At twelve zero five in the afternoon, the F2 Free Practice session began.
Unlike F1, which has three free practice sessions, F2 only has a single forty five minute practice session for the entire weekend.
Every driver must complete their setup tests, track adaptation, and rhythm adjustments within this short window.
There is no extra time to waste.
Every single lap is precious.
The moment Julian sat in the cockpit, his body automatically switched into combat mode.
His back straightened slightly.
His hands gripped the steering wheel firmly.
His gaze fell on the Bahrain circuit ahead.
The engine roared behind him.
The steering wheel transmitted a fine, steady vibration.
Everything was exactly the same as it was a month ago.
The Bahrain track surface, the hot air, the feeling of the tires rolling over the asphalt.
But it was also completely different.
During his two weeks in Oxford, he had been dealing with an F1 car every single day.
That was a machine so sensitive it was almost neurotic.
The downforce was massive, the braking was brutal, and the G forces were terrifying.
Every corner required absolutely precise inputs.
If the steering wheel was turned just one knuckle too far, the lap time would drop by zero point two seconds.
In that world, there was no margin for error and no room to breathe.
But sitting in the F2 car right now, everything felt tame.
The braking window was wider.
The car dynamics were more forgiving.
The cornering speeds were slower.
The force feedback was gentler.
An F1 car was a fierce beast that required all your strength to tame.
An F2 car was a docile cat.
It was not that the car was slow.
It was that he had become faster.
The green lights came on.
“Julian, pit exit,” Paul’s voice came over the radio.
Julian stepped on the throttle and drove onto the track.
Out lap.
The tires rolled over the surface, and grip gradually built up.
He felt the changes in the steering wheel weight and silently adjusted his braking points for the day in his mind.
The winter test data, the Oxford simulator, the line by line notes he recorded in his little notebook while walking the track.
All this information merged in his brain into a clear, complete picture.
Lap two.
The car began its first proper flying lap.
Turn one.
His braking point was at least two meters later than during the winter test.
Heavy braking, downshift, the nose pointed steadily at the apex.
Full throttle on the exit.
The heat wave from the exhaust twisted the distant track in the air.
In his perception, this corner was like a slow motion video slowed down ten times.
Every detail was clearly visible.
Turn four.
Full throttle through the corner.
The car was almost touching the barrier.
The right side tires rolled over the edge of the curb.
He had noted this during the track walk.
The old asphalt here had better grip, allowing him to get on the throttle earlier.
Sure enough, the exit speed was nearly three kilometers per hour faster than his memory of the fastest time.
Turn eight high speed corner.
The steering wheel was only corrected once.
The racing line was clean and decisive.
Turn eleven and Turn twelve continuous corners.
His rhythm was perfect.
The car did not make a single unnecessary movement during the continuous direction changes.
The timing for full throttle on the exit was down to the millimeter.
On the big screen, the lap time refreshed.
That was zero point one seconds faster than his one minute forty point two two seconds from the winter test.
In the garage, Sander’s fists clenched unconsciously.
He turned to look at Paul and saw Paul also staring at the screen, his mouth slightly open, as if silently saying the word what.
Lap three.
One minute forty point zero five seconds.
Lap four.
One minute thirty nine point nine seven seconds.
Fastest in practice.
The red lights came on.
The forty five minutes were up.
With a fastest lap of one minute thirty nine point nine seven seconds, Julian ranked first overall.
He was nearly zero point five seconds ahead of second place Theo Pourchaire, and nearly zero point eight seconds ahead of his teammate Dennis Hauger, if Dennis could still be called a teammate.
Sander stood in front of the garage monitor.
The corners of his mouth were pressed down so hard they could not go any lower.
He finally gave up on managing his expression and revealed a completely unhidden smile.
Paul stood next to him with his arms crossed.
His head shook left and right in an amplitude so small it was almost invisible, but it shook many times.
He really learned a lot at Williams.
Getting used to the rhythm of an F1 car and then coming back to drive an F2 car feels completely different.
This is playing on a completely different level, Sander said in a low voice.
Dennis ranked fifth.
When he took off his helmet, his movements were a full beat slower than usual.
His gaze unconsciously drifted toward the red livery number two car at the other end of the garage, then quickly snapped back to stare at his own gloves.
He did not say anything.
He placed his helmet on the race seat and walked toward the motorhome.
His engineer followed behind, wanting to say something, but opened his mouth and ultimately stayed silent.
At two in the afternoon, qualifying.
The F2 qualifying rules are completely different from F1.
F2 qualifying is a single session.
There is no Q1, Q2, or Q3.
It is just a single thirty minute session with no elimination and no segments.
Everyone goes out at the same time, freely choosing their timing and freely choosing their track position.
The moment the pit lane green lights came on, Julian was the first to rush out.
The MP garage was located right next to the pit lane exit.
This was one of the best positions in the entire paddock, allowing him to get onto a clean track immediately and avoid traffic.
“Track is clean.
No traffic.
You can push,” Sander said over the radio.
His voice was steady but carried a hint of barely concealed anticipation.
“Copy,” Julian replied briefly and calmly.
The out lap ended.
He crossed the start finish line, and the flying lap officially began.
The numbers on the timer on the dashboard started to tick.
The first sector was Turn one to Turn four.
His braking point at Turn one was delayed by another one meter compared to practice.
That was the ideal braking point he had recorded in his little notebook during the track walk.
Apex speed maxed out.
Full throttle on the exit.
The car cut into Turn two along the optimal racing line, then Turn three, then Turn four.
He remembered crouching at the exit of Turn four earlier, touching the patched asphalt with his fingertips.
The new asphalt had weaker grip and was prone to oversteer.
His right foot decisively stepped on the throttle half a car length earlier than the normal throttle application point.
The steering wheel was slightly adjusted, and the car navigated the corner with a drifting posture.
Passing the first timing point.
On the big screen, a purple timing block lit up next to his name.
That was the symbol for the fastest overall time.
The second sector was Turn five to Turn eleven.
The middle section of the Bahrain circuit was an alternating combination of high speed and low speed corners, testing the driver’s control over rhythm.
Too aggressive, and the tire temperatures would exceed the optimal window.
Too conservative, and time would quietly slip away between the corners.
Every entry, every exit, the switching of throttle and brake was like a musical score with a distinct rhythm.
He remembered the words Albon taught him in the F1 simulator.
You are being too gentle with the car.
Now he was no longer being gentle with the car.
When he needed to pin it, he never hesitated.
When he needed to lift, he never dragged his feet.
The Turn eight high speed corner only required one steering correction.
The racing line through the Turn nine and Turn ten continuous corners was so precise it could be calibrated with measuring instruments.
Passing the second timing point, his total lead expanded to nearly zero point three seconds.
The third sector was Turn twelve to Turn fifteen.
The final few corners required precise throttle control.
The slightest carelessness would cost time.
Especially Turn thirteen and Turn fourteen, where the throttle application on the exit determined the maximum speed on the final sprint straight.
His right foot was as delicate as if it were stepping on a piano sustain pedal.
It was not a rigid pinned throttle, but a rhythm of pressing and releasing.
The car slid slightly in the corner.
He almost instinctively adjusted the steering.
The car’s posture instantly recovered, the throttle was pinned again, and he crossed the line.
The numbers on the big screen froze.
One minute thirty nine point nine two seconds.
First overall.
Pole position!
For the rest of the qualifying session, no one could challenge this result.
Julian attempted an even later braking point and a more aggressive racing line on his final lap, but the lap time was zero point two seconds slower.
Sander said over the radio to come back in.
He returned to the pit lane, drank his electrolyte water, and watched the timer on the screen slowly tick down to zero.
Pole position, confirmed.
A short but powerful cheer erupted in the garage.
Sander’s fists clenched tightly as he shouted something in a low voice that no one could hear.
Paul took off his glasses, wiped the lenses with the corner of his shirt, and put them back on.
It was as if not wiping them would not be enough to confirm that the data in front of him was real.
The mechanics high fived each other.
Someone patted Julian’s helmet.
Someone else gave a thumbs up to the monitor on the wall.
The final qualifying results lit up on the big screen one by one.
P1 Julian Vance MP Motorsport 1:39.92
P2 Theo Pourchaire ART Grand Prix +0.61
P3 Victor Martins ART Grand Prix +0.70
P4 Zane Maloney Carlin +0.78
P5 Dennis Hauger MP Motorsport +0.85
P6 Jack Doohan Virtuosi +1.03
P7 Ralph Boschung Campos +1.11
P8 Isack Hadjar Hitech +1.25
P9 Frederik Vesti Prema +1.38
P10 Oliver Bearman Prema +1.44
Dennis ranked fifth.
When he returned to the garage, he passed Julian’s car.
The red livery number two car was parked quietly in the pit lane.
The mechanics were doing preliminary checks for tomorrow’s feature race.
Dennis’s footsteps slowed slightly.
He reached out, and his fingertips lightly touched the edge of the rear wing.
His fingers stayed on the carbon fiber surface for less than half a second, as if confirming whether it was real.
Then he pulled his hand back and walked into his own motorhome.
The gap between the two of them had been slowly expanding as time passed.
After qualifying, in the mixed zone.
F2 rules require the top three drivers in qualifying to accept media interviews.
Julian had just taken off his helmet and fireproof balaclava.
His hair was still wet and plastered to his forehead when a staff member led him to the interview area.
The lights were blindingly bright.
The camera lenses were aimed at him like a row of dark, bottomless eyes.