#f1 technical

[boxboxblog]

Technical: F1 Cars v Feeder Cars

Hello, this post is a response to an ask about the differences between F1 cars and feeder series cars. To better understand, I would recommend reading my How Do F1 Cars Work? series (first post linked here) before this one. Enjoy!

(Comparison of the four categories' cars)

Power Units:

F1: F1 cars use a hybrid power unit system, a 1.6-liter V6 turbocharged engine combined with Energy Recovery System (ERS). This can deliver 1,000 horsepower, get the car up to 217 mp, and also go from roughly zero to sixty miles in under 2.5 seconds. This kind of an engine means that the F1 car has tremendous speed and power, and takes corners and straights both at high speeds. To handle this kind of car an F1 driver must have fantastic race craft, good knowledge of engineering, and high precision. They need for focus on more than just driving, as they control a lot of what goes on in the mechanics of the car. In this case they also have to worry about ERS deployment,

(A basic drawing of an F1 engine. Credit: Craig Scarborough Twitter: @ScarbsTech)

F2: F2 cars use a naturally aspirated (non-turbocharger) 3.4 liter V6 engine and does not have a hybrid system. The engine delivers about 620 horsepower, and the car can get up to 205 mph. This means that F2 drivers focus on mechanical engine power. This also means that F2 drivers drive a little less complicated and do not have to worry about the electronic side of racing quite yet.

F3: F3 cars Have a 3.4 liter V6 engine that is very similar to F2 engines, but has a lot less power. It delivers around 380 horsepower, and has a top speed of around 186 mph. This is still at the level where drivers are learning the fundamentals of racing, but it kicks up the speed a bit compared to F4. You will notice that the progression toward F1's extreme speed is rather gradual.

F4: The simplest and least powerful engine, F4 used a 2.0 liter turbocharged four cylinder engine. This produces around 160-189 horsepower, and can reach 150 mph. This means the car requires more patience with the throttle and very simple driving tactics. It obviously is a very different power and speed than karting, but it allows young drivers to start to get used to speed.

Aerodynamics:

F1: An F1 car's aerodynamic system is very complicated. It has an intensely designed front wing, a very important and complex rear wing with DRS, and also uses ground effect in order to generate downforce. In general, the F1 car always tries to produce as much down force as possible, which keeps the car's grip up. This downforce means that F1 cars take corners extremely fast, and drivers must balance it well. They also tend to get more effected by dirty air than other series cars.

(An F1 car, you can see the complex front wing and the wide rear wing with it's DRS flap)

F2: F2 cars are slightly less complex, but still have a designed front and rear wing. They do not focus on downforce as much and have no ground effect in their cars. This means that F2 cars are much more reliant on mechanical grip over aerodynamic grip. Drivers must use a smoother way of cornering and focus on tire management to keep grip.

(an F2 car, Visibly less detailed but still has similar styling to an F1 car)

F3, F4: Even more simple ( I think you get the theme) there are minimal downforce-generating elements, and the designs for the wings are very very simple. The focus when driving this kind of car is similar to F2 in that tire management is paramount to keep grip and corners must be taken rather slow.

(An F3 car, has no DRS flap in back and the front wing has almost no details)

(An F4 car, front wing is completely different and rear wing is much more tall and open)

Weight:

F1: An F1 car is incredibly heavy. It weights around 1800 lbs without fuel, and most of the weight is due to the tires, power unit, and safety measures inside of the car. The tires that F1 car uses are the Pirelli 18-inch low profile tires, which are heavy and large and keep the weight of the car up. Because of how heavy they are, F1 drivers must manage the balance very carefully, especially during braking and acceleration.

F2: While they use the same tire size as F1 (just less complicated), F2 cars are lighter, but not by much. They are about 1740 lbs without fuel, and because of this they need to focus on much of the same as F1 drivers. This heavier weight gets drivers prepared for handling an F1 car.

F3: F3 car's are significantly light, weighing around 1500 lbs without fuel. they also use different tires, instead having 13 inch ones. This means that they are a much more nimble car, which allows for more aggressive braking and cornering.

F4: The lightest of them all, at 1100 lbs, this is by far the most nimble and easiest to handle. It has the same tires as F3. This lightness helps start new drivers out on learning how to drive a one-seater car without putting them in too much danger, as they can move around corners fast and make more mistakes with less consequences

Electronics:

F1: F1 cars are extremely technologically advanced. The steering wheel on an F1 car is basically a computer, and they control a variety of things with it. They have the ERS system, electronic gear shifts, engine modes, brake-by-wire systems, complex suspension setups, customizable engine maps, etc. This isn't even including the hundreds of sensors all throughout the car. This means that mid race they are focused on things like switching engine modes around, deploying ERS, and other such things. They have to be aware of how everything works together, so it also requires a high technical knowledge.

(An F1 steering wheel. The many knobs and buttons you see are used by drivers as they race.)

F2,F3,F4: These cars are simple and have essentially the same level of electronic complexity. Only F2 has gear shifts and basic engine modes, but everything else is much more mechanically focused. This allows junior drivers to focus on the actual car over electronics in their early career, and once they get into F1 the mechanical side is almost muscle memory.

Braking:

F1,F2: So, these two series both use a carbon-carbon braking system. These types of brakes have immense stopping power but require a lot of heat to function properly. This is why brake temperature management is so important in races. They manage this through rim heating (transferring heat from brakes to rims on front tires), coasting and gliding, and controlling air flow. In F2 the brakes have slightly less power.

(An F1 carbon-carbon system)

F3,F4: These series use a steel braking system. This is a lot less powerful and simple to use, which allows junior drivers to develop fundamental braking skills. They are much easier to handle and forgiving of mistakes.

(A steel braking system)

Alright that is the basics of it. There are of course other differences like in basic shape, but these are the ones that most effect how the cars operate and how the drivers handle them. I hope I answered any questions.

Cheers,

-B

[fairylando]

imagine you are YUKI TSUNODA and you are constantly HARASSED for being violent (you're really not) and harsh with words (not more than the others) and you change THREE TEAMMATES in three years and they all get to be CONSIDERED for the RED BULL MISSING SEAT???? and you don't!!!! and you're stuck at the SUGAR FREE REDBULL TEAM for FOUR years and you get a year-end bonus of 22 EUROS... and all because the TALKING CORPSE hates you.

[formulaforza]

— caught in a blue summ. but to love her is to need her everywhere (a gentle kind of love) charles x fem reader, wc 4.1k ish, no warnings, no y/n! fueled by one single praise from @silverstonesainz

You’re three paragraphs into an all-too-lengthy work email when he sits down in the chair next to you silently, one elbow on the sage green tablecloth. He sits in the chair sideways, something you can both see and feel, even without looking away from your phone screen. His presence is accompanied by the gentle thud of two heavy glasses. 

You look over briefly���long enough to suggest to him that his presence is mildly perturbing—and then return your attention to the email. You can hardly concentrate over the jazz band in the corner of the hall, rotating through their collection of love songs sung in different romance languages, and now a strange man has set up camp next to you, only further reminding you why you shouldn’t be responding to emails when you’re out of office. 

“Hi,” he says, after more seconds of silence. 

You finish your email before you give him the time of day. “Hi,” you smile, soft but forced. “Who are you?”

“Charles,” He smiles, holding his hand out to shake yours. You stare at his waiting hand until he takes it away. “Nice to meet you,” he laughs, moving one of the drinks closer to you. “For you. White Negroni. Céline told me it’s your drink.”

You give him a sideways glance before looking past him, scanning the reception hall for your friend. She should stand out in her bridesmaid dress. The wedding invite had specifically requested guests to follow a color code, and nobody was wearing that shade besides the bridesmaids. Your eyes finally land on her, glass of champagne in her hand, long blonde hair falling over her shoulders, leaning over to whisper something to the groom—her brother. No doubt the two of them conspiring, a theory only proved when Mathéo’s eyes land on yours from across the room. You roll your eyes. 

“How do you know Céline?” you ask, as if half the guests here tonight aren’t related to her. 

“I went to school with Mathéo,” he says, and you nod slowly, confusion growing, curiosity peaked. “I suppose technically I went to school with Céline as well.”

“I went to school with Céline,” you say, and Charles furrows his brows. 

“Are you sure?” He asks, and you laugh softly, picking up the drink he’d offered, pulling the garnish off the lip of the glass and dropping it on top of the ice. “I’m serious!” He says, matching your laugh, taking a sip of his drink. “Because I would remember you. And I do not remember you.”

“I’m sure,” you shake your head, bringing the glass to your lips. “Lycée. Première.”

Charles nods. “That is why. I was graduated by then.”

Someone laughs so loud at the next table over that it steals both of your attention. It’s the mother-of-the-bride, and she's visibly drunk in a way that only a divorced French socialite can manage. The sudden attention tones her down, and the room is once again filled with wealthy laughter and crisp clinking crystal glasses. 

You love weddings. You love this wedding; the delicate scent of blooming lavender, the smoked salmon canapés and delicate foie gras pâté that sit half-eaten at most of the tables, the perfectly chilled glasses of champagne waiting to be toasted, and the sun. The golden sun that casts itself across the terraces and into the tall windows, painting the dancing figures in golden hues. 

And then he’s speaking again, and you look back at him, and the sun casts a warm shadow through his brown hair that you're noticing for the first time. “Parles-tu français?” he asks. 

You wince, tilting your head to the side, holding up two fingers pinched together. “Un petit peu. Je suis grec,” you explain, pulling your hair around to drape over one shoulder. 

“Ah,” he says. “How do you say, ‘Would you like to dance?’ in Greek?”

You smile gently, taking another sip of your drink. It’s important to keep yourself paced. Especially when you’re staring at someone who looks like that. “Θα χορέψεις μαζί μου?” You finally say, and he stares at you blankly. The expression forces a laugh from you, which in turn pulls one from him. 

“Again?”

“Θα χορέψεις μαζί μου?”

Charles nods for what feels like a very extended period, before downing the remainder of his drink. “Tha horeps…” he winces at his pronunciation so you don’t have to, “mazi-moo?”

You smile at his hopeful expression, and wonder if he’s more hopeful for a correct pronunciation or an agreement to dance. You shrug, swirling your drink around the glass, looking past him to your friend again. 

She’s watching you this time and wears a grin the size of the wedding. She holds up both her thumbs, and then makes a heart with her hands, pretends to have it beating out of her chest. You shake your head, smiling softly, eyes moving back to Charles. 

“One dance.”

— — — 

Your feet drag across the stone pathway like maybe you’ll slow yourself down and get to spend a half-second longer on the phone with him. You hear it over the voices of drunken uncles pouring from open windows and the radio sat on one of the sills playing a Christiana classic. The air is warm, but dry, and the elastic at the end of your braid tickles the skin on your back while you walk. 

Ahead of your scraping shoes, a cat cleans their paw in the yellow of a porch light. You’re in Paros, and life is so sweet you’re finding porch lights and the smell of your yia-yia’s karidopita to be the most romantic thing in the world. 

“I’m nearly home,” you hum into your phone’s receiver. He laughs on the other end, and you wish all the aunts with the drunken, ballad-performing husbands could hear it so they’d stop asking when you’re going to settle down. It would make sense to them, then, the way you behave about Charles. It would all make sense if they heard him laugh, if they could imagine his dimples. 

“Well, you should probably hang up, then,” he says. You roll your eyes. Your cheeks ache from smiling all evening. Your cousin joked before dinner that your face was going to freeze like that if you weren’t careful. 

“I should,” you agree, but you don’t hang up. You stay on the line, quiet, and stop in front of the resident street cat—he’s small and sweet and purrs against your skin when you run your hand over its sleek black fur, scratch your nails under its chin. You’d bring him home if you knew he didn’t belong to someone, to everyone. “Or you could.”

He laughs again. It’s like honey. You’d swan dive into it if you could, drown all slow and blissfully. “I’m not the one nearly home,” he retorts. I could get far from home again, you think. You could do another lap around the neighborhood. You’d already done it thrice, and then two more times after that. What’s another in the grand scheme of things? “I’ll call you again in the morning,” he says, like it’s routine. You suppose it’s sort of becoming that. 

You take a seat on your porch steps. Voices pour out louder, now. They’ve gotten rowdier with every lap you’ve done. A cousin pulls the old squeaky door open behind you, and you jump in your seat, turning around to see who’s busted you. They hold their hands up defensively, mouth a quick sorry like they’d walked in on you changing, and disappear back into the house. You pull your braid over your shoulder, twirl it around your finger carefully. Nervously, you ask:“Do you think we speak too often?”

“Why do you say that?”

You shrug like he can see it. “We talk too much to be friends.”

“Do we?” You imagine him quirking a brow goofily, based solely on his tone of voice. 

“Yeah,” you chuckle, dropping your braid. “Yeah, I think we do.”

Charles sighs. All you can smell is cinnamon and walnuts. You wonder which one of your cousins ate the heel of the bread while you were out walking. “Well, good thing I would never be just friends with you, then.”

The apples of your cheeks burn like they’d been pinched. You flatten your dress over your legs and a careful giggle tumbles from your lips, teeth biting down on the stupid smile there. “Good thing.”

“Goodnight?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Goodnight.”

— — —

It’s raining in Milan when you pinky promise your best friends that you and Charles aren’t dating. 

The sky has been threatening all afternoon, dull and gray and humidity that was anything but friendly to your hair. It poured through the window like your own personal heatwave every time you walked past the open kitchen window,coated the tiled countertop in an irritable condensation. 

It came wafting through the air with the smell of the impending storm when you opened the door to your friends. Finally, after hours of building up, heavy raindrops patter against the porcelain of your kitchen sink, forcing you to hastily close the window while giggles pour from your friends’ mouths. 

Between your two hands, you can count the number of times the lot of you have been in the same time zone since graduation, let alone the same city. You’d spent the entire humid day wiping condensation off the counters and cutting cheese into perfect cubes and gathering the nicest bundles of grapes you could from the three grocery shops within walking distance. 

The sound of the storm against the glass is drowned out by red-wine laughter and tales of big cities and big dreams, all so vastly different. You sit with your legs crossed underneath you, phone face-up on your thigh, the stem of an empty wine glass pinched between two fingers, twisting the glass around mindlessly.  

Your phone buzzes, for the fourth time in eight minutes. And for the fourth time in eight minutes, you pick it up, abandoning glass on the cluttered coffee table next to the week-old vase of pink anemones. 

Stop texting me, he’s messaged. Enjoy your time with your friends.

You smile softly, your incriminating grin illuminated bright OLED white in contrast to the soft yellow lamp lighting the dim room. You stop texting me, you replied, because you’re a pig-tailed girl on the schoolyard when you talk to him, your normally composed, carefully developed persona melting into a puddle of mush at the mere thought of him. 

Can’t, he responds. I am bored. 

Why? You’re never bored.

“Oh, my God!” your best friend, Roma, teases in broken English, her Italian accent not nearly as light as the cube of ​​Gorgonzola she’d tossed at your head from the other end of the sofa. “Who are you speaking to?” She questions. 

“Just a friend,” you say too quickly, too defensive for anyone in the room to believe. 

Roma quirks her brow at you, curious grin painted on her face. “Yeah? Just a friend?”

“I’m serious,” you insist, turning your phone off. You set it face down on the table, and it vibrates there almost immediately, all of your friends’ eyes watching for your reaction. The corners of your lips tremble, fighting a soft smile, and you shrug, bringing your empty wine glass to your lips, turning your head up to the ceiling, the last few drops of red falling through your lips. And then it vibrates again, the bright colors of your background pouring out in a soft ring of light around your phone. You still don’t flinch, but Roma does, lurching forward and snatching it up before you have time to react. 

“‘Because,” she reads. “‘I’m normally speaking with you at this time,’” she looks over to another friend, grinning,“From Charles. With the emoji that does like this,” she says, mimicking the blushing emoji you have next to his name.“But with the pink on the cheek, yes?” She continues explaining. 

You sink into the sofa, popping that cube of cheese into your mouth before gathering up the baby hairs and bangs that had fallen loose from your ponytail, carefully twisting the hair into a tiny, thin braid coming out from the middle of your hairline. 

“Just your friend?” Roma questions, and you don’t have to look up from your distraction braid to know she’s raising her brows and grinning at you. 

— — — 

You sit next to him in the fourth row of church pews, one leg crossed over the other, desperately wishing the wedding mass program that sat on your lap was a paper fan, not yet having resorted to the lengths some of your fellow guests had gone to and actually using the cardstock to cool down. 

One leg is crossed over the other, the tip of your heel-clad foot threatening to tap the back of the pew in front of you with every awkward, uncomfortable roll of your ankle you attempt. At least your dress is sleeveless, you think. Charles is not as lucky, a formal suit perfectly fitted to his frame, one arm draped behind you over the back of the pew, his fingers mindlessly twirling one of the tiny braids that riddle your ponytail. Neither of you speak nearly enough Spanish or know nearly enough people for this to be any sort of enjoyable. 

“Do you understand them at all?” You whisper, your head falling onto his shoulder. “Because I do not.”

“Absolutely not,” he whispers back, kissing the top of your head, his hand finding yours, interlocking in your lap. “And I am about to die from heatstroke.”

You nod. “You, me, and the rest of the church,” you sigh, pretending not to hear the crying baby or the stressed mother in the back of the church. You figure she has the eyes of enough judgy relatives to drown out any soft sentiments from a stranger.  “Can they just kiss and wrap it up?” You ask, and as is on cue, the newlyweds are locking lips under the cathedral candlelight. 

“Oh shit,” Charles giggles, the two of you hurrying to stand with everyone else in the room who understood what's been happening for the last hour and a half. You hastily adjust the skirt of your dress, feeling quickly to make sure you hadn’t sweat-stained the fabric, or worse, the bench you’d been all but stuck to. “Thank God,” he says, just above a whisper, just loud enough for you to hear. 

The church quickly funnels out of the church behind the couple, filing into the cars that were driving to the reception location. Police officers line the road on either side, cameras and strangers gathered at their barriers. You walk out with your hand interlaced in his, watching every step you take down the steep concrete stairs. 

“Is it like this every time one of you gets married?” You ask, staring at the uniformed officers. They’re a stark contrast to the summer air, to the leaves of the trees drenched in sunlight, and to the flowers buzzing with bees. It feels like you’re at a royal wedding—the ones with professional watchers and ceremonies that get broadcast to millions of people around the world. But it’s not that. It’s just your boyfriend’s teammate. 

“Um,” Charles shrugs. “I’m not sure, to be honest,” he admits. “I don’t think so,” he continues, letting you duck into the black sedan first. “I think it’s just his family.”

“Gosh,” you breathe out, relaxing in the calm of the air-conditioned car. “It’s like a whole production.”

“I know,” he shakes his head, uncapping a water bottle that was waiting in the car door cup holder and passing it to you first. “It’s like they’re Spanish royalty or something,” he laughs. 

You nod animatedly, drinking down the water before passing the now half-full bottle to him. “Exactly like that!” you laugh. 

— — — 

“Three wishes,” you grin, spinning around to face him, antique Arabian oil lamp in your hand. 

The second-hand shop smells like vintage leather and dusty velvet. La Dolce Vita plays from the store radio, and it sounds like it’s on vinyl even though it isn’t. The store is full of gaudy outfits and gaudier decor, and there in the middle of it is you and Charles, the ladder laughing every time the former makes the same joke about twenty different items, each uglier than the one before, being ‘just what I was looking for.’

“I wish for unlimited wishes, obviously,” He says, and you shake your head.

“Absolutely not. That goes against Genie rule number three.”

It’s chilly, the early morning dew still crisp in the air. A gentle breeze pours in from the propped open door, and with it comes the smell of fresh pastries and espresso from the bakery next door. It smells gentle and warm and makes the vintage store feel like your yia-yia’s house on the last morning of your last visit to her house. 

You’re wearing your favorite pair of jeans, a pair of pink sneakers, and a sweater that was your favorite before you shrunk it a size in the dryer the day before. You cover up the fashion faux pas with a tan wool coat and long, hardly managed hair. He’s dressed like you, but elevated. Always more elevated than you, even if the only brand he seems to bring into his closet anymore is his friend’s. 

“Ah,” he nods, pulling you closer by the opening of your coat.  “Of course,” he smiles, speaking softly. “And what are the other rules?”

“Oh, you know,” you shrug, dimples digging into your cheeks at the mere sight of his. “No bringing people back from the dead, no making someone fall in love,” you hum, “and no wishing for more wishes.” 

Charles quirks a brow, dropping his head to the side. “Those are stupid rules,” he protests, pouting. “What if those were all three of my wishes?”

You shrug, holding up the lamp to his eye level. “Got to get educated on Genie’s, man,” you tease, cheeks aching. “I don’t know what to tell you,” you giggle, stepping even closer. “Them’s the rules.”

“Them’s the rules,” he repeats. “How about…” he says, leaning in, still grinning. “Wish one,” he says, pressing a soft kiss into your lips. “Wish two,” he says, repeating the action. “And,” he grins, pulling away momentarily to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. You think you could die on the spot, melt right into a puddle on the shop floor. Your face is so hot. “Wish three?” he says, and as a surprise to nobody, leans in to kiss you again. 

“Nope,” you shake your head, desperate for another breeze to blow through the shop, to cool you down, to keep you standing. “I expected better wishes. Very… μη πρωτότυπο.”

“Mi protótypo?” he repeats, and your grin grows.

“Not original.”

— — —

Charles’ apartment couldn’t be more different than yours, and not even solely on a decoration level. Fundamentally, you two come from two different spaces, and trying to merge those spaces has been nothing short of a treat. 

Not that your decor styles are the same either, because you think his are one-of-kind. So one of a kind, that the two of you had gone through each other’s apartment with yard-sale stickers from the corner store, tagging everything you refused to mesh with in red, and everything you refused to part with in green.  Who else can say they have three dozen racing helmets and trophies in the living room, a blown-up shot of a homeless American man on their dining room wall, and a piano that costs more than your net worth in the foyer? That is some perfectly Charles Leclerc decor, and if you had told yourself once that you would be endeared by all of it, you’d have laughed in your face. 

But you do. You adore it, the way it perfectly encapsulates her personality. And you adore him, and the way he put a green sticker on a total of seven things in his whole apartment because he wanted to make sure it felt like your space too. 

“Why did you not label any of these boxes?” He asks, the two of you stood in his dining room. In your dining room. In the dining room. 

“Um…” you hesitate. “You know, I was going to. I really was,” you nod, staring at at least twenty cardboard boxes, each of them completely indistinguishable from the others, not a single identifying marker on any of them. 

“And then?” He asks, shoving his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels, the herringbone hardwood creaking under his feet with the shifting of his weight. 

“And then I realized I packed my Sharpie,” you nod.

“Mmm,” he hums, scratching his beard, his fingers moving over his face and into his hair, combing through it stressfully. He’s so patient with you. Hopelessly patient with you, and would never admit it. “But you could not find the box it was in?” You shake your head, agreeing with his statement. “Because you forgot to label any of the boxes?”

“Because I didn’t label any of the boxes,” you confirm, an apologetic look painted across your face, eyes soft and sweet, attempting to remind him just how much he loves you. “And suddenly the movers were there. And now I’m here.”

“Oh,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around your chest from behind, kissing the top of your head. “I love you so much,” he says. “I love you so much,” he repeats, voice blank, unconvincing. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “I was thinking we start in the dining room,” you joke, smiling softly, pulling a chuckle from his lips. You can always count on him to laugh at your stupid jokes. Even when he’s pretending not to be annoyed with you.“I’m sorry,” you say softly, kissing the forearm crossed over your chest. 

“I know,” he hums. “It’s okay. It won’t be too bad.”

— — — 

A soft summer breeze floats through the air, blows through the linen pinned to clotheslines in the neighborhood. It brings with it salt air and the careful wafts of cinnamon and nutmeg and eggplants and tomatoes. You sip a glass of Retsina, ignoring the bitter and accepting the sweet. 

The olive trees are draped in endless strings of lights, and gentle, traditional music plays from the live band and the wooden stage your uncles had built with your dad. Your Yia-yia moves around from table to table pinching the cheeks of your cousins, reminding the single girls to check their shoes for their prince charmings. 

The sun is setting on the water, golden shadows cutting around the soft cement architecture. The air is light. Charles wears a tan linen suit with an evil-eye boutonniere. You wear a white dress and a cold coin in your left shoe. 

“You told them no to the money, right?” He asks softly, sipping a glass of white. 

“I did,” you nod. “Well. I told my parents,” You shrug. “Whether or not they convey the message to the four hundred other people here, I guess we’ll find out.”

“It’s weird, no? A first dance and a last dance?”

You smile softly, watching a stray cat hurry down an alleyway. “My family keeps coming up to us and pretending to spit,” you giggle, “But the second dance is where you draw the line in the weird sand?”

“None of it’s weird” he shakes his head, reaching to tuck a curly piece of hair behind your ear, adjusting your veil accordingly. “It’s all you,” he says, leaning in to kiss you softly. His lips are soft, and he tastes like apples and melon and citrus, as easy to kiss as ever. “And I love you.”

“Ah,” you nod, a teasingly soft smile parting your lips. “He loves me,” you say, pretending to wipe sweat from your brow. “I was worried.”

“You act very worried,” he grins. “Wedding dress and all.”

“Oh,” you feign surprise as if you've noticed the setting for the first time. “This old thing? The one that costs a quarter of my salary?”

Charles nods, humming. “That’s the one. Keeps taking my damn breath away.”

You look down at yourself, an innocent, girlish smile draped over your lips, the pink shades of the sunset painting themselves warm over your cheeks. A gust of wind blows through the space, the breeze gently blowing through your veil, through the fabric of your dress. 

“Are you ready?” You ask, watching the sun creep closer to the horizon, be swallowed up inch by inch into the sea, using your hand as a shade-visor. “No time like the present, right?” You add, downing what’s left in your glass. “Our second dance as newlyweds.”

“Our second dance,” Charles nods, holding out his hand, waiting for your fingers to interlock with his. “Let’s go.”

[diamond-rings-and-gutter-bones]

every time i see a video or picture or gif of logan sargeant it feels like im reminiscing upon my dead wife and the joy we used to share before she was so cruelly taken from the world

[superm4ks]

Libras are charming, social and intellectual. On September 30th, 1997, 27 years ago, a Bull was born who liked soccer, gokarts, maps, history, languages, Pokémon cards, FIFA and winning. And while he has remained disruptive, undiplomatic and confrontational in his racing, it is all that, coupled with extraordinary consistency, unbearable nerve, a century’s worth of talent, and a disarming gentleness, that has turned him into one of the most captivating characters on the grid. Also a top 5 driver of all time. Happy birthday to an impossible boy who made his dream inevitable. And never asks for permission. You are all that was promised and more. Thank you.

[petit-papillion]

And knowing exactly which button to push while going from 180 kph. But then again there are quite a few controls on my car's steering wheel and I don't think twice about using those while driving at 120 kph...

wow

[feketeribizli]

diversity win! the cars from your childhood are bisexual

[eterniravioli]

are they family or are they fucking? you decide.

[leftneb]

Ferrari loooves Max Verstappen

original picture and closeups below :3

[sweetcorn-zhou]

Almost forgot this was in my iPad

As we all know Max is a fish, could be a catfish or a pufferfish, so why not a goldfish……？

[alexturntable]

The Final C² Challenge | Charles Leclerc vs Carlos Sainz FOR THE LAST TIME

[arkhammaid]

max verstappen.

sonne - rammstein

[il-predestinato]

A comparison of neck strength, F2 driver vs. F1 driver:

Charles Leclerc (bottom panel) is able to hold his neck steady as he navigates through S1; his head follows the direction of his travel - i.e. as he makes a left turn, he looks to the left. Meanwhile, fatigue has set in for Ollie Bearman (top panel), and his neck is unable to hold his head up; therefore, as he makes a left turn, the lateral G forces push his head to the opposite side.

An impressive example of how physically demanding F1 is as a sport! Don't ever let anyone tell you that these guys are not true athletes.

🎥: F1TV on-boards, 2024 Saudi Arabian Grand Prix (Lap 41)

[dancing-on-inters]

Oh, I see. People are looking at the best fit lines. To be honest, when I saw the post on my phone I couldn't even see the best fit line for Leclerc's data.

I don't think that the best fit lines really tell the story here. The R-squared values for these linear regression models seem like they would be really high (which just means that the best fit lines - the straight lines - don't reflect the underlying data very well). Sainz's quick early lap skews his steeper, and Leclerc pushing harder starting on lap 16 skews his toward a lower slope. Neither data set is very linear.

I was directly comparing their lap times and not seeing the difference. I mean, obviously Carlos pushed hard early, and that's reflected in the data, but in the laps before he pitted, his lap times were very close to those of Charles (faster, in fact, on lap 12). The actual lap times don't seem to indicate that his tires had severely degraded in those laps before he pitted. It's possible that they were more degraded than those of Charles and Carlos wouldn't have been able to push like Charles did starting on lap 16, but that's conjecture that's not shown in this data set. I think the pit stop was more of a strategic decision to cover off other drivers.

Anyway, thanks for your response! I'm glad I have a better understanding of what people were responding to.

I'm legitimately confused about the Carlos tires post. I don't have a dog the fight, I'm just trying to understand it from a technical protective. People in the tags are saying that the graph makes it so obvious that Carlos not gradually wearing in his tires at the beginning of the stint cost him at the end of the stint. All I see though is that the lap times for both Charles and Carlos get slightly higher as the stint progresses at a pretty similar rate. What am I missing? Does Carlos' line end because he pitted (I don't remember how that played out)? Even if that's the case, his lap times didn't seem much slower than Charles' at that time, so it seems like there's something I don't understand. Am I having a moment and missing something obvious? Thanks in advance for any insight you or any or your followers can provide!

Hi Anon!

Here is the graph in question (by umakshually) for reference:

You can see in Lap 2 that LEC is lapping slower (red line above the 1:21:250 mark), while SAI is pushing (white line just below 1:20 mark). Zach Brown was pointing out that the tyres need to be gently brought up to temperature or they will not last long, and that SAI was pushing hard in the last turn (T14) on Lap 2 to set up his overtake on LEC on Lap 3.

Brandon (@brakeboosted) posted a graph of Lap 3 Turn 14 and it shows LEC (red) using less throttle and racing at a slower speed than SAI (white):

Back to the first graph: Compare the white straight line (SAI) to the red line (LEC). The steeper white line shows how SAI dropped off a lot quicker than LEC. SAI: 0:01:00 over 13 laps, vs. LEC: 0:00:45 over 22 laps.

The hard push SAI did in those initial stages led to his tyres degrading faster, and him having to pit a lot sooner (after 15 laps, versus LEC after 24).

Note: only Alex Albon did a longer stint on Soft tyres (26 vs. Charles's 24), but with a lower fuel load as it was his middle stint.

📷umakshually / brakeboosted / pirellisport

[leclercskiesahead]

FIRE EXTINGUISHER PIC!!!!!!

Ahhhhhh they all wore the backwards cap for him

[lecfosism]

SEBASTIAN VETTEL at NÜRBURGRING (x)