My Formula 1 System

"...this is your captain speaking. We are now beginning our descent into Barcelona-El Prat Airport. Local time is 9:23 a.m., and the weather is partly cloudy with a temperature of 23 degrees Celsius. Please ensure your seatbelts are fastened, tray tables are stowed, and seats are in their upright position. We thank you for flying with us and hope you enjoy your stay in Barcelona."

Ansel tapped Luca once the announcement came on, snapping him out of his daze as he stared at the endless clouds while harsh instrumentals drummed into his ears. Startled, Luca yanked out the earpiece, adjusted his seat, and complied with the safety instructions as the plane began its descent.

First time in Spain, Luca thought, trying to recall any popular team that hailed from the magnificent country. Haddock Racing was the giant of Spain, towering over every other team across all divisions.

He also remembered Harry and his team, OLAC, which originated from Spain. Luca realized that the tension of the season was slowly stripping away the little bond he and Harry had managed to form during their short stay at Grey-Husson's. He wondered if they'd have a chance to meet and hang out during their stay here, preferably after the main race.

Determined not to forget, Luca promised himself he'd message Harry as soon as the plane landed. Perhaps, he could even bring Ansel along if Harry acknowledged the meetup. Luca recalled the last time the three of them hung out; Ansel had genuinely enjoyed himself, ending the day in a cheerful mood. Right now, Ansel was the opposite of that, and Luca believed this might be just what his teammate needed.

The plane's tires kissed the tarmac, and the cabin rattled slightly as it rolled to a gradual stop. After a brief pause, a cheerful chime sounded, followed by the captain's voice announcing their arrival and permitting the passengers to disembark.

Shuffling erupted as the Trampos Racing crew gathered their belongings. Filing out of the cabin, they descended the stairway to the warm welcome of air wardens standing at the ready. The wardens greeted them with bright smiles and draped colorful garlands of plush material and leis around their necks. It was a gesture of hospitality that hinted at the vibrant spirit of Barcelona.

Afterward, they were led as a unit, passing through customs smoothly, granted more efficient movement through the airport than other travelers. Once through the formalities, sleek black shuttles awaited them just outside, all engines purring softly.

Luca sat quietly as he chatted Harry right away while the shuttles moved through the cityscape, the scent of the Mediterranean breeze unmistakable. Finishing his message to Harry, Luca switched over to communicate with Mallow and Sara, informing them of his arrival and sending Sara the address of their destination. When he was done, he put his phone away, cast a quick glance at Ansel—still looking subdued—and turned his gaze to the sunlit streets, where masterpieces of architecture peeked through the skyline.

Just as Luca expected, it didn't take long before occasional banners and billboards promoting the upcoming race started to appear. The vibrant displays featured F1 racers with their intense gazes and polished helmets. It seemed Jackson Racing and Squadra Corse were locked in a fierce rivalry, as Antonio Luigi and Marcellus Rodnick dominated most of the promotional material.

Some of the accompanying text was in Spanish, which Luca couldn't fully understand, but it was clear the advertisements were all connected to the event. Public transportation, street corners, and even public buildings were covered with racing promotions. However, as their shuttles entered a quieter, more organized part of the city, the racing paraphernalia began to dwindle.

This area still piqued Luca's interest. Historic architecture dominated the skyline, a signature feature of Barcelona that gave the city its unique charm. Modern structures blended seamlessly with the old, adding to the grandeur and flawlessness of the surroundings. As the bus approached their destination, a smile tugged at the corner of Luca's lips.

The accommodation also served as their training venue. It was designed to be a seamless combination of functionality and luxury. Custom hotel buildings surrounded the training facility, with Trampos Racing's logo prominently brandished atop the complex for the duration of the season's eighth round alone. The sharp angles of the hotel structures contrasted with the smooth curves of the track at the center, where a slight bustle indicated preparations to welcome the F2 team.

Luca pondered how many such facilities existed in Barcelona and across Spain, capable of comfortably accommodating both F2 and F1 teams while offering top-notch amenities and convenience. A faint smile crossed his face as he rolled his luggage toward his room. Upon opening the door, he paused to appreciate the room's exquisite design. Cool, crisp air carrying the scent of fresh linens greeted him, while large windows showcased a panoramic view of the facility's track. The modern and spacious interior featured a king-sized bed and one of the most cutting-edge TVs he'd ever seen in that year and time.

Nice, Luca thought, rolling his bags further inside. He dropped onto the bed, letting out a soft sigh as he stared up at the expansive ceiling, briefly lost in thought. However, reality soon nudged him back, and he pushed himself up.

He opened his bags, pulling out his clothes one by one and carefully folding them and placing them into the drawers. A pair of sneakers, his laptop, and a few toiletries went onto the small desk beside the bed.

Once everything was in place, he glanced around with satisfaction. Despite it being morning, the weight of the day already seemed lighter. He was debating how to pass the time when a knock sounded at the door.

"Erm, Luca," Ansel called. "The team's heading to the circuit for the Track Walk. Are you coming?"

Luca glanced at the door, stretching as he heard that energy in Ansel's voice. The Track Walk. It was time to get a feel for the layout of the race day's circuit, Circuito del Barca–Raval, study the corners, and mentally prepare for what was ahead. Although Luca knew Mandalora very well, it was still crucial to participate in this Track Walk.

He grabbed his cap, slinging it on his head as he reached for his jacket that he had hung in the closet not so long ago. "Yeah, I'm on my way," Luca replied, already heading for the door.

Opening the door, he met Ansel, dressed in a jean jacket and matching jean pants. They exchanged brief greetings before heading down the elegant hallway toward the elevator. The duo made their way out to the entrance of the complex where a small group of the Trampos crew were gathered. Mr. Grant, Mr. Moritz and Ms. Vallotton were currently not present, which made McCauley grant himself power, even with the presence of Mr. Colt.

The crew boarded the shuttles again, this time bound for the renowned Mandalora. It had been Ms. Vallotton's idea to include the visit as part of their schedule before diving into the rigorous training and drills that lay ahead of the qualifying sessions and the main race.

Arriving at the venue ten minutes later, Luca stepped off the shuttle first, squinting against the late morning sun as he took in their destination. Mandalora was indeed a jewel, standing as a pristine canvas just outside the city. Luca could see why it was often referred to as a cathedral of motorsport—and for good reason. Even the rest of the crew, who had visited here a couple of times in past seasons, paused to admire its undeniable beauty.

The venue was massive even from the outside, its scale almost overwhelming. It was eerily quiet—no fans, no bustling sponsors, no families of sponsors scurrying around in search of autographs. Only the hum of the shuttles powering down and the crunch of gravel underfoot as the Trampos Racing crew disembarked, feeling the almost surreal emptiness of the scene.

The team was granted immediate access to the circuit, with no delays. Both F1 and F2 teams were allowed to visit the track before race weekends, and to avoid overlap, the Federation had created a strict schedule for each team's Track Walk. This ensured teams could enter and leave without clashing. Missing an allotted session meant forfeiting the opportunity altogether. Trampos typically skipped these walks in most cases, but Mandalora was different. They now had a two-hour window to complete their Track Walk before the next team would arrive.

"Damn," McCauley muttered, placing his hands on his waist as they entered Mandalora's Section 1. "It's like we've been handed the keys to the kingdom. Not a damn soul in sight."

One crew member yelled something down the track, the words bouncing off the deserted grandstands and echoing back. There were no banners or flags of any team on display yet—only the flag of the nation, proudly positioned where the podium would eventually stand.

The view was striking. The circuit meandered through scenic vistas of distant hills, bordered by sleek, modern stands that stretched endlessly toward the horizon. Mr. Colt noted aloud that the terrain was uneven in places, and a river ran nearby, adding a natural charm to the track's design.

They made their way to Section 2, where the grid was situated. Luca's eyes roamed over the pit lanes, envisioning the flurry of activity that would soon take place there as their crew set up for race day. "It kind of feels like we're intruding," he murmured, almost to himself. "This place is pretty cool with its silence."

"It'll be the exact opposite come Saturday, and even crazier on Sunday," Mr. Colt responded as he tried to wrangle the team, many of whom had started wandering off. "220,000 crowd capacity. It's one of the largest by seating numbers and the only one that maxes out every time. Now, please, can we all gather together?"

But before Colt could fully organize them, Dennis bolted ahead with three others, heading straight for the bottleneck at Turn 1. "C'mon, Erik, Beany, Luca!" he called, crouching into a runner's stance. "One kilometer. Winner gets a hundred bucks from each of us."

Luca and Victor quickly shrugged off their jackets, while Haas didn't bother to respond. Despite their casual attire, Luca and the others were ready. Lining up with Dennis, they counted down from ten. When the countdown ended, they launched down the track, the slap of their sneakers against the pavement reverberating through the empty circuit. They completely ignored Mr. Colt's calls to stay together.

Victor emerged victorious, his long legs giving him the edge. By the time they returned, the team had split into smaller groups, leaving Mr. Colt sitting resignedly in a bleacher with Ansel, Haas, and a few others who had obeyed his instructions. "Are you guys done?" Colt asked, his tone flat. "Because I just got some intel about this round's qualifying format."

"What is it? The usual Q-rounds?" Luca asked, catching his breath.

"Nope," Mr. Colt replied. "Triple-Lap Qualifying. Each driver gets three flying laps to set their fastest time. The average of those three laps is calculated, and your grid positions are based on who has the best average. Oh, and there'll be mandatory pit stops."

That sounded fair enough to Luca. Instead of relying on the previous race's results or a Sprint Race, their starting grid would be determined by consistent performance over three timed laps.

Colt stood up, brushing off his pants. "Can we now start the walk? We've got about an hour and ten minutes left. Let's reacquaint ourselves with Mandalora—it's been a while."

McCauley, however, achieved what Colt couldn't with a single shout, rallying the team effortlessly. He led the way to the next sections of the iconic circuit. "By the way," he said, pulling out his phone, "there's a new app that can help us stay connected. It's simple—all you need is your phone number."

Colt sighed, muttering under his breath, "This was my idea first."

Unfazed, McCauley pressed on. "I'll send everyone an invite. Once you join, we'll have a direct line for important updates while we're all spread out," he explained as the team moved forward, their silhouettes stretching into the horizon.n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om