Formula of Certainty (The Streets of Monte Carlo)

Two square kilometers of master crafted architecture. Lofts, cathedrals, high rises. A systematic evolution of majesty that encapsulates the trappings of idyllic luxury. Compact yet clean. Unassuming if not for its yearly extravagance in hosting one of the most legendary races in the world. A body that’s been built for purpose with the life blood of pure money.

Monaco is a special kind of place, but this weekend is the one which puts it on the map. The streets of Monte Carlo are soon to become a battleground of daring and precision. Until then the gawkers and gropers gather in piles of jubilant ignominy. The worshippers, those ever so necessary fans, crowd the grounds of the Fairmont Monte Carlo. Corralled, as they were, behind red velvet stanchions which would serve as the path of gladiators.

An entourage arrived in the brisk air of an early morning. The crowd’s excitement rose as they began waving their merchandise at the man who became the center of the attention. A squat man, thick necked and composed of quiet dignity. One hand in his pocket worked the volume on his phone. His earbuds buzzed against his eardrums.

Transmitting the words, “Another race weekend and another display of utter dominance by the reigning champion Jan Henningsen. A stunning performance at the Circuit de Catalunya that puts the Dane in, what would appear to be, an insurmountable lead of 78 points over his teammate and closest rival…”

He took some time to sign hats and posters and other such things. A hundred longing hands reached out and engulfed him in mirrors of his person. The number 33, his face reflected through prints and photos, shirts that read “Fiera”.

“…I mean really, JV, at this point is it even a question of what the weekend is going to look like? Should we start writing off the chances that anyone will catch Henningsen? I mean he has just been imperious since about the midway point of the last season…”

Fiera winced. Straining to focus his attention on the fleeting commentaries. Sunglasses hid his souring mien and kept out the blinding sunshine of people’s smiles.

“This is just becoming the Jan Henningsen podcast at this point isn’t it!”

The crowds’ cheers were near deafening until, at last, the hotel lobby. It was abuzz with fresh faced wealth. Some of his competitors had arrived before him, they didn’t exchange pleasantries. Fiera was in a rush to get to his room. A taller man of slender frame led the way to the elevator and the brief reprieve it promised.

In the silence he could hear clearly, “…it isn’t so much about the championship now as it is just surviving the rest of the season for Fiera isn’t it. When you look at the races Henningsen has put together: four wins off the bounce to start the season. His teammate was second in only one of the four. We thought Fiera’s win in China might have been a turning point. But since then, we haven’t seen him even reach the podium. A DNF in Imola didn’t do him any favors, the result of a faulty bit of bodywork, but still. And Spain! I mean he just glided right into the back of LeFleur didn’t he. A clumsy mistake from an experienced driver that just leaves you wondering how he could possibly undo the damage that’s already set him so far adrift of his teammate.”

Reaching the room, time became a blur. Habits of innumerable travels made for cathartic routine of decompression via the monotony of unpacking. It was another luxury suite that was dragged down by milquetoast sensibilities. White and blue with a nautical theme. Except that the only nautical thing was a painting of a docked boat under a setting sun. A standardized sleekness birthed from progressive modernity which somehow managed to transform even this, a high-class lodging that overlooked the grandiose French Riviera, into little more than typical stopgap for a man enslaved to motion.

The slender man began rummaging through his carry-on. Fiera had taken a seat, tapping his foot.

“We might just be seeing Fiera’s limitations,” the podcast still playing. “Let’s be honest, most his career has been spent in midfield machinery…”

The slender man gave a look to Fiera and gestured his fingers to his ear. Fiera unplugged.

“Sorry, Tom,” he said.

“Listening to that audiobook I sent ya? It’s pretty good huh! So, hey, we got a sponsorship event at noon which gives us an hour, give or take, to…”

Fiera clicked his tongue, “I thought that was cancelled, that is the ah…go-kart thing, yes?”

“Right bud, no not cancelled, that was the museum tour. The prince wanted you and Henningsen for that one. Good thing your teammate is the way he is,” Tom paused for a moment, noticing the slump in Fiera’s shoulders. “What’s up man? Thinking about Spain again? Forget that! This is your track. Henningsen’s quick but he struggles here.”

“I know that man. I know that. But just look at his side of the garage man, he owns it. Our side.”

Tom’s eyes were wide in anticipation. His hands at his side while he hunched ever so slightly to bring himself to Fiera’s level.

Fiera continued, “We have great guys, but it feels like always we have these little mistakes. And the car. It feels good one moment, the next it is like a different machine. I want to win this championship Tom. I am here to be a champion.”

Tom squinted and nodded his head while he spoke, “You are good enough to be a champion. Don’t worry about those other things, trust us, let your team handle it. We got your back Manny.”

Larry put hand on his beleaguered driver’s shoulder, “Let’s have a chat with Larry tonight and we can go over some of the data from last year’s race.”

Fiera assented, assuaged by the words of his professional friend. The same answer as all the other times. Inside he knew he would have to win this on his own.

***

Saturday: Qualifying. Monte Carlo the glittering gem of racing royalty. Its sparkling waters cluttered by a fleet of yachts bobbing in the backdrop of the sequestered streets. The high-rise apartments had their balconies filled by affluent onlookers, dressed for TV. Cars danced through the narrow streets. Out of Portier and through the Tunnel, a blur of navy and red. Blasting around the bend at over 270kmh (170mph) until a sudden braking zone at the end of a downhill straight. The car’s long winged nosed edged around the barrier of the Nouvelle Chicane. Flitting gracefully, its wheels skimmed the borders of metal as the machine methodically cleaved through the rest of the lap. Sector 1: 18.511, the best of the field (Purple). Sector 2: 33.892, great but just a thousandth off Le Fleur. Sector 3: La Rascasse, was the challenge for Fiera. He felt his concentration slip for a millisecond, and he nearly lost the apex of the turn. Another close shave. He banged a wheel against the wall, but the car kept singing. Cutting through the final corners he pressed the pedal to the floor. A wide booming voice warbled through the air as cheers made their place beside the great bellow of the commentators. He looked at his dash. Sector 3: 19.078, his lap, a 1:11.481.

Larry came over his radio, “That is a great lap Fiera, provisional pole. Two tenths clear of LeFleur. Two and a half to Henningsen.

Fiera raised his fist out of the narrow cockpit mirroring the energy of the crowd

Fiera’s finger went to his radio button, “Is there enough time for another run?”

Larry responded, his voice cold, “We can try but it’ll be cutting it close.”

With only around three minutes left in the qualifying hour Henningsen was prepping for his second run.

“Ok, fuck…let’s try it.”

Fiera finished his out-lap and pulled into the pit lane. Uniform soldiers of mechanical synchronicity surrounded his car. Their motions fluid, the wheel guns unbolted the worn tires. A shifting of clockwork hands flushed the slick black rubber over saucer rims. A clean stop, and one desperately needed.

Fiera reentered the circuit and began to warm his tires for a final attempt. Yet, something shuddered in his heart. He felt brimming electricity in the air around him. He took a look at his dash and noticed the times as they fell. Henningsen’s sector 1: 18.392, Purple. A single shiver ran through Fiera’s body. He kept heating his tires. As he approached the tunnel he saw it. Henningsen’s sector 2: 33.881. Purple. Fiera started to feel his heart pounding against his chest as a chill came over his brow. His breaths under the helmet became just the slightest bit more erratic. His last lap took everything, and his mind raced to understand where his teammate was finding the time. It didn’t seem real; it couldn’t be real.

Yet it was and it struck Fiera, hammer to steel. His mind reeled in the deluge of memories that soon overwhelmed him. His childhood, living out of an RV with his father and traveling across Europe to race against the best of the best. The pride that came from beating those kids, privileged, always able to go home at the end of a race weekend. His family, who he only saw on holidays. His homeland and its people. He was their hero; he was their soul. It was a land that was like a fable in Fiera’s mind. Stories from his father about days gone by, turmoil, struggle, and heart. In the rare moments he could walk on its soil, he beheld its magic. And everything that had been done for him. Every sacrifice, only to be overshadowed by critics. By the crowds of indifferent sybarites and amiable sycophants. By Henningsen.

Fiera turned the car on his approach to the Nouvelle Chicane. He had oversteered the wheel just a hair but that was enough. The front wing shattered before the front tire clobbered into the steel barrier. The car slid, finding itself nestled up against unyielding metal. Low speed, but just enough to fracture the fragile frames of these speed machines. Red flags waved all across the circuit. Qualifying was over. Henningsen’s Sector 3: unfinished.

***

Sunday: The Grand Prix. The customary proceedings that were the race took place. A soothing lullaby of multi-million-dollar aircraft-on-wheels which eased the comfortably seated Monegasques as they swirled and sipped their cocktails. Actors, philanthropists, humanitarians, all made their rounds pitching their pet projects and fanciful pursuits to one another. It was a traditionally sluggish end to the otherwise exciting spectacle which came the day before. Hallmarked by the privileges to be bestowed upon the winner of Monaco. Fiera’s mechanics had worked through the evening to piece together his beaten machine. He led the race from start to finish. Darting past the checkered flag he playfully jinked his car in excitement. LeFleur held his place in second with Henningsen right behind him.

Fiera exited the claustrophobia of his craft and nearly fell as he jumped with delight at his victory. He ran into the arms of his team and was handed the flag of his homeland. He held it high behind his head before wrapping it around his neck like a cape. Dressed in all white and wearing funny white caps adorned with a plume of red feathers came the national band. On the street their trumpets blared with resounding triumph, the anthem of Fiera’s homeland. It brought tears to his eyes. The champagne sprayed with smiles held wide. Henningsen didn’t mind spraying a bit into Fiera’s eyes. Standing on the podium together for a photo The Dane gave a playful little slap to Fiera’s chest.

He said to him, “Congrats! A win’s a win no matter how you earn it. Always good to keep the show going!”

Nothing would dampen the joy Fiera experienced in his moment of glory. He gave cheers to his competitors and embraced his closest allies, Tom and Larry. The team principal and the owners. And even Henningsen, briefly. Yet as the hundred or so mechanics, engineers, etc. gathered behind their heroes for a big team photo a swelling sense of the ephemeral pulled at them. The champagne settled. Henningsen’s camp, his closest aids, had already begun lubricating the gears while Fiera let laughter turn in his belly. The revelry of a winner, a mere champion of the day.