A slideshow on the wall of Alec's consciousness played the highlights of the previous eighteen months.
A blurred flurry of shaking fists and thumbs up as he crossed the line in Ancharmunn to take the world title, and a glimpse of Stan McPahan's pale, gobsmacked face as he did so.
Perching a half-empty bottle of champagne on his shoulder as he peered over the barricades at the fans below. Half of them cheering, half of them clapping, and only half of them soaked in champagne - something he began to make up for as soon as he realised.
Meeting that gorgeous lawyer in Iadub. She was 50 if she was a day, and had had some work done, but bloody hell, that was a night.
Tarogama, too. That hotel with the fountain in the front, a well-stocked bar in the front, and an Aelsh syncronised swimming team in the middle.
The girls. The posh champagne. The fans shaking his hand in the street.
He's snapped out of his reverie by the roar of an engine so loud it forces a change of tense. He blinks away the scales from his eyes to reveal the McPahan F180a gunning its virgin engine. An engineer unplugs a laptop while another wipes away dust and marbles from the car's exterior.
Alec hops to attention from his previous position - perched on a desk at the back of the garage - and slowly wanders towards the car, which purrs at a low rumble.
"She's all yours" says Jacky. She nods towards Stew Clark, who is holding the steering wheel. Stew nods towards the cockpit. This is it. He fits his helmet over his head and turns for Roger Bunn to give it its traditional 'bonk' into place. Realising that Bunn is nowhere to be seen, he looks around for some help. Jacky strolls up and pushes the helmet down properly.
"Winning that championship must have made your head even bigger" she quips.
This was it, then. Back in the proverbial sadddle. Barely. Alec tries to remember the cockpit being quite this tight a fit, and fails. Fortunately, Stew fits the steering wheel without his tummy getting in the way.
"Must remember to get back in the gym as soon as possible" says Alec, to himself.
"Good idea" comes a voice in his ear. Stan's. "Communications system appears to be online. We'll be checking everything else during the lap. In your own time, champ"
Somewhere under his helmet and his balaclava, Alec blushes. He takes a second to calm himself, run his hands over the new steering unit, before pushing gently on the accelerator.
The F180a jolts forward eagerly. A quick turn of the wheel gets him down the pit straight. He joins the circuit.
The Crossport Raceway, Audioslavia's newest and most modern grand prix circuit, has a long straight down to turn one, the so called 'turn of the century', a mid-length left-hander just deep enough to whittle a pack of 24 roaring cars to single file. Alec approaches at a modest speed, pumps the brakes and coasts around the corner, missing all apexes by a mile, before accelerating downhill, through Turn 2 before easing off for the tighting right hander that ends with the 'Hammerhead' turn - a sharp right onto a long straight. The g-force from the right-hander presses his helmet into the side of the cockpit - a force his neck isn't quite strong enough to counter. He lets out a grunt as the corner opens out into the straight, which he accelerates down as fast as is possible. A shallow incline levels out into a 10-degree left, followed by a hard, hard braking zone which puts extra pressure on that neck. The car judders to an almost standstill, thankfully without any wheelspin, and he feeds the car through the turn as best he can. It's still.. not quite right. Not only are his, and therefore the car's, movements not quite smooth enough, but the g-forces are still messing with him and everything is still... it's somehow sluggish. Was the car heavier? Was the engine not giving him as much as last season? The car, like him, felt a little more lethargic and a few pounds too heavy. What was wrong?
Knock corner hones into view in front of him, and Alec takes it at a safe pace, feeding the car through Hold and Loose before accelerating up the part of the circuit named after him. Lund Hill. A big, steep climb with a slight right-hand lilt. He builds speed up the hill, levels out for a short straight before starting the descent down Bunn Straight - named after his former team-mate.
Alec's eyes open at the sight in front of him - perhaps the most dangerous part of any circuit on the current WGPC calendar. The rail tunnel. It wasn't technically a rail tunnel - the cars weren't driving on rails - it was, rather, a bridge, with a functioning railtrack above. The track had originally been built to end just before it, but problems with the steep descent down Bunn hill meant that either the track had to wind back out and in again to negate the steep clim, or be extended just a little past the original boundaries. It was the quickest part of the circuit even with the slight bend, and at the end of it was a wall. It may have been a wall angled so that it would give even the most out-of-sorts cars a long, grinding slide rather than a head-on crash, but it was a wall nonetheless, and even clipping a tire in the wrong place could spell the end of one's race.
Alec brakes as late as he dare - which isn't that late, it turns out - and banks right, and right again, before embarking on the main straight. He stamps on the accelerator as quickly as possible, and curses under his breath as the engine goes through the gears just a fraction of a second slower than he'd like. The horizon hurtles towards him, he passes the line, and it's the start of his flying lap. This is definitely it, now. Now he goes about earning that big old salary of his.
The Turn of the Century soon arrives, for the second time, and this time the McPahan F180a is flush on the right hand side of the track for the approach. A pump of the brakes kills his speed and lets him decellerate through to second gear. He misses the apex on the inside, but his the outer one. The right-rear spins as he fails to get the traction he needs to properly hit top speed down the short downhill straight before turn two, but he does manage to take the second turn smoothly and coast round to Hammerhead. His head, once again, is duly hammered onto the side of the cockpit as he swings round, a little too fast, onto the main straight, and the car eats up all of the generous rumble-strip and even a few blades of grass as he begins the shallow climb on the eastern part of the circuit. The car, once again, gallops a little labouredly up the hill, still feeling as if he's dragging a wheelbarrow full of tar behind him. He's thankful for the absense of said wheelbarrow as he brakes hard for Hammertail. The tyres squeal in protest as he again carries a few too many horses round the corner, and he's rocked by a sharp mount of the outer rumblestrip as the car straightens out again.
Flush onto the right hand side of the circuit, Alec narrows his eyes with determination as Knock homes into view, and he swings the car violently into the left-hander. The rear end feels like it's about to slip away... it thankfully doesn't, but he's certainly gone in too hard, and has to keep his foot off the accelerator in order to get himself into Hold at the correct angle. The car drifts slowly round Hold before Loose comes into view, and Alec pumps the car forward into the corner, getting good traction and good speed out of it in comparison to last time, and hurtling up his own hill as quick as possible. He hears the engine struggle against the combined forces of gravity and air resistance. The shallow right almost takes Lund by surprise, but he keeps his foot pressed against the accelerator all the while. Now, it's time for the right-hander down to Bunn Hill, and Alec can't help but glance at the speedometer as it dances to and beyond the 200 mark... well beyond... scarily beyond... the tunnel gets too close for comfort. Alec brakes hard, the wheels scream in anguish. The right-rear locks up, forcing Alec to pump the brakes again. He's just in time for the right-hander, and gets the car round Linco Turn quickly. The engine lets out a bloodcurdling warcry as the start-finish line rushes towards its wheels.
"Nice first lap. One-thirty-three point oh-three-three. Top marks for repetition. You can go quicker. Over". Stan't voice in his ear.
And he could, but only just. One-thirty dead, or thereabouts, was his best time over four flying laps. The failure to hit at least one-thirty-two-point-somethingorother made Alec grit his teeth in frustration as he crossed the start-finish line for the final time. The despair brought him back into the narrative tenses.
Alec pulled the car into the pits and stopped dead outside the garage, allowing the mechanics to roll him back into the box before untethering the steering column and struggling out of the car.
He was greeted with what he felt was a very generous applause considering the modesty of his performance.
Alec and McPahan's team of directors left the mechanics to close up the garage as they drove back to HQ in Ceilerden. Alec, exhausted from only five laps of excertion, passed out in the back of his car. He was awoken by Jacky opening the car door, letting his snoozing head tilt out of the car, and swinging the door back shut. The threat of impending death somehow woke the driver up with a start as he jolted away. Jacky, showing remarkably quick reactions for someone who was supposedly not a racing driver, stopped the door from hitting where Alec's head had been. She gave out a chuckle.
"Glad to see your head's still working after that battering it took round the circuit" she said, as they pair got the lift together. Alec nodded.
"Need to work on the neck muscles. All the muscles, actually"
"Damn straight"
Alec Lund, Driver; Jacky Johanson, Race Director; Radoslav Salihamidzic, Science Director; Stewart Clark and Gilles Denis, Technical Directors; and finally Stan McPahan, the boss, sat around the oval table in the McPahan office and went over the debriefing.
"Overall, Alec, I'm satisfied. I'm satisfied you've still got 'it', and I'm sure we've plenty of time and potential energy to get you into top form. First of all, what do you think of the car"
"Other than the aesthetics, you mean?" replied Alec. The response drew a quizzical look from Stan.
"The colour?"
"What? No, no. I mean, well, I did prefer the bright blue with white tones to the silver with blue splashes, but that's irrelevant. I meant the sound. This Link V6 engine is more of a growler than a screamer, like the V8 was. Makes it more difficult to get a feel for the car when you want to change gears but..."
"That'll come with time"
"..yeah, yeah, it's not important. The car does feel a bit heavy. A bit more sluggish than last year's."
"Yes" said Stan. "Stew and Gilles are probably the best to explain that"
"We do get a little less power from the V6" said Stewart, nodding. "Distance between revs is a bit wider to make sure we get the same top gear, but using a V6 does mean we're shaving a kilo from the weight of the last model. It'll even work out better for the shorter, winding circuits. This car will outperform the last one... well.. maybe... in the street circuits."
"It could do. We're not sure yet. We won't be until we can test it at a street circuit" added Gilles, "and that won't be until we race at one. Either way, yeah, we've saved weight on the engine. Saved fuel, too. The V6 doesn't guzzle it like the old Link V8 did. We don't need to load so much at the start of a race. Won't make qualifying easier, but you should notice the difference come raceday"
"We're also adding a litte weight with safety precautions, though" said Stew. "This car isn't built on a chassis of dry twigs and gaffa tape, like the old one. It's much more reliable but, y'know, that comes at the expense of cornering speed. It'll feel a bit more sluggish than you're used to..."
"That's for sure" said Alec, thinking. "And we absolutely had to make it safer?"
The room fell silent. Stan spoke first.
"Alec, how many times did you nearly die last season?"
"Three." replied Alec, dead-pan. "Roger just the twice, although both times the death would have been much more spectacular"
"Would you prefer to be alive come the end of the season, or to have a slightly faster car, because that's the choice" said Stan. Alec nodded.
"Yeah, you're right, of course. I'm thankful for the work you put in, y'know, of course, but the 170... last year's car... it was special, y'know? A wild animal. It was a dream to drive, while it still resembled a car and not, y'know, a sort of slow-burning upside-down wheel-less yacht covered in gravel, which I appreciate was 'every other race'."
"Aye" said Stan, with a smile that was rare for his newer, more professional demeanour. "Did you have any more questions?"
-- What follows is a conversation about the mechanics of a sequential gearbox that is far too boring to post even here --
"So, the plan" said Stan, straightening his tie. "We're back at the Crossport Raceway next Saturday and Sunday to put the car through its paces again. We're looking to get the 'B' car thoroughly tested as well."
"Will you have a second driver by then, or will I be doing the 'B' car?"
"No" replied Stan, straightening his tie again. "You won't be driving either of them, in fact. You, Alec, have a date"
"Is it a blonde?" asked Alec, before thinking. "Date with the sponsors?" he added, trying to veer himself back towards professionalism.
"It is a blonde, actually" said Stan, raising an eyebrow from Alec and, indeed, everyone else in the room. "A Polarian. Unfortunately for you, this Polarian is about 6'5 and 250 pounds. The Polarian also goes by the name of 'Olaf'. He's a personal trainer, Alec..."
"Ah.."
"We saw your head rattling around in there. Your neck has lost strength. You're also a good stone overweight, and you know it. With the season just over a month away, we need you in top shape, Alec. Tippity tip top shape. Olaf is going to help you with that"
"Right. Well... I suppose I need that... But.. who..."
"We'll be hiring a couple of drivers to put two cars through their paces"
"Who?" asked Alec
"Rudolf Ibuna" came the reponse from Jacky. "On dad's reccomendation. A strong driver. Coming in from the Formula Hodori. We sent him the email this afternoon, asking him to turn up for a trial on Saturday. He'll be putting in five flying laps, just like you. We'll see if he can edge out your time"
"Good good" replied Alec, "don't think I've met him, but heard good things about him"
"You have met him" said Stan, with a wry smile. "At a conference in Tarogama. You were pissed"
"Was that when I fell into that cake?"
"No" said Stan, "that was in Iadub. And also again in Oljestaden"
"What did I do in Tarogama?"
"I think you were reasonably well behaved, actually, though that poor waitress you kept chatting up might have other ideas" said Stan. Alec scratched his head. "Anyway, yes, we've offered a trial run to Rudolf Ibuna. We've also got Ujkan Sadiraj down for Sunday."
"Same deal" said Jacky, "five flying laps. See how the car holds up, see if he can get the best out of it. Again, it depends on his response. We only sent the email to his agents this afternoon."
"Both of these guys are in demand" said Stan, "They've both got engagements around the same time, in Barunia with Archer, in Yttribia with Frontiere's invitational, and there's the Fuoco e Ghiaccio test in Nekoni, too. Our weekend doesn't clash with any of them, but we're prepared should either driver decide to accept another team's offer rather than come to us for the trial.
"Interesting" said Alec, "What's the backup plan?"
"Victor Hall" said Stan, through gritted teeth. "Not as a racer, but just to test the number two car. He'll be coming for a visit anyway. We feel we owe him at least a test run after our last boss hit him in the head with a pit drill"
"Hmm" said Alec, who'd drifted away from the conversation. "I have to admit, I'd been expecting a bigger name. I mean, Victoria Gardner's still available..."
"We're pretty sure she'll be taking a #1 driver's spot somewhere, and for money, too. We're looking for a pay-driver. Someone with sponsors. Sadiraj, especially, has good financial backing, and he can go a lick too. Ibuna has more pedigree and less money, but neither is a risk"
Stan looked at his watch.
"I think that's time for today, gents. Good work today, all of you. See you in the pub in half an hour?"
"Damn right!" said Alec, beaming. "I think I've earned one after today! Mine's a gin and tonic with a squeeze of lime and I've just realised I'm not actually invited, am I?"
The door at the far end of the room opened. The secretary, Ms. Flower, entered. Behind him was some kind of moving statue of perfect Hellenic proportions, except he looked like a man who didn't have a willy that would fall out of fashion after a couple of millenia. He was blond. He was bearded. Alec quickly surmised who he was.
"You wouldn't happen to be a Polarian named Olaf, would you?" asked Alec.
The Polarian nodded.
"Your road back to fighting fitness, Alec..." said Stan, trying to hide a smile, "starts today"
