F1: The Speed Legend

One lap. A single appearance. And the entire session was turned on its head.

In an instant, every eye in the paddock was focused on the ART garage. Everyone had heard they’d signed a rookie, and the consensus was that Nicolas Todt had been scammed by Ferrari. They’d assumed it was just another rich kid ”pay driver” looking to ”play race car.” They had all been waiting to laugh.

And now... who was the joke?

They were all starting to panic.

Finally, Martin Brundle found his voice, not even waiting for Croft to prompt him.

”That... that was all part of the plan.”

”I’m talking about the Number 2 car.”

”He was setting this up from his warm-up lap. Look—on the first two laps, he was deliberately hard on the throttle in the high-speed corners, forcing his front tires into the high-temperature range, trying to switch them on.”

”Then, on lap three, with the tires in the window, he delivered a perfect, clean flying lap. And the second he crossed the line, he backed off to cool them down, to prevent any drop-off.”

Kai’s fourth lap, where his pace had visibly slowed, confirmed Brundle’s theory.

Croft was stunned. ”Martin, what are you saying?”

Brundle, all business, replied, ”David, let’s look at that flying lap again. On the first half, he’s letting the car run into a slight understeer, but he’s controlling it with his braking and his line. Then, on the second half, he attacks. Late braking, hard on the entry, even using a bit of oversteer to ’V’ the car through the apex at Turn 10. His exit speed was beautiful, and he unleashed all of it on the final straight.”

”That means he is in complete control and fully understands the track. Those ’over-driven’ first two laps weren’t a rookie mistake at all. They were a calculated setup for his flying lap.”

Gasp.

Brundle and Croft exchanged a look, their eyes wide with surprise. While all the other drivers were methodically following the standard script, an outsider had just crashed the party and put on a stunning, unconventional performance.

It wasn’t just bold; it was calculated. Behind the seemingly reckless moves was a ”walk one, see three” level of intelligence.

Even Brundle had to wonder... was it real? Or had it just been a lucky coincidence?

He looked back at the screen, at that name, trying to sound it out.

”Zhou”... Wait, wasn’t there another ”Zhou” in the F3 European Series? Were they brothers?

It wasn’t just the commentators. The pit lane was in turmoil.

The original plan for most teams had been to wait, to let the track rubber in, and to go for their fast laps in the second half of the 30-minute session.

But now, a very specific problem was staring them in the face:

1:34.602.

That time probably wouldn’t be enough for pole, but the teams’ simulations all agreed: the final pole time would be very, very close to that.

So, here was the dilemma:

If they kept waiting, what if they hit traffic? What if the track grip didn’t evolve as expected? What if their driver couldn’t find the perfect rhythm in time?

Any one of those factors could destroy their strategy. And if that happened... would they really let this kid take pole?

Unacceptable.

This was the season opener. This was where you set the tone. And at Barcelona, pole position was critical.

No, they couldn’t wait. A panic rippled down the pit lane as teams scrambled, desperate to get their cars on track.

ART was no exception.

Originally, their other three drivers had been waiting patiently. Hubert was scheduled to go out next. But Jack Aitken, the team’s veteran, was not waiting. After a sharp word with his engineer, he jumped the queue and headed out onto the track, stealing Hubert’s slot.

Hubert: ??? ”Hey, man!”

Even a ”lamb” like Hubert had a temper.

Aitken and Hubert went out, one after the other. Russell, ever the cool-headed one, waited a few moments longer. His engineer finally found a clean gap in the traffic. Russell went out, ready to show them how it was done.

In the grandstands, Matteo Vitale was staring in despair at the timing pylon. When he saw ”LU” at the very top, he rubbed his eyes, then let out a disbelieving groan. He turned, only to see Lorenzo dancing and waving that stupid, blindingly white sign. Matteo closed his eyes.

It’s fine. It’s fine. The session just started. The real times are about to drop.

He clenched his fists, biting his lip, praying.

And then, the times began to change.

The track was heating up, the tires were coming in, and the team managers in the pit lane let out a collective sigh of relief. The session was returning to normal.

The first to beat Kai’s time was George Russell.

The young Brit had already impressed in F3, and rumor had it he’d gotten his Mercedes junior spot by creating a PowerPoint presentation and pitching himself directly to Toto Wolff. Whether the story was true or not, Mercedes clearly valued him.

Brundle and Croft, both British, were glowing. ”A fantastic lap from Russell!”

Next, Dorian Boccolacci of Trident and Leonardo Pulcini of Arden also went faster, pushing Kai further down the order.

The times were tumbling. Almost everyone was in the 1:35s. The ”fluke” was over. But the session wasn’t even half over. The real dogfight was about to begin.

But in this flurry of new times, one name was conspicuously absent:

Jack Aitken.

The consensus pre-season favorite... where was he?

Just as people were searching for his name, a roar went up from the main grandstand.

Matteo, in the stands, threw his head back and laughed.

1:34.197!

The screen flashed. A new fastest lap, pushing toward the 1:33s. The name at the top of the pylon: AITKEN.

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