The Jeddah Corniche Circuit felt less like a racetrack and more like a high-speed, concrete-lined chasm, carved by architects with a penchant for white-knuckle thrills. The air, even in the late afternoon glow preceding FP1, shimmered with a dry, relentless heat that tasted faintly of salt and ambition. The Red Sea, a sapphire expanse, shimmered alluringly nearby, a stark contrast to the unforgiving grey walls that lined the track like a hungry maw.
"Alright, Samuel, check your mirrors on the exit of Turn 22," Ben's voice crackled, devoid of the usual Friday morning pleasantries. "The sun angle can be a real pain there, especially in FP1. And watch the dust. Wind's picked up overnight."
Samuel grunted, pulling his balaclava tight. Dust. Of course. Just another delightful ingredient in the witches' brew that was Jeddah. The circuit, a 6.17-kilometer ribbon of asphalt, boasted 27 corners, most of them high-speed sweeps that offered no respite, no braking zones for a quick mental reset. It was a relentless assault on the senses, a track where bravery bled seamlessly into lunacy, and the slightest miscalculation meant a swift, violent embrace with concrete.
He rolled out of the Raveish Racing garage, the RR27's engine barking its familiar, defiant roar. The pit lane, usually a bustling parade, seemed unusually hushed, as if even the mechanics were holding their breath. This wasn't Bahrain's wide, open spaces. This was a gladiatorial arena, its walls whispering promises of glory and catastrophic failure in equal measure.
Free Practice 1 (FP1) was, as always, about getting a feel for the circuit, bedding in components, and ensuring the car hadn't grown an extra wheel or decided to spontaneously combust during transit. For Raveish Racing, it was also a desperate scramble to find a baseline setup that didn't feel like driving a shopping trolley on ice skates.
"Initial turn-in is… vague, Ben," Samuel reported after his first few cautious laps. "It feels like the front axle has decided to take a holiday. And the rear… the rear feels like it's auditioning for a spot on a local drifting team. Especially through the Esses after Turn 4."
"Understood, Samuel. We're seeing it on the data. Slight oversteer on corner exit, consistent through the high-speed changes of direction. We'll make some front wing adjustments," Ben calmly replied.
Samuel gritted his teeth. Understood? Right. Understood. Just tell the car to stop trying to escape to the seaside. His internal monologue, already a sardonic companion, was taking on a sharper, more irritable edge. The RR27, even with its subtle improvements from Bahrain, felt like a temperamental teenager throwing a tantrum on this track. Every high-speed corner was a negotiation, every twitch of the wheel a gamble.
He pushed harder on the next run, leaning on his Hyper-Awareness to decipher the almost imperceptible changes in tarmac grip, the micro-slips that threatened to escalate into full-blown spins. The system was a constant companion, its presence a cool, analytical counterpoint to his rising frustration. He could feel the fine layer of dust on the asphalt, the way the sun-baked surface changed its character from Turn 1 to Turn 27. It was like driving with a supercomputer plugged directly into his optic nerves and nerve endings.
But even Hyper-Awareness couldn't magically add downforce. The RR27, set up for a compromise between the few straights and the endless corners, felt floaty and light. Through the sweeping, blind turns like the one leading into Turn 11, Samuel felt the back end shimmy, threatening to snap. He caught it, of course, a lightning-fast correction that would have sent lesser drivers into the wall, but the near-miss left a metallic taste of irritation in his mouth.
"Ben, we need more stability through the high-speed stuff," Samuel snapped, his voice tauter than he intended. "It's like I'm trying to thread a needle while riding a unicycle. We're losing too much confidence here. The front's going to fall off, or the rear's going to stage a hostile takeover."
"Copy that, Samuel. We're looking at front suspension changes for FP2. Try to manage the tyres for now. We need long-run data," Ben responded, ever the unflappable voice of reason.
Manage the tyres? I'm trying not to redecorate the wall with them! The thought was sharp, laced with genuine annoyance. This was the first whisper of his hot-headedness breaking free from its internal cage. It wasn't an outburst, not yet, but a growing impatience with the limitations, the constant battle. He wanted results, and the car felt like it was actively conspiring against him.
FP2 was held later in the evening, under the dazzling floodlights that turned the track into a theatrical stage. The cooler temperatures meant more grip, but also a new set of challenges as the track rubbered in. This session was crucial for race simulation, as it most closely mirrored qualifying and race conditions.
The mechanics had made their changes. Samuel felt a marginal improvement in the car's turn-in, but the high-speed twitchiness remained. He attacked the lap, pushing harder, daring the walls to punish him. Through the snaking, high-speed esses from Turn 4 to Turn 10, he held his breath, relying solely on Grip Whisper to tell him precisely how much more steering input the front tyres could take before understeer kicked in, and how much throttle the rears could handle before spinning him into a concrete embrace. It was a terrifying dance on the edge of catastrophe.
He scraped the wall lightly with his rear right tyre exiting Turn 13, a mere kiss, but enough to send a jolt through the car and a fresh spike of adrenaline through Samuel. "Light contact, Ben. Rear right. Car feels okay, but that was too close for comfort. We need more rear stability under power." He didn't wait for Ben's reply, accelerating into the next sequence. He was frustrated, and it was showing in his driving. He was pushing beyond the sensible, searching for a limit that the car simply didn't possess in its current state.
"Samuel, careful with those wall contacts," Ben's voice was firm, a subtle warning. "We can't afford significant damage. We're seeing some understeer through 22-23 now. Try to adjust your line."
Adjust my line? I'm already using the paint for grip! Samuel's jaw tightened. He wanted to scream. He wanted to physically shake the car and demand it perform. The "Serpent's Coil" was tightening, not just the general pressure of F1, but the specific, suffocating pressure of knowing he had to perform miracles with a car that felt like it was actively resisting him, and on a track where miracles often ended in scrap metal.
He saw Klaus Steiner's Stake F1 car flash past him on a flying lap, looking utterly planted, effortlessly fast through the very corners where Samuel was wrestling his machine like a deranged rodeo clown. The sight ignited a fresh spark of anger. It wasn't just the car, it was Klaus's calm, almost arrogant precision. Samuel was fighting for his life for P18 in practice, and Klaus was probably sipping tea and wondering if he needed another tenth. The sheer unfairness of it all was a bitter pill to swallow.
The team's setup dilemmas were reaching a fever pitch. Dr. Finch argued for more front wing to combat the understeer, but Ben was concerned about the resulting drag on the long straights. Marcus Thorne, ever the pragmatist, pushed for a balance that prioritised race reliability over outright single-lap pace, acutely aware of Raveish Racing's fragile financial position. Every decision felt like a gamble with their limited spare parts.
"Samuel, we're considering a slightly higher ride height for FP3," Finch explained during the post-FP2 debrief, gesturing at diagrams on a screen. "It might help with the high-speed compression but could cost us some mechanical grip through the slower corners. Your input on the compromise would be valuable."
Samuel rubbed his temples. "Compromise. Always a compromise," he muttered, perhaps a little louder than intended. "Look, if we can't get the stability right through Turn 22-23, we're going to be a sitting duck in the race. And that run into Turn 27, if the car is twitchy, it's a guaranteed lock-up or an early trip to the run-off. My feeling is, we need to sacrifice a little straight-line speed for confidence in the high-speed. I can make up time with courage if the car feels like it's actually going to listen to me." His voice was firm, edged with a barely concealed impatience. He wasn't just offering feedback; he was making a demand, driven by a growing, hot belief in his own instincts.
FP3, held on Saturday afternoon before qualifying, was typically the session for final qualifying runs. The track was warmer again, and even more rubbered in, offering slightly more grip. Samuel, however, found himself battling not just the car, but his own increasingly agitated state of mind. Every small mistake, every time the RR27 refused to cooperate, stoked the embers of his frustration.
He watched Théo, his teammate, struggle even more. Théo's laps were often tentative, punctuated by large corrections, clearly lacking the raw, almost reckless commitment that Samuel could summon. It was a testament to Samuel's Champion System, providing that razor-thin margin of safety, that he was able to push so much harder without actually crashing. But it was mentally draining, this constant internal fight against the car's inherent weakness.
"Ben, the car's still a handful through the fast stuff," Samuel reported, his voice tight. He had just had another moment through the Turn 13-14 sequence, the rear stepping out unexpectedly. "It's like it wants to throw me into the wall. I'm having to fight it on every single entry."
"Copy that, Samuel. We're seeing some inconsistent aero balance. We're at the limit of our setup changes for this session," Ben replied, a note of quiet concern in his voice. He knew Samuel was pushing, possibly over-driving, and that on a track like Jeddah, the line between heroic and catastrophic was gossamer thin.
Samuel took a deep breath, trying to rein in the surge of anger. He hated feeling limited, hated knowing the car was holding him back. He was a champion, dammit, and this glorified bathtub was making him look like an amateur. The thought, a sharp, uncharacteristic burst of pride and frustration, was pure, unadulterated hot-headedness.
As the chequered flag fell on FP3, Samuel brought the RR27 back to the pits. He climbed out, ripping off his balaclava. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, and his eyes, usually a calm blue, held a spark of defiant fire. He walked straight to Ben and Dr. Finch, his strides purposeful.
"Look, for quali, we go for it," he stated, cutting straight to the chase, his voice low but intense. "Forget the compromises. Give me all the front wing you can without making it utterly undriveable in a straight line. I'll make up the drag. I can take the car closer to the walls than anyone else out there. But I need it to bite on turn-in. I need confidence. I'll take the risk. Otherwise, we're just going to be sitting ducks, and I didn't come all this way to be a sitting duck."
Ben and Finch exchanged a glance. Samuel's request was aggressive, a gamble, but there was a raw, undeniable conviction in his voice. This wasn't just a driver giving feedback; this was a man on the edge, demanding more, willing to risk everything for it. The Serpent's Coil tightened, but Samuel was not just feeling its constriction; he was pushing against it, with a stubborn, hot defiance. Jeddah's blade edge awaited, and Samuel was ready to meet it, head-on.