In racing, there is the "slipstream effect," but there is also "dirty air."
The slipstream effect is when one car follows closely behind another, entering the low-pressure wake created by the lead car's rear wing. This reduces air resistance, allowing the rear car to "surf" on the air current, just like a swimmer drafting behind another. Because of this reduced drag, the car behind can rapidly close the gap.
This is a key aerodynamic principle, and its effect becomes more pronounced in higher-level formulas, especially on long straights. Timing is everything. The following driver must pull out of the slipstream at the perfect moment to maximize their speed and complete the overtake.
At the same time, dirty air is the turbulent, chaotic air churned up by the lead car. This turbulence disrupts the aerodynamic structure of the car behind, especially the downforce generated by the front wing and underfloor. The result is an unstable car, where the tires are more likely to slide, overheat, and wear out faster. In corners, dirty air is a massive disadvantage.
Therefore, on a long straight, a driver must use the slipstream. But in almost every other part of the track, following too closely just means you are "stuck in dirty air."
On the straight leading to Turn 6, Kai had been in Alesi's slipstream. But the moment he saw Alesi's savage, crude braking, he changed his strategy. To avoid the dirty air in the corner, Kai subtly altered his rhythm and style.
He was no longer hunting for raw speed. He was focused on precision.
He began his turn-in earlier. He carried a smoother line through the corner, using the smallest possible steering angle to get the car to rotate. The car was no longer shuddering; it was a blade gliding on rails, hugging the ground, silently closing in.
He had let the gap to Alesi open up just enough to escape the turbulent air, but he was still close enough to remain in his mirrors, to stay within striking distance.
In that moment, he became a hunter.
And he wasn't hiding. He wanted Alesi to feel his presence. He needed Alesi to be constantly, nervously aware of him. No matter how fast Alesi pushed, that red car was always in his mirrors, a constant, looming threat. The pressure was being applied, tightening the screws on Alesi's nerves.
Precise. Patient. Smart.
He had hidden his fangs, but he was not a wolf in sheep's clothing. He was a lion with its claws retracted, calmly stalking its prey.
Vasseur, in the control room, slowly lifted his chin. If the start had been an interesting opening, this... this was where the race truly began.
However, Kai wasn't the only one laying a trap.
Just as Kai was controlling his pace, an afterimage filled his own mirrors.
Zhou Guanyu!
Clearly, Zhou had no intention of just sitting back and watching. Even as friends, on the track, they were rivals. They were all chasing the same thing.
And now, Zhou was showing his true colors as an offensive driver. He was cutting the apexes of the previous corners perfectly, barely slowing down, and had already pulled a gap on Armstrong. He was now faster than Kai through the corners, and he was closing the gap.
In a Formula car, a driver faces two fundamental challenges of vehicle dynamics: oversteer and understeer.
The ideal state is a neutral steer, where the car does exactly what you tell it to. Turn the wheel 30 degrees, the car turns 30 degrees.
But in reality, especially in a high-strung, high-downforce Formula car, a perfect neutral balance is almost impossible. Every car has its own personality in different corners.
Oversteer is when you turn the wheel 30 degrees, but the car reacts too sharply, turning 45 degrees. The rear of the car slides out. If you don't catch it, you spin.
Understeer is when you turn the wheel 30 degrees, but the car is sluggish and only turns 15. The car refuses to turn in, "pushing" wide of the apex. It feels less violent, but you miss your line and lose all your speed.
On any given track, the same car can exhibit both traits—understeering in a high-speed corner, then oversteering in a low-speed hairpin. It's an untamable, bucking horse.
The driver's job is not just to go fast, but to read these changes and tame the beast.
And in the world of Formula racing, neither is inherently better. Drivers tune the car to their personal style. Zhou Guanyu, it was now clear, was a driver who liked oversteer.
He would brake late, dive-bomb the apex, and use the car's rotation—the "slide" of the rear end—to help him turn, correcting it with the throttle to get a higher exit speed.
It was risky. It was aggressive.
His defense in Turn 1 had been clumsy; he hadn't anticipated the move and had been easily passed. But now, on the attack, Zhou was a different animal entirely.
In front, Kai was controlling the pace.
Behind, Zhou was closing in for the kill.
The roar of the engines and the scream of the tires filled the air. Zhou was a storm, and he was catching Kai, his car filling the mirrors.
The warrior spirit in Kai's blood began to burn. If he stayed put, he'd be the meat in the sandwich, caught in a pincer attack.
He had two choices:
He could defend, block Zhou, and in doing so, let Alesi escape into the distance. But why would he do that? They weren't teammates.
Or, he could seize the initiative. He could ignore Zhou and attack Alesi.
Lap 4. The tires were finally coming up to temperature.
Zhou was the first one to feel the change.
He could physically sense Kai's "mode switch." The killer instinct, which had been dormant, was now palpable, flowing off Kai's rear wing. Just as Zhou was closing in, ready to pounce, the feeling vanished. The rhythm changed. Kai had just found another gear, and the gap, which had been shrinking, was now holding.
The opportunity was gone.
And a second later, Alesi felt it, too.
Kai was closing in.
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