantl’s reply. The two drivers sat waiting for several minutes before the starting sequence on the gantry above them began its countdown timer.
“Cry, baby, cry,” Wroughton said to himself as the lights turned on one by one. “Make your mother sigh.” It was a quote from an old Beatles song, a kind of good luck charm he uttered just before every race. The lights faded and the two drivers immediately accelerated, surging away together in the traditional drag race to the first corner. Wroughton won, moving over to defend the racing line, glancing in his rear view mirrors in time to see Fantl turn in earlier than usual and cutting across the back of his car. The end result was that she was on the outside of Wroughton through the next corner, but the unorthodox tactic had allowed her to carry more speed into the turn and draw in alongside him.
“Oh, you cunning …” Wroughton muttered as he realised the effect of the audacious move. Fantl had drawn alongside enough to challenge him going into the next corner where she would have the inside line. She had taken him completely by surprise; Wroughton had expected her to attempt a pass at the first corner like most other drivers would. Instead, she had used the first corner to set up a pass that would not come until the third corner. He was forced to give way as they rounded the third corner, Fantl neatly closing the door on him and securing her position by the next corner. As impressive as this was, they were only on the third corner of a ten-lap race. Wroughton charged forward into the next right-hand bend, harrying the other car through the flowing bends. He attempted a few lazy feints at either side of her car that she easily fended off, but he had no intention of passing just yet. Likewise, his late-braking manoeuvre into the sharp La Caxia corner was little more than an attempt at lulling Fantl into a false sense of security.
It was coming onto the main straight that Wroughton demonstrated his experience. The car was difficult to handle, producing incredible amounts of drag for so little downforce, but he had driven worse in his career. Fantl, on the other hand, was inexperienced, and Wroughton quickly closed the gap in the race to the first corner. Having passed her team-mate on the first lap, Fantl took a much more orthodox line into the first corner. Wroughton, on the other hand, attempted exactly the same move Fantl had tried on him. Although he had much less success than she had, riding a little too high on the kerbs that lined the circuit, he knew he had sent her a message.
“Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?” he asked as he followed Fantl down into the next series of corners. She tried to hide it, but Wroughton could see she was visibly rattled; her driving line was not as flawless as it had been on the previous lap. Again he tried the same sequence of feints and late-braking attempts, each one intended to fail before he had even made the move. By the fourth lap, Wroughton was developing a predictable rhythm. On the sixth, Fantl stopped responding to his attempts and started anticipating them. As they came out of the final corner, Wroughton drew in close behind her, keeping the front nosecone of his car within two inches of the back of Fantl’s. He would spend the majority lap that way, making sure he stayed firmly within his team mate’s wing mirrors, though he made a point of making the same ill-conceived passing attempts.
It was entering La Caxia that Wroughton made his move. Instead of a late-braking attempt, he broke his game and stayed close to Fantl, waiting for the next corner. The sharp left was followed by a much more sedate right, and Wroughton dived down the inside. It was far from neat, but it did the job, taking Fantl by surprise. He ran a little wide on the exit, placing two wheels on the grass on the outside of the corner and forcing him to cut back in sharply for the next corner. Not to be outdone, Fantl copied his reckless move into the final, much faster, corner. She too ran wide, forcing Wroughton to brake, but by the time he had recovered she had already opened a gap. Running wide had simply been a ruse.
“It seems you can teach a new dog old tricks, too,” she said over the radio.
“That’s enough, the both of you,” Andreas Kaplaner’s voice said in much the same tone one would expect to use to upbraid a toddler. “Get back in here before you have an accident. A terrific start to the season that would be, writing off two cars before they’re even officially unveiled.”
*
And so without further ado, I present ...
BLACK FLAG
A story by Do you race?
Disclaimer: the characters and events portrayed within this story are the intellectual property of the owner. The unauthorised use of any characters or events that follow is strongly fronwed upon. Please don't do it. I know where you sleep.
Chapter 1 - Early Days
“Do you want me to tell you what I think,” Ashley Wroughton asked almost as soon as he had removed his fireproof balaclava, “Or what you want to hear?” he finished, jerking his head in the direction of the Formula One racing car he had just climbed out of.
“What you think, of course,” said Andreas Kaplaner, the team’s racing director. “We didn’t buy you out of your contract for nothing.”
“In that case, it’s a piece of crap. You’ve managed to pedal backwards on this one. What did you do, spend several million dollars on ballast?” Technicians swarmed over the Total-sponsored racer as Wroughton spoke, downloading test data from his previous run.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It can’t generate any downforce at speed, and when it does, I lose it all the moment I start to turn in.”
“We can deal with it.”
“I’m sure we can, but it won't be for a while. That's how bad it is; the first few races are going to be a real slog. I hope whoever I’m driving alongside this year is sharp, because he’s going to need all the help he can get. I’ve driven bad cars before; I know what to do. But if you put a rookie in there, he’s going to make headlines for all the wrong reasons. Assuming you’ve actually found a second driver,” he added. The team had stalled on the announcement of the driver paired with Wroughton for weeks, though it seemed that the sport’s worst-kept secret would be that he driving with fellow Briton Jason Emery, the Next Big Thing in motorsport.
“Funny you should mention you new team-mate,” Kaplaner said seriously. “Because we’ve found one for you.”
“About time. When do I get to meet him?”
“Meet her,” a voice corrected from behind. Wroughton turned to find a tall woman in identical leathers to his. A pair of bright blue eyes glittered below thick yellow-blonde hair. A helmet painted red and orange hung at her side. “You’ve never seen a female racer before?” she challenged at roughly the same time Wroughton realised he had taken too long staring.
“Ashley Wroughton, meet Stephanie Fantl,” Kaplaner said, trying and failing to keep the smugness out of his voice. Wroughton simply watched as she turned and busied herself with a second, identical racer on the far side of the garage.
“Andreas … a word?” he asked quietly before leading the German out of the garages. He knew Fantl would notice, but he did not care.
“Is there a problem?” the director asked.
“What the hell are you playing at? What happened to Emery?”
“He signed on with another team two days ago. Don’t tell me you’re threatened by Fantl, Ashley. People have been clamouring for a female driver for years. Why shouldn’t she race?”
“Come on, Andreas! You’ve been a racer; you know what the media attention is like for new drivers. It’s going to be worse for her because she’s a woman. And you’re going to stick her in a car that might as well be a pushbike! I’m not saying she doesn’t have what it takes, but this is professional suicide.”
“What do you want me to do, Ashley? The deal’s done; signed, sealed and delivered. Fantl will line up on the grid alongside you whether you like it or not. If you think it would help, I don’t see what’s stopping you from helping her along. You’ve been a driver for nine years; no other rookie this year will have a more experienced partner. And maybe you’ll start getting results again,” he finished acidly. More than anything, it was this last remark that silenced Wroughton. In his debut year he himself had been toted as the sport’s Next Big Thing, though he had quickly proven solid if unspectacular. He had scored points and the occasional podium since; even winning a handful of races, but no other driver in the field had driven for more teams than Ashley Wroughton.
He re-entered the garage to find Fantl had already climbed into her car and was talking rapidly with her technicians as they prepared to send her out onto the circuit. Wroughton climbed into his own racer and pulled the sweat-stained balaclava back on. Seizing his trademark jet-black helmet he looked over at Fantl. She was staring back at him, pointing in the direction of the track. In response, Wroughton simply closed his visor and accelerated out into pit lane.
*
The two red-and-white racers took to the Catalunya Circuit on the outskirts of Barcelona, each emblazoned with the multi-coloured logo of the French petroleum consortium Total. Wroughton drove easily for a few laps, generating some heat for the Bridgestone tyres all the teams in the championship would be using in the coming year. Fantl followed his lead until Wroughton moved over and slowed down on the main straight, coming to rest within the grid position for the front row. Fantl noticed what he was doing and copied him, lining up for a race between the two team-mates.
“If someone would mind starting us?” he asked into his helmet’s radio. “Let’s call it ten laps, superstar.”
“Sounds good to me,” was Fantl’s reply. The two drivers sat waiting for several minutes before the starting sequence on the gantry above them began its countdown timer.
“Cry, baby, cry,” Wroughton said to himself as the lights turned on one by one. “Make your mother sigh.” It was a quote from an old Beatles song, a kind of good luck charm he uttered just before every race. The lights faded and the two drivers immediately accelerated, surging away together in the traditional drag race to the first corner. Wroughton won, moving over to defend the racing line, glancing in his rear view mirrors in time to see Fantl turn in earlier than usual and cutting across the back of his car. The end result was that she was on the outside of Wroughton through the next corner, but the unorthodox tactic had allowed her to carry more speed into the turn and draw in alongside him.
“Oh, you cunning …” Wroughton muttered as he realised the effect of the audacious move. Fantl had drawn alongside enough to challenge him going into the next corner where she would have the inside line. She had taken him completely by surprise; Wroughton had expected her to attempt a pass at the first corner like most other drivers would. Instead, she had used the first corner to set up a pass that would not come until the third corner. He was forced to give way as they rounded the third corner, Fantl neatly closing the door on him and securing her position by the next corner. As impressive as this was, they were only on the third corner of a ten-lap race. Wroughton charged forward into the next right-hand bend, harrying the other car through the flowing bends. He attempted a few lazy feints at either side of her car that she easily fended off, but he had no intention of passing just yet. Likewise, his late-braking manoeuvre into the sharp La Caxia corner was little more than an attempt at lulling Fantl into a false sense of security.
It was coming onto the main straight that Wroughton demonstrated his experience. The car was difficult to handle, producing incredible amounts of drag for so little downforce, but he had driven worse in his career. Fantl, on the other hand, was inexperienced, and Wroughton quickly closed the gap in the race to the first corner. Having passed her team-mate on the first lap, Fantl took a much more orthodox line into the first corner. Wroughton, on the other hand, attempted exactly the same move Fantl had tried on him. Although he had much less success than she had, riding a little too high on the kerbs that lined the circuit, he knew he had sent her a message.
“Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?” he asked as he followed Fantl down into the next series of corners. She tried to hide it, but Wroughton could see she was visibly rattled; her driving line was not as flawless as it had been on the previous lap. Again he tried the same sequence of feints and late-braking attempts, each one intended to fail before he had even made the move. By the fourth lap, Wroughton was developing a predictable rhythm. On the sixth, Fantl stopped responding to his attempts and started anticipating them. As they came out of the final corner, Wroughton drew in close behind her, keeping the front nosecone of his car within two inches of the back of Fantl’s. He would spend the majority lap that way, making sure he stayed firmly within his team mate’s wing mirrors, though he made a point of making the same ill-conceived passing attempts.
It was entering La Caxia that Wroughton made his move. Instead of a late-braking attempt, he broke his game and stayed close to Fantl, waiting for the next corner. The sharp left was followed by a much more sedate right, and Wroughton dived down the inside. It was far from neat, but it did the job, taking Fantl by surprise. He ran a little wide on the exit, placing two wheels on the grass on the outside of the corner and forcing him to cut back in sharply for the next corner. Not to be outdone, Fantl copied his reckless move into the final, much faster, corner. She too ran wide, forcing Wroughton to brake, but by the time he had recovered she had already opened a gap. Running wide had simply been a ruse.
“It seems you can teach a new dog old tricks, too,” she said over the radio.
“That’s enough, the both of you,” Andreas Kaplaner’s voice said in much the same tone one would expect to use to upbraid a toddler. “Get back in here before you have an accident. A terrific start to the season that would be, writing off two cars before they’re even officially unveiled.”
*
