"Three lights...
four lights... five lights..." Jarno could almost hear the unmistakeable
voice of Murray Walker in his ear as he watched the lights go on. Or tried to.
It was hard enough to see the lights from thirteenth on the grid as it was, but
in the torrential rain, with your crash helmet on? It was almost impossible.
But, "GO!!!" ...suddenly the lights were off, and in an instant the twenty-one other cars assembled around him sprang into life with a deafening scream. Time for the fun to begin. The start was just like the twelve others he had contested that year, and the fourteen he'd contested the year before. Swerve to the left, onto the racing line. Flick the paddle behind the steering wheel; up into second gear. Make sure you don't slam straight into Wurz in front of you. Check your mirrors; check Barrichello's still behind you. Now look to the left again; look for the brake markers. There they are. BRAKE!
Round the La Source hairpin. A tricky enough corner in the dry. Thankfully it wasn't far from the start line, so the cars hadn't gotten up to speed yet. A car dived down the inside: Barrichello had gotten the better of him. No matter. He had passed two cars already, and was right on the tail of a third. He stamped hard on the accelerator; back up to second; now up to third; now they were away, down the long straight up to Eau Rouge. The most famous corner in Formula One.
Jarno swerved to the left, cutting off a car behind him; he immediately cut to the right to avoid touching the back of the car in front. It was a Sauber - or was it a Benetton? It was impossible to tell through the heavy spray flying up from the back of the car, and from the cars all around him. One could scarcely see one's own hand in front of their face.
Ahead of him, something briefly registered in Jarno's vision: a flurry of spray, a flash of white paint. Had someone spun? Jarno couldn't tell. It may not even have been a car for all he could see. Through the spray, the flash of paint looked almost fish-shaped, though of course it couldn't have been a fish, even though it was wet enough for one to survive here...
SLAM. What had happened registered immediately: Jarno had suffered a lapse in concentration and hit the car in front of him. With the sudden deceleration, everything seemed to lapse into slow-motion; even the rain seemed to shudder to a temporary crawl. There was an instant of silence, broken sharply by another loud bang and a furious jolt, as another car slammed straight into the back of Jarno's stricken car, having presumably been unsighted by the spray.
As his car slowly slid to a halt, Jarno sat quietly, trying to come to terms with things. His race was likely far from over; since he'd seemingly crashed in the middle of a straight, and on the first lap, the race would probably be red-flagged and restarted, giving him a second chance with the spare car. However, Jarno was still worried about the effect the crash might have on his reputation in the sport. This was his sophomore year in Formula 1, and he'd retired from more than half the races so far, having scored no points. He knew that if he carried on like this, this season could well be his last.
Now for the disheartening, though mercifully short walk back to the pit lane. Jarno unscrewed the steering wheel, and placed it where he knew the car's nose cone would be; he could still barely see it through the driving rain. Then he got out of the car, took one step and felt his leg kick something. He looked down: it appeared to be a tyre. Free from its carbon-fibre master, it had been merrily rolling across the deserted track as tumbleweed does across desert.
But was it deserted? The tyre couldn't possibly have come from his car. Jarno knew that at least two other cars had been involved in the collision, and he started to wonder how many others had been. He pulled off his helmet, increasing his visibility, though only slightly as it was still hard to see through the driving rain. Even so, it was just enough for him to make out the carnage that had unfolded around him.
The tarmac around him was littered with stricken cars. At least a dozen of them, all crowded together, having apparently crashed into one another. The floor was strewn with shards of carbon fibre, winking white and blue and red through the grey gloom, and scores of wheels like the one he had just kicked were barrelling from the scene like escaped cattle broken free from their ranch. It appeared that somebody had run wide and spun onto the racing line - the flash of paint that Jarno had spotted - and everyone behind them had simply ploughed unsighted into the melee, systematically eliminating almost every car behind a certain point on the track. And all around him, the other drivers were getting out of their cars, taking off their helmets, and awakening to the same nightmare.
Jarno clambered his way through the chaos, the stricken cars, and approached a marshal, who to his relief was frantically waving a red flag. "What the hell happened?" he asked the marshal.
"I'm not sure," replied the marshal, in a slight French accent. "I see Coulthard spin, over there somewhere-" he gesticulated wildly at an area a few yards behind Jarno's stricken car "-I think somebody hit him, and then the next thing I know, all the cars are piled up together like this, sliding along the track..." The marshal sighed heavily. "It'll be a miracle if nobody was hurt."
A tap on the shoulder. Jarno turned round to see his team-mate, Olivier Panis, still wearing his helmet but with the visor raised. Even without seeing his face, Jarno could tell from his team-mate's body language that he was a little shaken. "You'll be needing that for the restart," he said, gesturing at Jarno's crash helmet.
But, "GO!!!" ...suddenly the lights were off, and in an instant the twenty-one other cars assembled around him sprang into life with a deafening scream. Time for the fun to begin. The start was just like the twelve others he had contested that year, and the fourteen he'd contested the year before. Swerve to the left, onto the racing line. Flick the paddle behind the steering wheel; up into second gear. Make sure you don't slam straight into Wurz in front of you. Check your mirrors; check Barrichello's still behind you. Now look to the left again; look for the brake markers. There they are. BRAKE!
Round the La Source hairpin. A tricky enough corner in the dry. Thankfully it wasn't far from the start line, so the cars hadn't gotten up to speed yet. A car dived down the inside: Barrichello had gotten the better of him. No matter. He had passed two cars already, and was right on the tail of a third. He stamped hard on the accelerator; back up to second; now up to third; now they were away, down the long straight up to Eau Rouge. The most famous corner in Formula One.
Jarno swerved to the left, cutting off a car behind him; he immediately cut to the right to avoid touching the back of the car in front. It was a Sauber - or was it a Benetton? It was impossible to tell through the heavy spray flying up from the back of the car, and from the cars all around him. One could scarcely see one's own hand in front of their face.
Ahead of him, something briefly registered in Jarno's vision: a flurry of spray, a flash of white paint. Had someone spun? Jarno couldn't tell. It may not even have been a car for all he could see. Through the spray, the flash of paint looked almost fish-shaped, though of course it couldn't have been a fish, even though it was wet enough for one to survive here...
SLAM. What had happened registered immediately: Jarno had suffered a lapse in concentration and hit the car in front of him. With the sudden deceleration, everything seemed to lapse into slow-motion; even the rain seemed to shudder to a temporary crawl. There was an instant of silence, broken sharply by another loud bang and a furious jolt, as another car slammed straight into the back of Jarno's stricken car, having presumably been unsighted by the spray.
As his car slowly slid to a halt, Jarno sat quietly, trying to come to terms with things. His race was likely far from over; since he'd seemingly crashed in the middle of a straight, and on the first lap, the race would probably be red-flagged and restarted, giving him a second chance with the spare car. However, Jarno was still worried about the effect the crash might have on his reputation in the sport. This was his sophomore year in Formula 1, and he'd retired from more than half the races so far, having scored no points. He knew that if he carried on like this, this season could well be his last.
Now for the disheartening, though mercifully short walk back to the pit lane. Jarno unscrewed the steering wheel, and placed it where he knew the car's nose cone would be; he could still barely see it through the driving rain. Then he got out of the car, took one step and felt his leg kick something. He looked down: it appeared to be a tyre. Free from its carbon-fibre master, it had been merrily rolling across the deserted track as tumbleweed does across desert.
But was it deserted? The tyre couldn't possibly have come from his car. Jarno knew that at least two other cars had been involved in the collision, and he started to wonder how many others had been. He pulled off his helmet, increasing his visibility, though only slightly as it was still hard to see through the driving rain. Even so, it was just enough for him to make out the carnage that had unfolded around him.
The tarmac around him was littered with stricken cars. At least a dozen of them, all crowded together, having apparently crashed into one another. The floor was strewn with shards of carbon fibre, winking white and blue and red through the grey gloom, and scores of wheels like the one he had just kicked were barrelling from the scene like escaped cattle broken free from their ranch. It appeared that somebody had run wide and spun onto the racing line - the flash of paint that Jarno had spotted - and everyone behind them had simply ploughed unsighted into the melee, systematically eliminating almost every car behind a certain point on the track. And all around him, the other drivers were getting out of their cars, taking off their helmets, and awakening to the same nightmare.
Jarno clambered his way through the chaos, the stricken cars, and approached a marshal, who to his relief was frantically waving a red flag. "What the hell happened?" he asked the marshal.
"I'm not sure," replied the marshal, in a slight French accent. "I see Coulthard spin, over there somewhere-" he gesticulated wildly at an area a few yards behind Jarno's stricken car "-I think somebody hit him, and then the next thing I know, all the cars are piled up together like this, sliding along the track..." The marshal sighed heavily. "It'll be a miracle if nobody was hurt."
A tap on the shoulder. Jarno turned round to see his team-mate, Olivier Panis, still wearing his helmet but with the visor raised. Even without seeing his face, Jarno could tell from his team-mate's body language that he was a little shaken. "You'll be needing that for the restart," he said, gesturing at Jarno's crash helmet.
Jarno nodded and was
about to put it on when he hesitated. "What about you?" he asked.
"I got taken out too," replied Olivier, "and there's only one spare car. You're the lead driver, so..." He shrugged disappointedly. "I'll have to just watch from the garage."
Jarno gave his team-mate a sympathetic smile. "Sorry, man," he said.
"I got taken out too," replied Olivier, "and there's only one spare car. You're the lead driver, so..." He shrugged disappointedly. "I'll have to just watch from the garage."
Jarno gave his team-mate a sympathetic smile. "Sorry, man," he said.
"No need to
apologize," said Olivier. "This is not your fault. I…" Olivier
turned round to take another look at the scene, them muttered something in
French that Jarno didn't catch. "Twenty years I've been racing, and I've
never seen anything like this before. Do you think everyone's alright?"
"I don't
know," said Jarno. "There's an awful lot of debris around. I sure
hope so, though."
"Me too," said
Olivier. "Good luck in the restart."
As Olivier made his way
back to the pits, Jarno surveyed the carnage once more. Not just the Minardis
and Tyrrells had been taken out, but a Ferrari and a Benetton as well. World
Champions and backmarkers, household names and debutantes, all levelled in a
single moment, one wrong turn of the steering wheel. He glanced again at his departing
team-mate, gazing regretfully at his wrecked car as he passed it. He looked
over at the marshals, now picking up the pieces: clearing away the reams of
debris, rolling the severed tyres out of the way, and pushing the cars'
shattered remains to one side so they could be recovered. Then he looked behind
him, and saw David Coulthard, seemingly the instigator of this whole affair,
walking dejectedly back towards the pits to claim his spare car, his helmet
still on, the raindrops bouncing off it. Trying to come to terms with it all.
Jarno sighed, then
started to meander his way back through the destruction, past the broken pieces
of carbon fibre that still carpeted the ground. He passed a marshal wheeling
his car towards the barriers, to be picked up by a crane and taken away, and
for a moment it seemed to Jarno that he was hauling a battered body across a
bomb site, ready to be thrown into an ambulance and driven to the morgue. The
destruction around him certainly would not have looked out of place at a bomb
site. Then he was back in the pit lane, joining the dozen other drivers
marching through the monsoon, some still helmeted, some dragging their crash
helmets behind them, as though the storm had washed away their homes and they
were now hauling their belongings through the driving rain, soaked through,
searching for refuge.
[AUTHOR'S NOTE: After
the restart, Jarno Trulli went on to finish 6th, claiming his and Prost's only
point of the season. Eddie Irvine and Rubens Barrichello had suffered minor injuries
in the crash - Barrichello did not take the restart - but nobody was seriously
hurt. The race was won by Damon Hill, the first-ever victory for his Jordan team but the final win of Hill's career.]
No comments:
Post a Comment