In Formula racing, slamming the throttle and chasing top speed is just the tip of the iceberg.
The real test lies in the corners, in repeatedly probing the limits of grip the glowing hot brake discs, the tires on the edge of overheating, the precise modulation of the throttle. It's a high-stakes game, a dance on the edge where you can neither cross the line nor hesitate, constantly digging for the ultimate potential of both car and driver within a shifting dynamic balance.
This is the true charm of Formula racing.
The 24-lap Feature Race was only a third of the way through. The real test was just beginning.
Kai could already feel the toll the Red Bull Ring was taking on his car. He was sure Russell felt the same. Neither could afford to be careless.
The rest of the race required a more detailed, comprehensive strategy. He didn't want to hand over his hard-earned advantage in the closing stages because his tires had fallen off a cliff or his brakes had overheated. He refused to watch his rival win.
Soon, Russell realized that Kai had settled into a rhythm. He was methodically, steadily pulling away, a lone rider at the front.
The pace wasn't blistering, but it was incredibly stable.
Russell was shocked to learn from his engineer that Kai's lap times were almost identical to his own, yet always just a fraction faster.
He never expected a driver with zero Formula experience to have such seasoned pace management. There was no trace of rookie panic.
Whenever Russell pushed to close the gap, Kai would respond, increasing his own pace to reopen it.
Russell tried again and again to find an opening, getting close to the DRS zone several times, but he could never quite get close enough to activate it.
Plus, his own tire wear wasn't looking good. It was probably worse than Kai's.
Damn that pole position start.
The gap shrank, expanded, then expanded again. Silently, it grew a little more, like quicksand, dragging Russell bit by bit into despair.
Russell felt like he was running to Kai's beat, unable to break free. The frustration and helplessness sat heavy on his chest. He wanted to scream, to vent, but there was no opportunity. He could only swallow his anger and get lost in the engine's roar.
A sense of powerlessness hung over him like a dark cloud.
Before he could even catch his breath, the short, fast-paced race at the Red Bull Ring was over. Cars flashed across the finish line one after another.
Kai took the checkered flag first. Despite the constant pressure, he had never truly been in danger. He had dominated the race.
1.878 seconds later, Russell followed him across the line. He had seen Kai's rear wing for the entire race but never had a real chance. Sitting in the cockpit, he took a deep breath but couldn't exhale the frustration. He was drowning in his own defeat, unable to find any joy.
"P1, Kai. That's P1!"
Borreipaire tried to control his voice. For the last three laps, he had clenched his fist, telling himself not to make a fuss; this wasn't the first time. But seeing Kai withstand Russell's pressure and cross the line mistake-free, the joy erupted anyway.
Precisely because it wasn't the first time, but the third consecutive win (Feature-Sprint-Feature), the shock and delight were overwhelming.
If someone had told Borreipaire before the season that a rookie would start with three straight wins, he would have laughed until he cried. Such a ridiculous scenario only happened in Hollywood movies. Even fairy tales didn't write stories like this anymore, because kids wouldn't believe them.
And yet, it had happened.
Borreipaire was emotional, almost sentimental.
"Kai, a perfect race."
"George was lurking in the second half, waiting for a mistake, but you never gave him an opening. You held firm control. I'm sure George hated it, but from where we're sitting, that was perfect."
"Congratulations. Keep pushing, Kai. Keep pushing!"
A long exhale came over the radio, but Kai didn't speak immediately.
Borreipaire understood. Kai had been tense the whole time, only now allowing himself to breathe. He looked like a master strategist in control, but they couldn't forget: this was only his second official race weekend.
Just as Borreipaire was about to offer more praise, Kai's teasing voice came through. "Only the second half? I thought the start was the key."
Borreipaire paused, then laughed. "The start was even better. Great launch, and the restart after the Safety Car was even better than that."
Kai: "Oh yeah!"
Borreipaire couldn't help it; he laughed out loud.
For the casual viewer, the start with its close-quarters combat and bayonet charges was the most exciting part. But for Borreipaire, the second half had higher value.
If Spain showcased Kai's offensive ability finding opportunities on a track where passing is hard then Austria showcased his defensive ability.
Whether it was the restart or the pace management in the second half, Kai showed a calmness and wisdom in defense that was worth its weight in gold. Facing an all-out assault from Russell, he hadn't shown a single crack.
In Borreipaire's eyes, this win was even more precious than Spain.
He was about to praise Kai again, to give the young man confidence for the paddock pressure that was sure to come, when he was drowned out by a sudden explosion of cheers from behind him. The team swarmed him.
"P1!"
"First place!"
"Olé, Olé, Olé, Olé!"
Turning around, Borreipaire saw the entire pit crew jumping and celebrating, arms high, headbanging and dancing as if they were in a club.
True professionals could see the value of this victory.
More importantly, everyone at ART felt the pressure. As defending champions, they were targets. Despite the double win in Spain, the team's overall performance had been below expectations, lacking collective dominance. And with Kai's sudden rise, the pressure had multiplied tenfold.
Kai had qualified P2, missing pole by only 0.003 seconds, yet people still made snide remarks.
The ART team was indignant on Kai's behalf. The whole garage had been holding its breath.
He's our driver. WE can complain about him, WE can gossip, but everyone else can get lost. Those malicious bastards can back off.
Now, Kai had fought back with a brilliant victory, delivering a resounding slap to the face of the critics. The garage boiled over!
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