Jack arrived at the workshop early the next morning, the taste of yesterday's victory still vivid. The oil reservoir relocation was elegant—a textbook example of systems thinking applied to an intractable problem.
Gordon had approved it. North had grudgingly assigned him the calculations. Even Bernie, passing through the engineering office later that afternoon, had offered a brief nod of acknowledgment.
For one afternoon, the air felt solid beneath his feet. But standing outside the fabrication shop now, listening to the whine of lathes and the hiss of welding torches, Jack understood that yesterday's problem was the easy part.
Yesterday, he'd convinced the decision-makers with an idea ;today, he had to convince the implementers to build it. And implementers didn't care about Cambridge degrees or clever math.
They cared about whether something could be made, whether it would hold together at 180 miles per hour, and whether some university boy understood the difference between a print and reality.
Jack pushed open the door to the fabrication shop. The smell hit him immediately: acetylene and hot steel, cut with undertones of cutting oil and cigarette smoke. The space occupied the far end of the workshop, separated from the clean engineering offices by more than a wall of tool cabinets—it was a cultural divide as wide as the English Channel.
Tony McLaren stood over a lathe, watching aluminum stock being turned down with the focused attention of a surgeon. Short, barrel-chested, with forearms like lengths of chain and a Yorkshire accent thick as grout, he looked like he'd been working with metal since before Jack was born.
Jack approached, notebook in hand, suddenly aware of how clean his hands were compared to Tony's grease-stained ones.
"You're the one who thought up this oil reservoir relocation?" Tony asked, his eyes fixed on the lathe.
"Clever," he said, and the word didn't sound like a compliment.
"Assuming the mounting points don't crack under vibration. Assuming the oil lines don't leak when the engine's at full tilt. Assuming a hundred things that can go wrong don't go wrong."
Jack watched the lathe eat the aluminum stock, metal shavings curling away in precise ribbons. This was the true test he hadn't anticipated. Gordon had approved the concept. North had assigned the calculations.
But all of it meant nothing if Tony couldn't—or wouldn't—build it. "What would you do differently?" Jack pressed.
Tony finally looked up, his eyes sharp beneath bushy grey eyebrows. For a long moment, he studied Jack—not hostile, but evaluating. Calculating whether this Cambridge boy was worth the air he was breathing.
"I'd put reinforcement ribs here and here," Tony said, pointing with a grease-stained finger to spots Jack's drawings hadn't considered.
"And I'd run the return line through a heat shield. That aluminum gets furnace-hot, sitting tight behind the driver's head. The last thing you need is Pace's kidneys frying because some university boy didn't think about thermal management."
Jack pulled out his notebook, pen ready. "Can you show me?"
Tony studied him for another moment. Then he wiped his hands on a rag, pulled out a stub of pencil and began sketching on the reverse of a work order. Simple, clear lines that showed reinforcement patterns and heat shield placement that Jack's engineering drawings had completely missed.
"See, the problem with you engineering types," Tony said, still sketching, "is you think in drawings: clean lines, perfect dimensions, everything calculated to three decimal places. But out here"—he gestured at the lathe, the welding bench, the racks of raw stock—"nothing's perfect. Metal has grain. Welds have stress points. Tolerances can stack up. Your clever solution only works if I can actually build it."
"I hadn't thought of that," Jack admitted.
"Of course you didn't. That's why we have fabricators." Tony handed him the sketch. "But you're smarter than most of the university boys who come through here. At least you're asking questions instead of telling me how to do my job."
"I don't know how to do your job."
"Exactly." Tony permitted himself a sliver of a smile. "Tell you what—I'll build your reservoir. I'll even make your reinforcements and heat shield. But you come down here when I'm fitting it, and I'll show you why the paper never matches the metal. Deal?"
"Deal."
Next day Jack arrived at the fabrication shop during lunch break to find Tony glowering at the partially assembled oil reservoir.
"Problem?" Jack asked.
"Your heat shield doesn't fit." Tony gestured at the aluminum sheet cut according to Jack's specifications.
"See this?" He held it up against the chassis. There was a three-inch gap where the exhaust pipe should have been.
"Your print says there's clearance here. But the exhaust routing changed last week when Gordon moved the wastegate. Now, your heat shield crashes into the pipe."
Jack pulled out his drawing, checked the dimensions. The calculations were perfect—triple-checked against the technical drawings Gordon had provided.
"The drawings showed—"
"The prints are ancient history," Tony interrupted, though his voice lacked heat.
"Gordon changed the exhaust routing three days ago with a stick of chalk on the floor. Your calculations are based on a car that doesn't exist anymore."
The frustration was immediate. Jack had spent hours on those calculations, only for them to fit perfectly on paper.
"So what do we do?" Jack asked, masking the defeat in his voice.
Tony studied the chassis for a moment, then pulled out his pencil and sketched directly on the aluminum sheet. "We improvise. Split the shield into two pieces—upper and lower sections. Route them around the exhaust, just like this. Adds a bit of weight, but it'll fit."
"That's not in my design."
"No," Tony agreed. "It's better than your design. Because it works in the real car, not the drawing."
He picked up the sheet and headed toward the brake press. Over his shoulder: "Engineering's coming up with ideas, Hartley. Fabrication is making them survive reality. Learn the difference."
Jack watched Tony work, bending the aluminum into a configuration he hadn't imagined. The two-piece shield was clunky, inelegant, the antithesis of his clean lines.
But it would work.
By the third day, the reservoir was installed. Tony test-fitted it one final time, checking clearances, verifying mounting points, ensuring the oil lines routed properly around the components that had moved since Jack's drawings.
"It's good work," Jack conceded, studying the installation.
"Of course it is. Been doing this since you were in nappies." Tony stepped back, examining his work in satisfied silence.
"But your idea was sound. Just needed translating from paper to steel."
Jack laughed. "Is there a difference?"
"About six inches of clearance and a dozen good swear words." Tony clapped him hard on the shoulder—the first time they'd made physical contact.
"You're all right, Hartley. For a Cambridge boy."
Coming from Tony, it felt like a battlefield commission.
Early December 1975
Bernie Ecclestone walked into the workshop on a cold Thursday afternoon with a visitor: A tall, lean American in his mid-thirties, his conservative suit looking distinctly alien among the grease-stained overalls and oil-spotted concrete.
"Listen up!" Bernie's voice cut through the ambient noise. Conversations ceased. Tools went quiet.
"This is Tom Bressler from Hitco. They've developed something interesting."
Tom stepped forward, set a black attaché case on a nearby workbench, and opened it to reveal what looked like a brake disc—but wrong. Instead of the usual grey iron or steel, it was matte black, almost organic.
"Carbon-carbon composite," Tom said, his accent distinctly Californian.
"Developed for military aircraft. Fifty percent lighter than conventional discs, superior thermal stability, shorter stopping distances once they reach operating temperature."
Gordon Murray moved closer, skeptical. "Carbon? For brakes? It'll shatter."
"They won't—not when they're hot. The composite gets stronger under heat and compression."
Tom picked up the disc. "But they do need to reach temperature before they work properly. Cold performance is... compromised."
"So they're dangerous," Gordon said flatly.
"They're different," Tom corrected.
"And they're the future. Someone's going to race these. We'd prefer that to be someone who understands the technology."
Bernie was already calculating the exposure. "Cost?"
"Nothing. We supply everything; you provide real-world testing data."
"Free." Bernie's smile was sharp. "But if they fail in a race, we look like fools."
"Then don't let them fail," Tom said simply. Bernie turned, pinning Jack North with his gaze. "Who's on brake systems?"
"Hartley's been running thermal tests."
Bernie's eyes found Jack.
"Congratulations. You're now our carbon brake specialist. Work with Tom. If these things are real, I want Pace running them in the Brazil race."
Jack's grip tightened on his notebook. "Yes, sir."
After the meeting, as the workshop returned to normal noise, Jack approached Tom at the workbench where he was securing the demonstration disc.
"Can I ask you something?"
Tom looked up. "Sure."
"Carbon-carbon for brakes—that's one application. What about other carbon composites? Structural materials?"
Tom's expression shifted to professional interest. "You mean carbon fiber? CFRP—carbon fiber reinforced polymers?"
"Yes. Exactly that."
Tom pulled a small sample from his briefcase—a thin square of carbon fiber, roughly three inches across. "This is precisely what you're asking about."
Jack took it. It felt lighter than paper but was rigid. The weave pattern was visible: black threads locked in translucent resin. It looked right, but somehow more primitive than the carbon fiber he remembered. The weave was noticeably coarser, the resin slightly clouded.
"This piece could replace aluminum twice as thick at half the weight," Tom said.
"Could you build a chassis from it? A racing car monocoque?"
Tom's expression shifted: a mix of professional interest and skepticism.
"You could. Nobody has. The engineering's brutal—you'd need to calculate fiber orientations for every load case. Torsion, bending, impact, and dynamic fatigue. The layup would need to be perfect. One mistake and the whole structure fails." "
But is it possible?"
"Theoretically." Tom took the sample back.
"Practically? You'd need years of development and expensive failures. A lot of crashed cars before you got it right."
He paused. "Why do you ask?"
"Just thinking long-term."
Tom studied him. "Most engineers think about next week; you're thinking about next decade."
He pulled out a business card, wrote a number on the back. "That's my direct line. Call me when you're ready to design with this stuff. We need real-world results to drive our research."
"For now, run those brake tests, get your data, and flag any thermal issues immediately."
Jack took the card. "I'm serious. Maybe not today, but eventually."
"I believe you." Tom smiled. "Just remember—innovation happens through failure, not theory. Don't be afraid to break things. That's how you learn what works."
Three Days Later
The brake dynamometer occupied a corner of the workshop—a large mechanical rig that could spin a wheel at racing speeds while applying brake force. Temperature probes, load cells, and a mechanical counter measured everything they could without computers.
Tom had flown back to California to arrange the disc shipment, leaving Jack with detailed testing protocols and a phone number for technical questions. The first set of discs had arrived that morning, packed in foam and accompanied by a three-page instruction sheet about handling procedures.
Jack mounted one on the dyno with careful precision. The disc was surprisingly light—maybe half the weight of conventional steel—and the surface felt abrasive. Almost like touching shark skin.
He connected the hydraulic brake line, double-checked the instrumentation, verified the temperature probes were reading correctly. Charlie stood nearby with a clipboard, ready to record the data.
"You nervous?" Charlie asked, watching Jack check the connections for the third time.
"A bit." Jack tested the hydraulic pressure. "This is an expensive kit. If we break it during testing—"
"We break it during testing." Charlie shrugged. "That's the job, innit? Tom wouldn't have given it to us if he didn't expect some failures."
"Still feels like wasting money."
"Mate," Charlie said, grin appearing, "this whole sport is wasting money. The difference is whether you learn something from it."
Jack almost laughed. Charlie had a way of cutting through anxiety with pure pragmatism.
The confidence from the oil reservoir project was still there. Tony had taught him that good ideas needed translation from theory to practice. The heat shield problem had proven that real engineering happened in the gap between drawings and reality.
But this felt different.
Carbon brakes would become standard in Formula 1—Jack knew that with absolute certainty. By the 1980s, every team would run them. By the 1990s, high-performance road cars would use them. This was the beginning of that revolution.
All he had to do was prove it worked.
He picked up Tom's testing protocol, scanned the temperature guidelines. The notes were specific but came with caveats: Approximate operating range 300∘C−700∘C. Optimal performance temperature unknown—requires testing to determine.
Cold performance below 200∘C severely compromised.
Tom had given them a range, not a certainty. The exact temperature where these discs would work reliably? That was for Jack to figure out.
"Ready?" Jack asked.
"Ready," Charlie confirmed.
The electric motor whined to life, spinning the wheel up to racing speed. The carbon disc blurred—the matte black surface reflecting nothing, looking every bit the exotic aerospace technology it was.
Temperature gauge climbed steadily: 100∘C... 150∘C... 200∘C...
Jack watched the numbers, cross-referencing against Tom's protocol.
Below 200∘C, the material would be too brittle; above 700∘C, they risked thermal degradation. Somewhere in that 500-degree window was the sweet spot.
They just had to find it.
250∘C... 300∘C... 350∘C...
"Let's try it at three-fifty," Jack said. "Middle of Tom's range. Should be safe."
"Three-fifty," Charlie echoed, pen poised over clipboard.
Jack hit the brake lever.
The carbon disc grabbed—harder, more aggressive than conventional brakes. The wheel slowed rapidly. The dyno motor strained against the resistance.
For two seconds, everything worked.
Then a sound like a gunshot.
Not a catastrophic failure—no flying debris, no drama. Just a clean crack propagating through the composite in a fraction of a second, turning an aerospace brake disc into worthless scrap.
Jack killed the dyno.
In the sudden silence, the crack seemed impossibly loud—a physical indictment of his confidence.
They both stared at the fracture radiating from the disc's center. Six distinct lines spreading outward from the mounting hole like a shattered windshield. Thermal stress fracture—the kind that happened when cold material hit peak braking force.
"Bloody hell," Charlie said quietly.
Jack's stomach dropped.
Carlos Pace was supposed to race these in four weeks. Four weeks to figure out why aerospace-grade carbon composite was shattering under loads that conventional steel handled easily.
Four weeks to determine the right operating temperature, the correct brake force, the proper warm-up procedure.
Four weeks to solve a problem Tom's entire engineering team hadn't fully mapped out yet.
And if Jack couldn't solve it?
Pace would be racing at Interlagos with conventional brakes. Bernie would have wasted Hitco's goodwill on experimental technology that didn't work.
And Jack would be the Cambridge graduate who'd gone from solving Gordon's weight distribution problem to breaking expensive aerospace equipment.
The oil reservoir success—Tony's "you're all right, Hartley"—suddenly felt very fragile.
Jack stared at the fractured disc, Tony's words echoing: Engineering's coming up with ideas. Fabrication is making them survive reality.
And Tom's: Innovation happens through failure, not theory. Don't be afraid to break things.
He'd broken something, all right.
The certainty that knowing the future guaranteed success had just shattered along with the carbon disc.
Because this wasn't 2025, where carbon brakes were refined, mature, understood down to the molecular level.
This was 1975.
And the experimental aerospace technology sitting in pieces on his dynamometer wasn't the perfected system he remembered.
It was primitive. Barely proven. Even Tom's team didn't know the exact operating parameters—that's why they needed testing data.
Advanced technology wasn't always the best technology.
Sometimes what mattered was what was mature, what was proven, what actually worked with real materials and real-world conditions.
Jack had just learned that lesson the hard way.
"We need to call Tom," he said, voice tight.
Charlie was already writing notes. "What went wrong?"
"I don't know." The admission felt like defeat.
"We tested at three-fifty—middle of his range. Should have been safe. But something..."
He trailed off, staring at the fracture pattern.
Jack pulled out Tom's business card, stared at the California number written in precise engineering handwriting.
Don't be afraid to break things, Tom had said. That's how you learn what works.
Jack wasn't afraid of breaking things.
He was afraid of not knowing how to fix them.
The phone call to California would cost three pounds—money that would come out of the department budget, another line item North would question.
Tom's expertise would cost something more: admitting that Jack Hartley, the Cambridge graduate who'd solved Gordon Murray's weight distribution problem, didn't have all the answers.
But if he wanted to make carbon brakes work—if he wanted to prove he belonged at Brabham, that the oil reservoir success wasn't just beginner's luck—he'd have to make that call.
He'd have to learn the hardest lesson of all.
Sometimes knowing the future wasn't enough.
Sometimes you had to survive the present first.
And sometimes survival meant admitting he needed help.