As everyone knows, the paddock is a place with no secrets.
Engineers and mechanics move between teams freely.
In private, they are friends who drink and watch sports together.
Any small ripple of information spreads across the entire paddock overnight.
In the early hours of the morning after the Bahrain winter test ended, a data analysis report marked “MP Motorsport Confidential” was anonymously sent to the email inboxes of the technical directors of every F1 team.
No one knew who sent it.
Maybe it was an engineer looking to jump ship.
Maybe it was a data analyst who thought, “This is too absurd, more people need to see this.” Or maybe it was just a mechanic who had one too many drinks at the bar in the Bahrain hotel.
But the moment everyone opened the attachment, they all did the same thing.
They sat up straight, leaned their heads close to the screen, and studied the data over and over again.
The core data of the report was only one line.
Driver: Julian Vance.
Tire degradation rate: 25.3 percent lower than the paddock average.
Red soft tire long run pace drop: Less than one second per lap for seventeen laps.
Below it were dense curve graphs, temperature heat maps, and comparison data.
Julian’s tire wear curve was almost a perfectly smooth straight line.
In contrast, the curve for his teammate Dennis Hauger started to plummet sharply after lap eight.
The technical departments of the entire F1 paddock worked overtime through the night.
Mercedes AMG Petronas Headquarters, Brixworth, UK.
Technical Director Mike Elliott projected the report onto the conference room screen and said one sentence to the dozen senior engineers present.
“I want to confirm if this data is faked.”
“It has already been confirmed,” the chief data analyst said, sliding his tablet to bring up a new set of curves.
“We obtained the official tire temperature sensor data from the Bahrain circuit and cross referenced it with the GPS speed traces from the F2 official broadcast.
The conclusion is…”
“The data is real.
It might even be underestimated.”
The conference room fell silent for three seconds.
“Pull up his full resume,” Elliott said.
“And his onboard footage from every practice session, including that wet weather session.”
At the same time, the technical departments of Ferrari, Red Bull, Aston Martin, Alpine, and McLaren were all doing the exact same thing.
Red Bull Racing Headquarters, Milton Keynes, UK.
Dr.
Helmut Marko’s desk was piled high with a thick stack of documents about Julian.
He had been reading them all afternoon.
From photos of Julian participating in his first national karting championship at age six, to the onboard footage of the final lap of the Bahrain winter test three days ago, nothing was missed.
“Doctor, Mercedes has already sent people to the Netherlands,” his assistant said, standing at the door with an urgent tone.
Marko did not look up.
“I know.”
“Ferrari has also sent their junior program director.”
“I know.”
“Aston Martin and Alpine representatives have already arrived at the MP base and are waiting for Sander.”
“I know.”
The assistant paused.
“Then should we also…”
Marko finally looked up.
He took off his reading glasses and pointed at a segment of onboard footage on the computer screen with the temple of the glasses.
It was the clip of Julian spinning out during the wet weather practice session.
“Do you see this?” New chapters come out on g.com first.
The assistant nodded.
“A driver who does not even dare to touch the throttle in the rain,” Marko put his glasses back on, his tone as cold as if he were stating a law of physics, “is not worthy of driving a Red Bull car.”
He paused and added one more sentence.
“At least not right now.”
The assistant opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but ultimately just nodded and backed out of the office.
The moment the door closed, Marko’s gaze returned to the screen.
On the screen, Julian’s number two car was speeding down the straight at the Bahrain circuit.
The tire wear curve was as flat as a highway.
Marko’s fingers tapped lightly on the desk.
He had said “not worthy,” but that tire data report marked “Confidential” had already been printed out by him and placed in the folder on the very top of his desk.
On the cover of that folder were four big words: The Tire God!
Netherlands, Westmaas, MP Motorsport Base.
Sander received more phone calls today than he had in his entire life.
At seven thirty in the morning, he was woken up by the first call.
The caller identified himself as the junior program director of Aston Martin, wanting to “drop by the Netherlands to exchange some junior training experience.”
At seven fifteen, the second call.
The sporting director of Alpine, saying he was “very interested in MP Motorsport’s winter test performance and wanted to schedule a time to chat.”
At eight o’clock, the third call.
The head of the Ferrari Driver Academy, polite but clear in his purpose.
“We were impressed by Julian’s dry weather performance and would like to understand his contract situation.”
At eight forty five, the fourth call.
The junior program director of Mercedes AMG Petronas asked directly, “What is Julian’s buyout clause?”
Sander wrote down the content of every single call in his notebook.
Then he leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling in a daze for a full five minutes.
He had always known that Julian’s talent could not be hidden in a place like the paddock.
But he did not expect it to be exposed so quickly.
Three days.
It only took three days.
The teenager who, two weeks ago, he had considered just a “rich kid shoved in by a sponsor” had become the hottest rookie in the entire F1 paddock.
Knock, knock, knock.
Paul pushed the door open, holding a brown paper envelope.
“The Aston Martin people have arrived.
They are waiting in the meeting room.” He placed the envelope in front of Sander.
“This is the formal letter of intent from Alpine.
I just printed out the electronic version.
The Ferrari people will arrive at three this afternoon.
The Mercedes people will arrive tomorrow morning.”
Sander picked up the envelope but did not open it.
“How is Dennis handling this?” he asked.
Paul’s expression became somewhat subtle.
“Not well.” He pulled over a chair and sat down, lowering his voice.
“During physical training this morning, his fitness trainer heard him on the phone.
He sounded very agitated.
It seems someone from the Red Bull Junior Team told him that Dr.
Marko has ‘no interest’ in Julian.”
Sander frowned.
“Marko said he has no interest?”
“The exact words were, ‘A person who does not dare to touch the throttle in the rain is not worthy of driving a Red Bull car.'” Paul shrugged.
“But Dennis does not think so. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
He feels that Julian has stolen his spotlight.
Now the entire paddock is focusing on a rookie, while he, the top seed of the Red Bull Junior Team, has become a background character.”
What was even harder for him to accept was that Dr.
Marko would rather pay attention to a rookie who spun out in the rain than give him any promise regarding an F1 seat.
Sander was silent for a moment.
“What about his team?”
“Still the same old story.” Paul sighed.
“They keep telling everyone, ‘Winter testing does not count.
The real race will show the truth.’ But have you not noticed?
This morning, twice as many mechanics actively greeted Julian when he arrived at the base compared to yesterday.”
That is how the paddock works.
Results are the only passport.
Before the winter test, Julian was just a “talented pay driver.” People were polite to him because of the sponsor behind him.
After the winter test, Julian was a “monster who could run seventeen laps on red softs in Bahrain without a significant drop in pace.” People were enthusiastic about him because he could truly lead the team to win.
Sander stood up and walked to the window.
Outside, Julian was walking alone toward the cafeteria.
He was wearing an MP Motorsport hoodie that was clearly one size too big.
One hand was playing with his phone, and the other was in his pocket.
His steps were slow, like an old lady taking a stroll.
You would never guess that this teenager had caused such a massive storm in the paddock.
“What are the conditions from the various teams?” Sander asked.
Paul opened his notebook.
“Mercedes is the most generous.
A full scholarship to the Mercedes Junior Program.
They promise to let him train in F2 for two years, with a chance to become an F1 reserve driver if he performs well.
They emphasize ‘opportunity,’ but there is no written guarantee.”
“Ferrari is the most cautious.
They are only willing to offer an ‘observer’ contract.
It allows Julian to use the Ferrari simulator, but he does not get a seat, and they make no promises.
They say they need to ‘further evaluate his wet weather capabilities.'”
“Aston Martin and Alpine have similar conditions.
Reserve driver plus two years in the junior program.
The time for promotion is undetermined, and there is no guarantee of a seat.”
“To put it plainly, everyone wants his tire preservation talent, but everyone is gambling on his wet weather weakness.
No one is willing to bet an official F1 seat on a lopsided genius.” Paul closed his notebook.
Sander turned around.
“What about Williams?”
Paul paused.
“Williams has not contacted us.”
Sander was silent for a moment.
“They will,” he said.
Williams, the legendary team that once stood alongside Ferrari and McLaren as one of the big three powerhouses, had been struggling for far too long.
They were not as picky as Mercedes and Ferrari.
They needed a driver who could score points immediately.
They needed a driver who could save them from their tire nightmare.
And Julian was exactly that person.