My Formula 1 System

FLASHBACK/ 15 YEARS AGO

Race Day: Oct. 24, RBR Circuit, Spielberg, Austria.

"...A very good afternoon to all motorsport fans across the globe! Welcome to the Austrian Grand Prix, here at the legendary RBR Circuit in Spielberg! It's a crisp autumn day in the Styrian hills, and we are set for what promises to be an electrifying showdown...!"

Back then, the crowds in the stands weren't as massive as they are now, but they still roared with excitement as the Austrian Grand Prix broadcast kicked off.

"...The championship battle is tighter than ever, and today's race could very well decide the fate of the title contenders! Two races left to glory!"

Just as Luca had his own pre-race ritual of listening to heavy metal and instrumentals, Aldo had his own peculiar way of preparing.

The Nevada crew were used to it by now. They always prepared a bucket of ice-cold water. It was something Aldo insisted on before every race.

He believed the shock of freezing water heightened his senses, snapping him into full concentration.

The Austrian Grand Prix was no different. This time, he immersed his face, hands, and even his feet into the icy depths.

Mr. Schafer, in his late fifties at the time, had just been passing by the uniform room when he caught sight of Aldo seated on a bench, his head engulfed by the stainless-steel bucket.

He clicked his tongue thoughtfully before moving on, paying little mind to it. The garage was already filled with activity as the announcement came through—half an hour till lights out.

Georg Nygaard, Aldo's teammate, walked in and sat beside him, waiting patiently until Aldo finally pulled his head out of the water.

Droplets streamed down his face as he tilted his head back, inhaling deeply as the icy shock coursed through his system. His hands clenched and unclenched, adjusting to the numbing cold.

"Ten extra dips today," Georg noted, his voice coming out with concern. "You'll definitely catch a cold."

Aldo merely nodded. He wanted to feel as cold and numb as possible while he drove today. Georg understood why. That was exactly what worried him.

Aldo set the bucket aside and stood up, beginning to dress for the race. Georg, still watching with a tinge of pity, followed his movements.

To this day, even in Luca's era, Aldo Rennick remained the tallest recorded F1 driver to have ever competed on the track.

At 6 feet 4 inches, he towered over most of his peers, a height even Luca couldn't attain.

Many labeled Aldo a ginger, but even he couldn't say for sure whether his hair was brown or red. It sat somewhere in between, a deep reddish-brown hue.

With his hairline now fully receded, his sharp, lanky features gave him an older, almost gaunt appearance.

One might have wondered how Mrs. Rennick ever chose to wed Aldo. Her beauty had solely passed down strongly to both Sophia and Luca.

While Luca had inherited some of Aldo's recognizable traits—like his freckles—his hair was a pure, unmistakable brown, just like his mother's.

Aldo dressed in silence, lost in thought as the sound of commentary, announcements, and the roaring grandstands filled the air around him.

Georg followed suit, getting dressed quietly beside him. No words were needed. Both of them knew exactly what this afternoon had in store for them.

When they were through, they headed out to get ready for the race.

Nevada HanSama sat in second place in the standings below Velox Hispania. With good finishing points from both Aldo and Georg, they had a real shot at taking the lead, especially with Owen absent.

So, the illicit use of the HiCE that day wasn't just about Aldo's personal ambition for first place. It would push Nevada HanSama to the top of the grid. So this was going to benefit both team and driver.

Aldo and Georg entered the garage, where the crew quickly scrambled toward them for last-minute checks. Their eyes shifted to the marshals conducting inspections on both Ferraris.

The marshals' job was solely to ensure the cars were in safe working condition; they weren't responsible for verifying whether the machines met regulations.

A full scrutiny would be required for that, but there was no time. It was generally assumed that all teams adhered to the rules.

Once the marshals were done, they nodded in approval, exchanged a few words with Mr. Schafer and the then-head engineer—who was late now—before taking their leave.

Aldo and Georg walked toward Mr. Schafer and the Head Engineer who were standing still, staring at the Ferrari before them.

Georg's Ferrari sat off to the side, but Aldo's was the center of attention.

The two drivers joined them, gazing at the chassis as if they could somehow see the engine through it. But all that met their eyes were the sharp lines and sleek design of the single-seater, painted in imperial red with streaks of gold and white, Aldo's #12 boldly brandished across its body.

Back then, the designs of single-seaters were significantly different from what they were now. The cars had a more aggressive, raw appearance, with wider rear tires and lower, flatter noses.

The aerodynamic philosophy was simpler and very easy to draw on paper with a few straight lines and circles. They were rigid and less sculpted than the modern day ones.

Aldo's Ferrari embodied this era, its high side pods giving it a muscular stance, its rear wing tall and boxy compared to the sleek, compact designs of today.

The front wing was simpler compared to the multi-element configuration and curvature of the modern day cars now. And they hugged the ground more, meaning they were lower.

Even the steering wheel was small, cluttered with only essential buttons and no digital dashboard.

It was obvious chassis technology didn't evolve hand in hand with engine technology. Because just from this description, one could tell this was an unreasonable idea.

Mr. Schafer looked at Aldo, repeating what he had been saying for the past two weeks. "There is no need to push this too far, Aldo. You already have the pace without it. You don't need to take the risk."

"If I don't, then what was the point of developing it?"

"Bullocks. It was never meant to be used in an actual race. Just controlled tests, simulations—"

"Even in simulations your hands trembled."

"Then why did we perfect it? Why did we make it?" Aldo interrupted, his tone sharper now. "Why did we refine it to the point where we know exactly how much advantage it gives? We've come this far, and now you want me to hold back?"

Mr. Schafer walked up to Aldo with a deep frown, his posture tense. He had to tilt his head up slightly to meet Aldo's gaze—something that always irritated him.

Schafer spoke slowly, enunciating each word with the kind of weight that made it clear he wasn't just saying this for Aldo to hear, but for him to remember. Remember now, and remember when the car would become a beast barely in his control.

"Make sure you keep the clauses in mind, now and while you're driving. If you mess up, I won't hesitate to tell your son that you were a fool."

Aldo didn't even flinch. His expression remained unreadable as he met Schafer's glare head-on. "I don't have a son," he said simply. "You said I should keep the clauses in mind."

Before Schafer could retort, the overhead speakers crackled to life.

"...Five minutes till lights out! Drivers to their cars! Five minutes till the formation lap!"

A rush of movement followed in the garage. Engineers and mechanics made their final checks, fastening panels, securing fuel lines, and ensuring every system was ready.

"...Track temperature holding steady at 14 degrees Celsius… Wind speeds unchanged at 12 km/h from the northwest… All cars cleared from scrutineering, grid formation proceeding on schedule…"

Schafer shook his head, exhaling sharply. All he could see in Aldo's eyes was a man who fully understood the lethal consequences of driving such a machine today, yet chose to anyway.

They had already predicted several disastrous outcomes if he failed to pit at the right time or lost control of the chassis.

Aldo could quite literally be roasted alive in the cockpit. The HiCE's extreme thermal output meant that prolonged exposure to its heat buildup would turn the cockpit into an oven, melting the very protective layers designed to shield him.

If the energy output surged beyond safe limits, the chassis itself could rupture mid-race, sending shards of carbon fiber flying at lethal speeds. A fuel line compromised under such strain would mean instant detonation.

Even if the car held together physically, there was the sheer G-force to consider. The enhanced acceleration could push Aldo's body past its limits, causing blackouts, micro-fractures in his ribs, or even tearing muscle fibers under the strain.

And yet, once it was grid time, Aldo still climbed into the cockpit, as if none of it mattered. Only victory.