March 2nd.
Bahrain International Airport.
Julian dragged a small carry on suitcase, walking out of the terminal with the Williams team.
The hot wind hitting his face instantly brought back memories of stepping onto this desert land for the first time a month ago.
The same scorching heat, the same dry air, the same blinding sun.
A Williams staff member arranged a black business car to take him directly to the hotel where the MP team was staying.
The streets of Bahrain flew past the car window.
Palm trees, overpasses, and the distant track fencing.
Everything looked as familiar as if he had just been here yesterday.
At the hotel entrance, Sander and Paul were already waiting.
Seeing Julian step out of the car, Sander’s eyes lit up.
He strode forward and, instead of shaking hands, pulled Julian into a direct hug.
Welcome back, Julian.
Julian was caught off guard by the sudden warmth.
He stiffened for a second before standing properly.
Mr.
Sander, Mr.
Paul, long time no see.
Paul stood to the side, looking Julian up and down.
His gaze lingered for a moment on the teenager’s noticeably thicker neck, then dropped to the faint muscle lines visible on his forearms beneath his sleeves.
You have changed, Paul said.
Julian looked down at himself.
Have I?
You have, Paul said with absolute certainty.
Not just your looks, but your aura.
Before, you stood here like a student visiting the team.
Now, you stand here like a driver here to race.
Julian scratched his head, not sure how to respond.
He felt like he was still the same guy who loved playing Wild Rift, loved eating burgers, and got shy when praised.
But in the eyes of others, he was the teenager who had been training fourteen hours a day in Oxfordshire.
He was definitely different now.
Sander put an arm around his shoulder and guided him into the hotel.
Come on, let us get you checked in.
The cafeteria has a seafood buffet tonight.
We saved a seat for you.
Eat as much as you want.
Tom did not come this time either.
Julian’s eyes lit up.
As they walked through the revolving doors, a group of people walked in from the opposite direction.
Leading the way was Dennis Hauger, followed by his fitness trainer and engineer.
The two groups met face to face in the lobby, and the air instantly froze for half a second.
Dennis clearly paused.
His gaze landed on Julian, then darted away as if he had been burned.
The silence lasted for about two seconds before Dennis took a stiff step forward and nodded rigidly.
Long time no see.
His tone was stiff, like he was reciting an unfamiliar line.
Julian nodded obediently.
Long time no see.
They brushed past each other.
Dennis did not stop walking, heading straight for the hotel entrance.
But the moment the revolving door was about to turn, his fingers unconsciously tightened on his backpack straps.
A month ago, when Julian first arrived at the MP team, Dennis was the untouchable number one driver, looking down on this rich kid shoved in by a sponsor.
He had sized Julian up with disdain in the gym, finding the new guy’s yellow beginner resistance band laughable.
A month later, Julian was the universally recognized tire preservation monster, a Williams signed prospective F1 driver, and the biggest discovery of the winter test according to the media.
Dennis Hauger was still just the top seed of the Red Bull Junior Team, trying hard to prove his value in the F2 paddock.
The gap between them had shifted from number one and number two to a distance that required looking up.
Dennis had once treated Julian as a joke to be crushed.
March 3rd.
Friday.
The start of the race weekend.
At ten in the morning, the Bahrain sun was already high.
Track temperature showed thirty five degrees Celsius.
The pit lane roller doors opened one by one as mechanics made final preparations.
Engine roars began echoing over the paddock.
Julian walked along the track alone.
Wearing the MP team kit, he held a small notebook and a pen, walking slowly along the racing line.
At every corner, he would stop, crouch down, and touch the curbs with his hands to feel their rises and falls.
This was what Gray, a chassis engineer he met at the Williams base, had taught him.
Gray was a veteran mechanic who had worked in the paddock for decades, witnessing the glory days of Williams and working with numerous world champions.
Gray had told him that only when you actually walk a lap of the track with your own feet can you truly feel the rises and falls of the surface and the height of the curbs.
The track in the simulator is just a stack of data.
The real track is alive.
It breathes, it changes, and it gives you different feedback depending on how you treat it.
Julian had taken those words to heart.
The Bahrain circuit was five point four one two kilometers long with fifteen corners.
He started from the pit lane exit and walked slowly along the racing line.
The sun cast his shadow long against the gray asphalt.
Scorching hot air rose from the ground, and he could feel the slight burn even through his shoe soles.
At Turn one, he crouched down and pressed his fingers against the edge of the curb.
The red and white curb was warm from the sun, and there was a protrusion of less than a centimeter at the edge.
It was about five millimeters higher than the markings in the simulator database.
Turn one, inside curb is about five millimeters higher than the simulator, he wrote in his notebook.
If I ride it too deep, the front suspension might bottom out.
The exit line needs to shift outward by about three centimeters.
At Turn four, he noticed a patch of asphalt less than half a meter wide at the exit.
It was a darker shade than the surrounding track.
It was newly laid asphalt, meaning the grip would be different.
Turn four exit, asphalt patched, weaker grip, might cause oversteer.
At the high speed Turn eight, he stood at the apex and looked up the track.
Full throttle speed through this corner exceeded two hundred and fifty kilometers per hour, subjecting the car to massive lateral G forces.
He squinted one eye, visually estimating the optimal racing line along the curve, and drew a simple arc diagram in his notebook.
At the Turn eleven and Turn twelve continuous corners, he walked the section three times.
This was the most rhythm demanding part of the Bahrain circuit.
The transition between the two corners determined the exit speed.
He used his hands to mimic the car entry angle, muttering to himself.
It took over half an hour to complete a full lap.
The sun was high now, and the temperature was climbing.
Fine beads of sweat formed on Julian’s forehead, and the collar of his team kit was soaked.
He sat on the curb of the fourth to last corner, spread the notebook on his knees, and reviewed his notes.
Dense handwriting, crooked corner diagrams, and a bracketed note saying to ask Mark if the data was correct.
Just then, a bicycle bell rang behind him.
Ring ring.
Julian turned around and saw a man in an Alfa Romeo team kit riding a folding bicycle slowly down the pit lane.
The man was lean and wiry, his calves showing the muscle definition of a professional cyclist.
He wore a sun hat, and sunglasses covered half his face.
The man stopped his bike next to Julian, took off his sunglasses, and revealed a highly recognizable Finnish face.
Valtteri Bottas.
A legendary driver of the Mercedes dynasty, a ten time Grand Prix winner, and now the number one driver for Alfa Romeo and Zhou Guanyu’s teammate.
He was also a legend who came up through the Williams junior system.
In the era of Hamilton’s dominance, he was the only number two driver who could consistently provide team support to the Silver Arrows.
Stable, reliable, and stoic.
Julian was stunned.
You are Julian?
Bottas asked in English with a Finnish accent, his tone as casual as if he were asking for directions.
Yes.
Bottas got off his bike and walked side by side with Julian.
He was half a head taller, but he walked with a slight slouch, a habit from years of cycling.
He glanced at the notebook in Julian’s hand.
What are you drawing?
Julian hesitated for a second, then handed the notebook over.
Bottas took it and flipped through a few pages.
His expression shifted from casual to serious.
He stopped on a certain page for a long time.
It was the racing line diagram for the Turn eleven and Turn twelve complex, with several lines of notes written next to it.
Did you draw this yourself?
Yeah.
Bottas flipped to the next page and saw a crooked stick figure drawing of a burger.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
I have heard about you, Bottas said, handing the notebook back.
You are very popular lately.
Zhou mentioned you to me too.
He said you are a very impressive young driver who just got signed by Williams.
Julian was speechless.
Zhou already knows about me?
Zhou said your winter test data was terrifying, Bottas added.
Especially the tire stuff.
He said if he has time, he wants to sit down and discuss your tire preservation secrets with you.
Julian scratched his head, not knowing what to say.
Being praised to his face by one of the fastest drivers in F1 felt even more surreal than setting a fastest lap in the simulator.
Bottas pushed his bike and walked the remaining half lap with Julian.
He did not deliberately give Julian any instructions.
He just casually talked about his own time at Williams, about how cold the winters in Oxfordshire were, about how the fried fish and chips in the Williams cafeteria were better than any shop outside, and about the nerves and excitement of his promotion from F2 to F1.
Williams is a good place, Bottas stopped at Turn thirteen, his gaze crossing the track fence toward the distant blue and white F1 garage.
The car might not be fast right now, but the people there are pure.
There is no big team politics, no complex factions.
Everyone is doing the exact same thing, making the car faster.
Julian listened carefully.
When I joined Williams in 2013, the team was also in last place, Bottas said.
But back then, no one felt Williams would lose forever.
Because we had a group of people who truly loved racing.
He turned his head and looked at Julian.
Are you that kind of person?
Julian thought for a moment and nodded seriously.
I think I am.
Bottas looked at him for two seconds, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
Let us exchange contact info.
If you have any questions in the future, you can ask me.
Julian was pleasantly surprised and quickly fumbled for his phone.
His hands were covered in sweat, and his fingerprint unlock failed a few times.
He finally managed to open the WhatsApp QR code screen.
After scanning the code, Bottas put his phone away and got back on his bike.
By the way, he said, holding the handlebars and looking back.
Good luck in qualifying.
Then he pedaled away, slowly riding down the pit lane.
His figure gradually shrank into a black dot under the scorching Bahrain sun, finally disappearing into the entrance of the Alfa Romeo garage.
Julian stood there, staring in the direction he had gone for a while.
F1 drivers were not so untouchable after all.
At least Bottas was not.
He looked down at the newly added contact on his phone screen.
Valtteri Bottas.
Next to his profile picture was a small bicycle emoji, probably set by Bottas himself.
Julian smiled, put his phone away, picked up his notebook and pen, and continued walking.
Three more corners to record.