The heat in Bahrain was a physical presence. It shimmered off the asphalt, baked the grandstands, and pressed down with a suffocating weight. Inside the cockpit of the Orion OR-03, strapped so tightly I was part of the machine, the heat was a familiar old friend. For three years, I had only felt the cool, sterile air of the simulator room. This—this visceral, sweat-drenched reality—was resurrection.
My helmet was a void. The visor was tinted so dark it was nearly opaque from the outside, a shield of anonymity. Over the radio, my race engineer, a sharp, no-nonsense German named Klaus, kept his voice level. “Okay, Apex. One push lap. Track is yours.”
Apex. The ghost. It was time for the ghost to come out and play.
I rolled out of the pit lane, the new-generation engine a guttural roar at
