Chapter 153: The Accelerator That Was Not Pressed Down Hesitantly
Leclerc gradually realized that Wu Shi's anxiety bordered on excess.
Everyone knew today's race would be dangerous—but wasn't every rain race dangerous?
From an outsider's perspective, Wu Shi himself had driven almost recklessly at Norrislin, pushing in conditions that made spectators hold their breath. Yet now, when it was someone else on track, he seemed more uneasy than anyone.
Wu Shi could only smile bitterly.
If he didn't know what might happen, he would be just like the fans in the grandstands—eager, thrilled, anticipating chaos and brilliance in the rain. But once you knew, you had to carry that weight.
Before the race, he had even resorted to superstition. He told Bianchi he'd had a dream—an accident, Turn 7—and nearly begged him to retire from the race altogether.
Of course, Bianchi wouldn't withdraw because of that.
For a rookie in his first season, missing a Grand Prix for such a reason would be career suicide. It would violate his contract, damage his reputation, and possibly trigger enormous penalties.
I've said everything I can.
Wu Shi sighed inwardly. When someone doesn't truly believe you, no amount of warning will change their mind—sometimes it only breeds resentment.
---
As the race began, torrential rain flooded the circuit. The FIA opted for a safety car rolling start.
Rolling starts were common in F3, but this was the first time many fans had seen one in Formula 1.
"See? No need to worry too much," Verstappen said, trying to reassure him. "The organizers are being careful."
But even behind the safety car, the spray from twenty-two cars turned Suzuka into a white wall of mist. Visibility dropped to almost nothing.
Moments later, the red flag was thrown.
The drivers returned to the pit lane.
Twenty minutes passed. When the rain finally eased, the field rolled out again behind the safety car. But standing water still covered large sections of the track, and racing was not permitted.
Eight laps later, visibility improved. Drivers reported that they could finally see the racing line.
On lap nine, the safety car peeled into the pits.
The race officially began.
"The rain's getting lighter," Leclerc said, standing beneath the pit awning and catching droplets in his palm.
"Yes," Verstappen replied, eyes never leaving the screen. "The track's improving."
As the cars circulated, a darker ribbon appeared on the asphalt—not deeper water, but the drying racing line where grip was returning.
On lap twelve, Button and Maldonado gambled on intermediate tires.
Two laps later, their lap times spoke for themselves.
The dominoes fell.
When the two Red Bulls switched to inters, they carved through traffic, overtaking two Williams and Button within ten laps, climbing to fourth and fifth.
The rain weakened. Focus shifted fully to racing.
Behind the scenes, engineers studied tire data, lap deltas, and—most critically—weather radar. The largest teams fused historical data, simulations, and live forecasts, but the final call still came down to human judgment.
For a while, everything seemed under control.
Wu Shi finally allowed himself to breathe. At this rain intensity, accidents were unlikely.
Then, on lap forty, the rain returned—harder.
The FIA disabled DRS immediately.
Several teams dove into the pits for full wets.
Wind howled through the circuit. Rain hammered the asphalt. Engines sounded distant, muffled, as though wrapped in layers of fog.
Williams repeated the same message over the radio to both drivers:
Safety first.
Wu Shi's unease returned—stronger than before.
The broadcast image darkened. The track ahead blurred into gray nothingness.
Then—
Beep.
"Sutil off at Turn 7. Car in the wall."
Yellow flags.
---
Inside the cockpit, Bianchi squinted through his visor, water streaming down relentlessly.
Anyone who had raced in heavy rain knew the truth: this was driving blind.
But when the red rain light of the car ahead flickered into view, instinct took over. Every driver knew—that was an opportunity.
You didn't lift too much.
On lap forty-three, a recovery crane entered the run-off area at Turn 7, lifting Sutil's Sauber.
Bianchi knew about the incident. He saw the yellow flags. The pack slowed—but even "slow" was still fast.
Turn 7 was the final corner of the S-curves. Unlike the flowing serpent before it, this was a fast, sweeping arc.
Exiting Turn 6, drivers naturally picked up speed.
Bianchi was running at the back of a four-car group. The Marussia was uncompetitive this year; while others fought for podiums, he fought for fifteenth.
As always, he pressed the throttle.
And suddenly—
Wu Shi's voice echoed in his mind.
Turn Seven.
He'd driven this corner forty-two times already. Conditions changed, yes—but so did his feel for the track. He trusted himself.
Still—
For just a fraction of a second, his foot hesitated.
That hesitation changed everything.
The rear stepped out, as if the car had hit ice.
This slow—and still no grip?!
He corrected. Braked. Tried to save it.
Too late.
The car slid helplessly into the run-off.
At that exact moment, the crane had just lifted Sutil's car.
—CRASH!
Bianchi's Marussia slammed into the rear of the crane, lifting its massive counterweight before plunging nose-first into the tire barrier.
"Oh—!!!"
A collective gasp rose from the grandstands.
But in the pit lane, far from Turn 7, the cameras showed nothing.
Wu Shi heard the report through his headset.
Another accident. Turn 7.
His heart stopped.
"Who is it?" he demanded, turning to Williams race engineer Jonathan Carter.
Carter paused.
"…Bianchi."
"What?!" Leclerc cried out.
Verstappen's face hardened, the usual composure gone.
Minutes later, the red flag was displayed.
The race was over.
A medical car sped toward Turn 7.
Wu Shi looked up. The sky was still dark, heavy, unmoving.
"Where's the medical helicopter?!" Verstappen shouted.
Carter swallowed.
"Typhoon. Can't take off."