Chapter 1
All eyes on Melbourne: Rookie Tara Weston set to make historic F1 debut – BBC Sport
Today’s the day. My first official day behind the wheel of a Formula 1 car.
A Formula 1 car.
Not F2, not F3, not karting. F1.
As my feet pounded the ground beneath me, I focused on putting one foot in front of the other; my green eyes scanned the park without really seeing it.
It had been four months since British racing team Pemberton Racing announced to the world that I was the first female driver to have a seat in F1. Since then, it had been a whirlwind of press tours, filming for TV appearances, and trying to keep up with training.
The cool Melbourne air hit my lungs, and I sucked it in, trying to quiet the chaos in my mind.
I was doing something no other woman had. Sure, women had raced in F1 as reserve drivers, but there hadn’t been a female on the starting grid for 15 years, and she hadn’t held a proper seat. I would.
A seat for only a year, but a seat.
I’d imagined a quiet 6 a.m. jog around Albert Park. But with the circuit so close, I could see the barriers and the odd fan wandering around, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the 20 drivers. The run wasn’t as peaceful or head-clearing as I’d hoped. It should have been obvious: Albert Park Circuit is a city track. It closes the roads for the race, but the park remains open to the public.
As I rounded out my 5k, my jog slowed to a quick walk. I crossed my arms above my head, trying to pull more air into my lungs.
I checked my watch. 6:35 a.m. Melbourne time. 7:35 p.m. yesterday back at home. Time to head back. I grabbed my water bottle and started the slow walk through Albert Park, letting the cool air settle my lungs and quiet my mind.
By the time I reached the hotel, I was dripping, but my phone buzzed the moment I stepped inside. James.
“Morning,” I said, forcing my voice to sound calm, though my chest still felt tight from the run.
“How’s my overachieving little sister?” he asked, just as bright as ever over the tiny Facetime screen.
I laughed, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. “About to be made up and styled by a team of professionals while you get to sit at home.”
He smiled. “Just don’t forget to breathe.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’ve never understood why F1 drivers need to parade through the paddock like we’re in a fashion show.”
“As Dad always said, F1 is about the money as much as it is the driving. The fashion show is all part of the sponsorship deals, you know that,” he fairly reminded me.
My heart tugged at the mention of Dad for a moment, but I let it wash over me. “I know, but hair and makeup when I’ll spend half my day in a helmet is ridiculous.”
“I hear that!” Tim, my stylist, shouted from around the corner.
“I should go,” I sighed, looking at James.
“I know. I’ll text you. Remember, today is practice. That’s it.”
I tucked the phone into my pocket and let the hotel room envelope me. Today might have been just practice for the others, but for me, the rookie, it was my first chance to show that Pemberton Racing had not made a mistake.
As I turned the corner, Tim greeted me, steaming my outfit for the day, neatly hanging with hints of royal blue as a nod to my team’s racing colours. The hiss of the iron and the faint scent of fresh fabric filled the room, grounding me in the moment.
“Na-uh — shower before you come any closer. We need to be at the paddock for press at nine. I’ve heard there are a lot of fans waiting for you to sign their hats and shirts.”
I twisted on my heels and headed back toward the bathroom. Hopefully, the hot water of the shower would relax me further. Steam curled around the bathroom mirror as I scrubbed away sweat and tension, letting the rhythm of the water calm me.
Towel-dried and slipping into fresh clothes, I felt more grounded.
“So let me get this right,” Tim started as I exited the bathroom, “even though it’s a race weekend, today doesn’t count?”
“No. Today counts. Every time on the grid counts.” I sighed as I flopped into the chair Tim had directed me to.
I flexed my fingers and toes, trying to ease the tightness in my muscles. My mind wandered to the track, to the cornering and braking, the endless hours spent memorising every curve and kerb of Albert Park. I had spent every spare waking moment in the simulator perfecting this track to the point where, when I closed my eyes, I could see the shape of the corners in my mind.
Tim started to plug in the hairdryer, ready to dry my caramel-blonde hair. I focused on my breathing, visualising the first lap, imagining the roar of engines and the smell of hot tires. A small smile tugged at my lips. Today wasn’t just practice; it was the start of proving I belonged here.
