F1: The Speed Legend

The only true opponent we ever face is ourselves.

Zhou Guanyu couldn’t help but think back to the Chinese Grand Prix. While he had been drowning in self-pity and struggling to claw his way out of a slump, he had watched Kai grit his teeth through impossible circumstances. Kai had refused to yield, wrestling a P2 finish from the jaws of defeat—a result that felt even more precious, more hard-won, than Daniel Ricciardo’s victory. In that moment of crossing the line, Zhou had felt a long-lost surge of passion, his fists clenching in vicarious triumph as all his pent-up frustration released.

Now, looking at Kai standing before him, bathed in the early spring sunshine of Monaco, the younger driver seemed to shine with an brilliance that demanded admiration. It was sobering to remember that Kai was six months younger than him.

”How do you stay so calm? So certain?” Zhou asked, unable to hold back the question.

Kai tilted his head. ”What other capital do I have in this paddock? Talent? Please, Stroll would laugh himself to death.”

Zhou burst out laughing, the tension breaking instantly. ”Hahaha. No wonder that group of rich kids doesn’t like you. You know Latifi has been bad-mouthing you behind your back, right?”

”I’m not surprised in the slightest,” Kai shrugged effortlessly. ”He looks like the type to gossip. And given his driving, his mouth is probably faster than his hands.”

Zhou laughed until his stomach muscles ached. ”Thank you,” he said finally, wiping a tear from his eye. ”For leading the way.”

Kai looked slightly surprised, prompting Zhou to continue earnestly. ”Before, I was fumbling in the dark. Everyone said I was the hope of Chinese motorsport, that I had to change history and break barriers, but no one ever told me how to do it. Truth be told, they didn’t know either. But you’re different. You carry no burden. You ignore the unwritten rules and cut through the thorns. Hamilton, Vettel... they can’t stop you because you aren’t trying to ’make history.’ You’re just chasing the absolute limit of speed. It made me realize... why can’t I do that?”

”I was the same when I started,” Kai admitted softly. ”I just loved the sensation of speed. That feeling of controlling chaos at three hundred kilometers per hour. It felt like... like controlling the wind. Push a little harder, and you might take flight. But slowly, I forgot that. I started thinking about history and expectations. Racing stopped being fun.” He paused, looking at Zhou. ”I’ve watched your race in Shanghai seven times. I haven’t felt that happy watching a race in a long, long time.”

”Whoa, easy there,” Kai laughed, waving his hands. ”Don’t worship me too much, the pressure is massive.”

Zhou’s anxiety evaporated. He bounced on the balls of his feet, raising his fists in a playful boxing stance. ”Come on then, let’s go a round.”

As they messed around, Kai eventually patted Zhou on the shoulder. ”That mindset is what champions need. Whether it’s Mick Schumacher or Marcus Armstrong, no one can stop you but you. And let me tell you, Mick has it worse. His last name is Schumacher. In basketball, plenty of people try to be Michael Jordan, but in racing? There is only one Michael. That name alone turns heads. That’s why he stayed in F3 for a second year. His situation is harder than yours. If Prema is going to chase a championship, why can’t it be you?”

The bold declaration was delivered so casually that Zhou stared at him. It was the kind of confidence that belonged to the only driver in GP3 history to win every Feature Race.

They stopped near Charles Leclerc’s car to move some equipment when Kai had a sudden thought. ”GP3 and F3 are battles of setup. Guanyu, is your setup work falling behind?”

In junior categories, resource allocation often meant engineering support for car setup. Back at ART, Jack Aitken and George Russell had worked closely with their teams, spending hours overtime refining the balance. Kai, however, had never cared. His communication was so efficient he could finalize a setup in half the time. He didn’t need the extra resources because he could do it himself—a trait that was serving him well in F1.

Zhou hesitated, then nodded. ”Yes. In Free Practice, my feedback loop is too slow. I can’t instantly sense the car’s behavior across different sectors, so I need more time to dial it in.”

It was his Achilles’ heel, a secret fear that he lacked the raw talent to make it to the pinnacle. Kai didn’t hesitate. ”Simple fix.”

”Simple?”

”You know Max Verstappen? His life is binary: racing or not racing. He’s like a cyborg. He lives in the simulator. He’s not just building muscle memory; he’s building an internal database of every curb, every bump, every gear shift. It becomes part of him. So when he hits a new track, his adaptation time is zero. That’s what you need. Build that database before you get in the car. By the time you start FP1, your body should already know what to confirm. It makes everything easier.”

Zhou stood frozen. It wasn’t a talent defect; it was a methodology issue.

Before he could respond, a voice shouted from the balcony above. ”Are you two on a date or just lazy? We’ve been waiting for ages!”

They looked up to see Pierre Gasly’s distinct jawline. Kai shouted back, ”We’re protesting Pierre Gasly’s laziness! If you’re in a hurry, come down and help!”

”Take your time, take your time,” Gasly deadpanned. ”I just wanted to ask about lunch. Antoine suggested pizza?”

Kai’s smile froze. He looked betrayed. Antoine Hubert, how could you?

”Kai gets the tow! He dummies to the left!”

”He cuts inside! No, it’s a feint! He goes around the outside! Verstappen bought the dummy, he’s defending the inside line, leaving the entire outside entry wide open! Kai draws alongside!”

”Wheel to wheel!”

”The two young lions are going to war on the streets of Baku!”

”Unbelievable! Kai’s car control is exquisite. He uses the extra space on the outside to open up the corner, getting a superior exit trajectory. He gives Verstappen no chance to fight back! That is a clinical overtake!”

”Beautiful! Kai moves up to P5!”

The commentary box was electric as Kai showcased his racecraft, sending the grandstands into a frenzy. The 2018 Azerbaijan Grand Prix was chaotic. Kai had already survived the worst start of his season, getting caught in the Turn 1 melee. Esteban Ocon had tagged him, sending the Force India spinning into the wall and puncturing Kai’s right front tire. After a nose change and fresh rubber, Kai had rejoined in P12.

From there, it was a recovery drive for the ages. He had engaged push mode, carving through the field to P6, and had just dispatched Max Verstappen to hunt down Ricciardo. The stage was set for another Kai vs. Ricciardo duel.

But Verstappen wasn’t ready to surrender.

Despite being passed around the outside, the Dutchman had maintained his momentum. He tucked into Kai’s slipstream, aggressive and shark-like. He didn’t hesitate. He launched a counter-attack immediately, his Red Bull looming large in Kai’s mirrors. The unpredictability that defined Verstappen’s driving style kept everyone on edge.

Just like in Shanghai, Verstappen lunged at an unconventional spot.

Kai remained hyper-focused. He covered the line, claiming the apex early. As they hit the braking zone, Kai was ahead, seemingly having neutralized the threat.

Then, impact.

Bam!

It happened in a split second. The world spun violently. Kai felt the sickening sensation of weightlessness as gravity lost its hold. His mind went blank, his ears filled with the screech of torturing metal and the roar of blood. The cockpit became a centrifuge of noise and vibration.

By the time reality snapped back into focus, the Ferrari was embedded in the narrow concrete barriers. Carbon fiber shards rained down like confetti.

Through the heat haze and dust, Kai saw the number 33 Red Bull perform a pirouette, recover, and drive away without hesitation, seemingly undamaged and ready to chase the podium.

Fuck.

Rage, hot and blinding, consumed him. In open-wheel racing, contact is inevitable. But this was Kai’s first DNF due to a collision. The indignity of it burned.

”Kai, are you alright?” Greenwood’s voice crackled in his ear.

”What is he doing?” Kai shouted, his usual composure shattered. ”How can he drive like that? I had the apex! I had the line! Did he forget where the brake pedal is? Everyone calls him ’Mad Max,’ but does he actually have to drive like a brainless battering ram?”

”Unbelievable! If he doesn’t want to race, he should go home, not destroy everyone else’s Sunday! His brain is rusted shut!”

The Ferrari pit wall was equally furious, immediately demanding an investigation. The broadcast feed was in uproar. What should have been a heroic recovery drive had been cut short by Verstappen’s impatience.

”Looking at the replay, that is 100% on Verstappen,” the commentator noted grimly. ”Kai had the position. Verstappen simply missed his braking point or refused to back out of a disappearing gap. He has buried Kai’s race.”

The stewards agreed, handing Verstappen a ten-second time penalty. But it was cold comfort. The penalty wouldn’t repair the Ferrari’s suspension.

Kai knew crashes were part of the sport—Senna, Schumacher, they all had them. But to retire like this felt cheap. The entire weekend in Azerbaijan had been cursed.

And the comedy of errors wasn’t over.

Later in the race, the Red Bull civil war reached its boiling point. Verstappen, fighting his own teammate Ricciardo as viciously as he had fought Kai, weaved under braking on the main straight. Ricciardo, with nowhere to go, plowed into the back of his teammate.

Both Red Bulls were out.

Watching from the paddock, Kai didn’t feel schadenfreude. He felt his anger spike to new heights. When Verstappen trudged back to the paddock, Kai stormed over to meet him, adrenaline still pumping.

”Do you have a brain? Or do you just not know how to use it?”

Verstappen was already drowning in his own misery. The pressure from his father, Jos, and Dr. Marko was immense. He was in his fourth season, yet he was making rookie mistakes while Kai and Ricciardo stole the glory. And now, another DNF. He looked up, saw the furious Ferrari driver, and his defense mechanisms kicked in.

He stepped forward, chest out. ”Piss off!” He shoved Kai’s shoulder.

Kai didn’t stumble. He stepped into the shove, knocking Verstappen’s hands away with a sharp, forceful motion that sent the Dutchman stumbling back two steps. Verstappen’s face flushed red.

”That was my line. My apex. I had the position. What were you thinking?” Kai’s eyes were cold steel.

”You mean the corner where you flew into the wall?” Verstappen sneered. ”I guess that apex ate you alive.”

”That was a suicide move. You destroyed my race and your own. For what?”

”Ha! I was still racing, wasn’t I?” Verstappen spat. ”What, are you scared? Did you wet yourself? This is F1. If you don’t have the balls, go back to GP3 where you can show off.”

”Oh, look at the poor baby,” Verstappen mocked, sensing blood. ”First crash and his legs are shaking.”

Kai stared at him, and then, inexplicably, he laughed.

Verstappen blinked, thrown off. ”Are you crazy? Do you need an ambulance for your head?”

”So that’s it?” Kai asked calmly. ”Your highlight of the day is turning F1 into bumper cars to take me out?”

”You closed the door!”

”If you have that kind of resolve to win at all costs, you should have finished the race,” Kai said, his voice dropping an octave. ”But where are you now? You took out Daniel. You took out yourself. Is that your ’courage’?”

”Crashing into others, crashing into yourself... driving like a blind bull. If that’s what you call talent, I’m glad I don’t have it in my DNA.”

Verstappen stood paralyzed by a mix of shame and fury.

”If you want to win,” Kai said, turning his back, ”finish the damn race. Don’t drive like an idiot.”

He walked away, leaving Verstappen shaking with impotent rage in the middle of the paddock, shouting obscenities that were drowned out by the roar of the surviving cars on the main straight.

The Azerbaijan Grand Prix ended in carnage, with seven DNFs. Charles Leclerc survived the attrition to finish P6, scoring the first points of his career and Sauber’s first of the season. Kai was the first to congratulate him, playfully posing as a fan with champagne, briefly confusing the ecstatic Monegasque.

But Kai’s bad luck was only beginning.

Two weeks later, at the Spanish Grand Prix, disaster struck again. On lap 25, while running in the points, the Ferrari’s power unit let go.

”No power, no power.”

Another DNF. Back-to-back retirements.

It was a harsh reality check. In 2006, Michael Schumacher had lost an eighth world title due to an engine failure at Suzuka. Mechanical heartbreak was part of the DNA of the sport. But for Kai, falling from the dizzying heights of the podium to the gravel traps of Barcelona triggered a massive shift in public opinion.

The anti-fans were having a field day.

”Genius? Hahaha, two DNFs in a row. Some genius.”

”Hamilton is the only true rookie benchmark. This baby needs to go back to the nursery.”

”Flash in the pan. We didn’t even need a full season to see the truth. Three races and he’s exposed.”

”Luck. It was all luck. The first three races were a fluke. Now reality sets in.”

”To be fair, getting a podium in a Ferrari spaceship isn’t hard. Leclerc scoring points in a Sauber tractor? That’s the real generational talent.”

”The higher they fly, the harder they fall. Look at that arrogance now.”

The backlash was a tsunami. The same voices that had hailed him as a ”once-in-a-decade talent” were now tearing him apart. The internet has no memory and no mercy. The fact that one DNF was a crash caused by another driver and the other was mechanical failure didn’t matter. The result sheet said ”RET,” and that was enough ammunition.

True fans tried to defend him—”He’s 18! It’s his fifth race! The engine blew up, how is that his fault?”—but they were drowned out by the noise. The vitriol turned personal, crossing the line into malice. Death threats and slurs filled the comments sections.

”The engine failure is a sign. Quit before you get stuck in the car for good.”

And the mainstream media, sensing blood in the water, circled the wagons.

The Times: ”Heaven and Hell: Kai’s Double DNF as Hamilton Seizes Control.”Sky Sports: ”The Brutal Truth of F1: Is the Phenom Ready?”Der Spiegel: ”Continuous Controversy: Will Kai Become the Next Gutiérrez?”The New York Times: ”Kai Zhizhou: A Myth Manufactured by Media? Peeling Back the Hype.”Le Figaro: ”Genius or Fraud? Ferrari’s Gamble Hits a Wall.”

It was a slaughter. Just a month ago, he was the hero changing the map of motorsport. Now, the narrative had flipped. Every compliment about his ”rapid ascent” was twisted into an accusation of being ”rushed and unprepared.”

The storm had arrived. Media, experts, fans, and trolls converged from all sides, eager to push the young driver into the abyss. It seemed the world had been waiting for him to stumble, just so they could enjoy the spectacle of the fall.