Old man

Not that anyone would have known it, but the old man standing in the pits was fuming. Fuming in that quiet, reserved way of his. He was tired and he ached. His body, which had never cut the lithest of figures, was feeling not only its age, but its mileage and the multitudinous injuries accumulated along the way.

The problem was this one actually matters. For this was the Nürburgring, the holiest of holies; his domain. In every F1 race he had done here, the worst he ever finished was second, which was far more the fault of car than driver. But now this one looked hopeless and, yes, it did matter because he doubted he’d ever be here again.

The odds were stacked against him from the start. Not only was he old, the opposition was a pair of young tigers who could have been his children – easily. Their cars were younger too. And yet somehow he had dragged his machine round to claim pole position, lapping the 14-mile course faster than had anyone in history. But the race would be different and he knew it.