March 4th.
Saturday.
Three in the afternoon.
Bahrain International Circuit, MP Motorsport garage.
Julian sat in a folding chair in the rest area, legs stretched out, leaning forward, hands clasping his toes as he did his final pre race stretching.
His breathing was steady and deep.
Around him, mechanics were confirming tire temperatures over the radio, doing final checks on front wing angles, and running from the nose to the tail of the car with laptops.
His calmness formed a stark contrast with the busy environment.
Julian closed his eyes and silently did some math in his head.
Pole position gives two points.
Sprint race win gives ten points.
Sprint race fastest lap gives one point.
Feature race win gives twenty five points.
Feature race fastest lap gives one point.
If he got all of them, that would be thirty nine points.
The system reward was five free proficiency points for every one F2 championship point.
Thirty nine times five equals one hundred and ninety five.
One hundred and ninety five free proficiency points.
He summoned the system panel in his mind and looked at that glaring number.
Wet Weather Pace: 28
If he put all one hundred and ninety five free proficiency points into wet weather, that would increase the attribute by nearly two points in a single Grand Prix weekend.
Add in the system quest rewards for winning the sprint race plus one overtaking technique and winning the feature race plus one wet weather pace.
By the end of this weekend, his wet weather pace could jump from twenty eight to thirty or even thirty four.
Racing really was the fastest way to grow.
“What are you thinking about?”
Paul’s voice suddenly rang in his ear.
Julian opened his eyes to find Paul standing next to him at some point, looking at him with a thoughtful expression.
“Nothing,” Julian said, dropping his legs and standing up obediently.
“Just thinking about how to overtake.”
Paul glanced at him and did not press further, but his expression clearly said you were not thinking about overtaking just now.
At three forty five in the afternoon.
Starting grid confirmed.
The sprint race starting order was based on the reverse of the qualifying results.
Since Julian qualified first, his final starting position was tenth, on the outside of the fifth row.
Row one: Oliver Bearman, Frederik Vesti.
Row two: Isack Hadjar, Ralph Boschung.
Row three: Jack Doohan, Dennis Hauger.
Row four: Zane Maloney, Victor Martins.
Row five: Theo Pourchaire, Julian Vance.
Sander stood in front of the tactical board, his finger pointing at the fifth row.
“In front of you are Theo Pourchaire and Victor Martins,” he said, looking up at Julian.
“These two are teammates at ART Grand Prix and have a very good relationship off the track. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
I saw them exchanging several glances during the pre race briefing.
They will most likely coordinate their defense.”
Julian nodded.
“I know.”
“Everyone starts on the soft tires,” Paul added from the side.
“On the Bahrain circuit, the normal lifespan of the softs is around twelve to fourteen laps.
The sprint race is twenty three laps long, so the tires will degrade heavily in the second half.
But holding position in the early stages is more important.
No one will start on the hard tires at the beginning, as that would be giving up the opening lap.”
“So there will be a lot of close fighting in the first half,” Sander said.
“You need to be patient.
Do not fight them head on in the first lap.
Your biggest advantage is not your start reaction, but your long run pace.”
Julian nodded again.
“Got it.”
At four fifteen in the afternoon.
Air temperature thirty two degrees, track temperature forty five degrees.
The scorching Bahrain sun baked the track surface into a giant frying pan.
Heat waves rose from the ground, making the distant track shimmer slightly.
Twenty two cars lined up on the starting grid.
The roar of the engines blended into a continuous rumble that made the chest vibrate.
The mechanics removed the tire blankets one by one, and the red soft tires gleamed with a warm shine under the sun.
Julian sat in the cockpit, hands resting on the steering wheel.
His starting position was on the outside of the fifth row, near the right side of the track.
Through his visor, he could see the white ART car of Theo Pourchaire slightly to his left, and directly ahead, the rear wing of Victor Martins.
The formation lap began.
Twenty two cars drove off the grid one by one, forming a winding line on the Bahrain circuit.
The tires gradually built grip at low speed, and the brake disc temperatures began to climb.
Julian’s breathing was steady and deep.
His gaze swept over every number on the dashboard.
Tire temperature, brake temperature, engine RPM.
Everything was normal.
The cars returned to the grid and stopped.
Engine RPM pulled up to the standard launch speed.
Clutch bite point confirmed.
Left foot on the brake, right foot hovering over the throttle.
Five red lights lit up one by one.
Five lights.
Three lights.
One light.
Lights out.
Julian’s right foot slammed the throttle almost at the exact moment the lights went out.
The engine roared, and the car shot forward as if launched from a catapult.
His start reaction was a full car length faster than Theo on the inside.
The tires did not spin, the clutch bite was perfect, and the acceleration pinned him deep into the seat.
“Julian’s start is incredibly fast!” In a TikTok illegal stream, the streamer Jake’s voice was already hyped.
The broadcast camera locked onto Julian as the twenty two cars sprinted at full speed down the start finish straight.
“He is pulling alongside!
He is going to overtake Theo on the outside”
Julian’s car was already parallel with Theo.
His racing line extended outward, preparing to take Theo’s position on the outside at the entry of the first corner.
The advantage was his.
Better start, faster speed, better exit angle.
Overtaking was completely justified.
Then he saw the rear wing of Victor Martins.
The white ART car directly in front suddenly swerved hard to the right.
It was not a normal racing line adjustment, but a decisive lateral movement that completely blocked the outside space.
“Martins changes lanes to block!
That is intentional!” Jake slammed his desk in anger, making the microphone buzz.
“Julian’s overtaking line is completely shut down!”
Julian was forced to lift off the throttle.
The car lost power at high speed and stuttered slightly.
His right foot hovered over the throttle pedal for half a second before pressing down again.
But it was too late.
Theo took the opportunity to accelerate and open up a one car length gap.
Martins, having blocked the line, did not accelerate either.
He kept his speed half a second slower than the normal rhythm, just to firmly block Julian’s path.
Bodyguard.
The word flashed in Julian’s mind.
Sander was right.
They were indeed coordinating their defense.
One person attacks, one person covers.
A classic teammate tactic.
This kind of defense is allowed in F2.
As long as there is no malicious lane change or collision, the stewards usually do not intervene.
But his mental state was very stable.
He was not in a rush.
If this was two months ago, encountering this kind of malicious blocking might have caused his mental state to collapse.
Being targeted, and then targeted again.
He had experienced this feeling of being treated as a thorn in the side back when he raced karts as a kid.
Back then, he would get angry, get impatient, and try to fight back with more aggressive overtakes, only to end up driving off the track or getting a time penalty.