My Formula 1 System-Chapter 647: S3 German Grand Prix. 4
Damgaard wrenched himself out of the Red Bull; climbed halfway, before he fell over as the putrid smoke oozed out of the impaled chassis.
Coughing hard, he leaned over the halo bar, pressing his hands against the warm carbon fiber to stable his shaky frame.
As the German crowd roared and taunted him from far away, his hands grabbed the clips on his helmet, swiftly snapping them open in annoyance.
"Yeah, yeah, I’m fine," Jimmy snapped at his considerate engineers over the radio. When the crowd’s banter got louder, he threw his helmet right at the ground.
The visor immediately smashed into a bunch of tiny cracks as the helmet slid away a few metres, followed by Jimmy muttering, "Bullshit."
In the distance, other engines kept screaming. The race didn’t stop just because he crashed. Cars kept zooming past the wreck like blurs of color. And the worst part? A bright red Ferrari went flying by.
It was Luca.
Still in first place, pristine, and racing like he didn’t have a single problem in the world.
The sight tightened Jimmy’s face.
Being out of the race like this felt like a huge insult. Undone not by a rival, not by contact, but by a simple loss of control. A joke at his own expense.
He replayed the corner again and again, trying to figure out what went wrong, but came up with nothing.
"...AND JUST LIKE THAT, JIMMY DAMGAARD IS OUT OF THE GERMAN GRAND PRIX! Unbelievable drama, really. No one saw this coming...!"
"...Red Bull in the gravel, rear wheels still smoking, and Jimmy Damgaard climbing out furious... that’s a MASSIVE blow for Velocità. This could affect their title race, even with DiMarco still on the field....!"
"...Velocità losing Damgaard here is catastrophic — they needed him aggressive, they needed him charging, they needed him as their spearhead. Instead, Trampos are feasting!"
"WOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!"
"...eyes on Victor Surmann! My word, what composure from the youngster. He just survived a duel with one of the grid’s most lethal racers, and now that same racer is OUT! That’s a turning point for him too..."
[2 min. Yellow Flag]
Trampos’ garage was a giant, super-busy room full of calm noise and motion. It smelled like burnt rubber and car fuel, and that sharp tang of brake dust that filtered in from the pit lane polluted the air for the time being.
On the pit wall, the engineers were the busiest. Satisfied with their performance so far in the German Grand Prix, Mr. Ruben and the others nodded at each other occasionally. On the other hand, the team principals sat a level above, composed but visibly pleased, murmuring among themselves as they watched the timing screens dominate in Trampos red.
Radio chatter quickened as the race rolled into its first pit window. Since Jimmy’s crash brought out a brief yellow flag, everyone had to slow down anyway, which made it a great time for a stop.
**Vic, box this lap—you have plenty of room**
Down the home straight, Victor steered his Ferrari off the main track and into the pit lane, gear light flashing as he crossed the pit entry. Behind his visor, he looked petrified; probably still thinking about how Jimmy Damgaard just spu out of nowhere.
The pit crew was already on standby. With jacks and lollipops, they were ready for the tire swap. Victor rolled toward them, and his engine went from a loud scream to a quiet crawl.
**Good stop, Vic. That was exactly what we needed**
**You kept it tidy out there—keep building, keep breathing. Don’t rush it, make it come to you**
The air guns stopped hissing, the car dropped back onto the ground, and the lollipop flipped up to let him go. Victor’s hands got sore as he pushed the machine forward, feeling the new, sticky tires grabbing the pavement far better.
As he moved down the pit lane, he passed Max Addams, who had just rolled into Outback’s pit box.
Victor was yet to know Max Addams personally. But from what he’d heard, But from what he’d heard, Max was the kind of driver you thought twice before challenging.
The pit lane blurred into the bright ribbon of track ahead and the louder section of the crowd as the V22 essentially rejoined safely. The tires were fresh now, and the bottom of the pack appeared much safer without a hyperpredator like Jimmy Damgaard in its rankings.
If anything, Victor should be looking ahead to the opportunity this meant for him.
But his brain was still noisy, occupied by what had happened a few laps before.
Him. Jimmy. Big fight. Smoke and crash.
Victor didn’t just stay alive out there; he actually beat one of the grid’s most feared drivers!
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut that he actually liked.
He felt lighter, and his steering became sharper afterwards.
P17– Victor Surmann ←
The Trampos boy rejoined in P17 with Mikhail Petrov lurking a car length behind, and Desmond Lloyd just up a braking zone. Around them, the field was still restless, cars weaving on warm-up, lap times tumbling despite the recent pit phase. And far in the distance, the leader was already nearly a full lap ahead of the tail of the pack.
Victor stayed quiet and patient, measuring his breathing as advised, as he let the race come back to him.
For several laps, he raced anonymously, deliberately conservative, intending to massage heat into his tires. Victor had noticed his training sessions and regimen with Luca had increased his stamina and endurance. It was still far from elite level, but he’d get there.
Inevitably, the field swallowed him for a moment. Because he wasn’t speeding up, rivals like Petrov and Lockwood slid past, dropping Victor as far back as P19.
But Victor knew it wasn’t over yet.
He was happy that Albert Derstappen had climbed clear of the very back of the field. Probably others felt the same way, too, because at least now they were racing rivals on relatively the same machinery level.
By Lap 22, the tires eventually found their bite. Because of that, Victor felt brave again. He started putting the car exactly where he wanted it, going faster into the slow turns and getting great speed when coming out of them. Others who had just pitted were still fighting their rubber, struggling in the cold, losing a lot of time despite their theoretical advantage.
Slowly but surely, he started getting his spots back. Yūichirō made a mistake, Lockwood messed up his braking, and Konarski probably had grip problems.
By Lap 26, without making a single desperate move, Victor had threaded the gaps left by those peeling into the pits and rebuilt himself into P13 — proof that patience, this time, had paid.
