My Formula 1 System-Chapter 626: S3 South African Grand Prix. 4

Victor was having a tough race. The race stats told the story, while Trampos’ telemetry confirmed it.

But at least, unlike the last three F1 weekends, where his mind had been fogged with doubt and indecision, this time he knew exactly where he stood. Struggling? Yes, but there was some control this time around. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝙚𝔀𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝒐𝒎

34.46 sec of wheel to wheel combat in total. 1 lap defended. 7 overtakes made, more than Luca himself, only to concede seven in return. What a battle for Victor Surmann. It was actually impressive!

Gain a place, lose it again. Lose two, claw one back. No rhythm, no mercy. It felt less like a race and more like survival. Victor was never settled, never comfortable, yet never passive either, trading blows with drivers who had years more experience, and lesser indecisiveness.

And since he made it to P11, it meant he actually had a place here in Formula One.

Hopefully, another team—if not Trampos themselves—would see his potential, giving him a place to monkey branch to if his time in Trampos gets terminated.

**Victor, box next lap, box next lap. We’re switching to fresh hards and fixing the front wing**

**Keep the car steady, now. Brake bias forward two clicks, short-shift on exit, we’ll take care of the rest**

It was easier said than done. Victor couldn’t handle the treble drumming through the chassis like a warning bell.

He had harshly collided with the fiercest driver throughout his escapade of struggle.

Not Matteo Bianchi ×

Hank Rice ✓

Although Matteo is his actual rival.

The oldest driver on the circuit, Hank Rice, gave Victor no room, no breath, and no moment to settle.

As frightening as a haunted dream, their machines were very close. Victor was still in middle school when Rice was at the peak of his career. Thus, it felt like judgment from the English veteran.

Are you good enough for F1? Or are you not?

Hank Rice carried: experience, patience, and racecraft sharpened over the years Victor hadn’t yet lived.

Victor carried only hunger and ambition.

That was why it shocked the paddock to see this novice hobbledehoy push Hank Rice so fiercely, refusing to yield, refusing to blink.

And eventually, one move became two, and two became desperate. And finally, at the apex of T5, the same corner that had swallowed Luigi earlier, their paths converged in a teeth-gnashing collision.

Hank Rice was assigned an inevitable 10-second penalty, but that did little justice to Victor. The damage was already his.

The steering shook violently, the balance felt wrong, and every meter to the pit lane felt longer than the last. He stayed in it anyway, dragging and nursing the wounded car forward, determined to make it home.

Unfortunately, the imbalance fully disheveled Victor’s driving as he limped toward the pit lane.

The steering wheel fought him the more he corrected, forcing the car to roll forward in an uneasy, wavering line. Victor tried to steady it, but the shake wouldn’t just settle.

As he crossed in, the wounded car drifted wide, and his right tires drove well beyond the solid white line.

"WOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!"

"Damn it! Argh!" Victor grunted, punching the wheel in frustration, angry at his own lack of control in that moment.

**Vic, don’t worry about it**

**Focus. Box safely. We’ll deal with the rest**

The team tried to mask their concern, playing it cool, but they knew what had happened. A pitlane infringement. And that could call for a penalty on Victor.

It was the last thing they needed now.

Perhaps the stewards could overlook it, since the condition of the car was primarily at fault, not Victor himself. In the stands, Trampos fans stood by this, cheering on Victor’s support.

But nothing could bend the rules. Race Control promptly issued a five-second penalty on Victor. The decision came after a rapid review, stewards working efficiently to ensure fairness while also considering race flow.

They wanted to allow Trampos to possibly serve the penalty at this stop, minimizing further disruption for them.

"WOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!"

"....And there it is, folks—second penalty of the day, and this time it’s Victor Surmann in the pitlane. A rather pitiable situation for the young driver, who’s been wrestling with his damaged car for the whole lap..."

An immediate outburst erupted from the Trampos crowd, waving banners and shouting in disbelief. "He didn’t deserve that!" they cried, furious at the stewards’ decision.

They argued that Victor’s car was already damaged, and the penalty seemed unfair. But rules were rules—pitlane line infringements were penalized regardless, unless "force majeure" applied, which meant only if another car had forced him wide, could the stewards overlook it.

The tension rippled through the stands, fans divided between outrage and understanding, while Victor himself gritted his teeth, knowing there was little he could do but serve the five-second penalty and push forward.

It felt like a curse, falling short when this race was meant to prove his worth.

Victor already knew how this would read in Trampos’ boardroom—another mark of incapability, another reason to doubt his place in the team.

He exhaled sharply, his shoulders heavy, as he bordered between accepting defeat and staying resilient.

**4.12. Not bad. Let’s get back out there**

Victor rolled out of the Trampos garage with the car finally feeling whole. New front wing. Balance restored. Damage contained, and fresh hard-compound tyres attached. Whatever this race still had for him, at least he could drive again.

Rejoining in P16, Victor kept his eyes forward, focusing on his outlap to rebuild momentum and show proof that he could still be trusted with a car over a long run.

But cold tyres are unforgiving, and the field never had patience. Józef Konarski and James Lockwood swept past him in quick succession, one on the straight, another through a corner he didn’t quite defend hard enough.

P18. Just like that.

Victor clicked the radio off before frustration could spill out.

He let the disappointment sit for a moment, then pushed it aside. This was damage control now, for himself and for Trampos.

If there was any justice left in this afternoon, Luca would make it count. A win, or at least a podium, would mean something—something bright to offset his own struggle.