Formula 1: The GOAT

“Just do the usual,” the receptionist murmured to Burak, the driving instructor, as they walked. He had been enjoying a rare moment of rest after his Saturday training schedule, only to be called back to assess another child, likely to tell the parents the kid had “talent.” “Teach him the basics, tell his mother he’s a fast learner, and then send him out for a timed lap. As long as it’s within twenty seconds of the lap record, we can offer her a ten percent discount. If not, we can reduce that to five percent. It’s all factored into the initial pricing anyway.”

Burak knew better than to complain aloud. Racing was an expensive sport, and running an academy even more so. These parents paid his salary and, more importantly, funded the training for the genuinely talented kids he occasionally found, the ones he knew could go far and make him proud.

“I know, I know,” he sighed, a hint of weariness in his voice. He’d just finished a session with some particularly unruly children a few hours ago. “How many times are you going to repeat this?”

“Every single time,” she retorted. “I don’t want a repeat of the disaster your former colleague caused.” She was referring to an incident where a previous instructor had bluntly told a wealthy father his son had no talent, infuriating the man who was trying to live vicariously through his child, whom he believed was a motorsport genius.

“But that kid was a minute over the lap record,” Burak muttered, remembering the boy. “If he had lied, wouldn’t it have been worse for us when, despite ‘training,’ the kid showed no improvement?” He recalled being surprised the boy had even managed to finish a lap without hitting the tire barriers, a frequent occurrence in his previous attempts.

“Anyway, let’s focus,” the receptionist said, cutting him off as she knocked on the door of the waiting room where she had left Fatih and his mother.

“I’ve brought him,” she announced upon entering, gesturing to Burak. “This is our driving instruc—” She paused mid-sentence, surprised. Fatih was already fully kitted out in his racing gear, his helmet and balaclava neatly placed on the table beside him, clearly ready and waiting.

“Oh, I got his gear ready to not waste too much of your time,” Rümeysa explained, noticing the receptionist’s expression.

“Oh, okay,” the receptionist said, her voice trailing for a moment before she recollected herself. “This is our driving instructor, Burak. He’ll be responsible for teaching Fatih the basics and overseeing the test.”

“Nice to meet you, my name is Fatih,” he responded immediately, getting up from his chair, already picking up his helmet and balaclava, eager to get to the track. This would be his first time driving on a proper, dedicated karting track in the real world.

“Nice to meet you, Fatih,” Burak replied, observing the boy carefully. He was correctly and fully kitted out in proper safety equipment. ‘All the gear, no idea?’ Burak wondered silently, a common cynical thought among instructors for kids whose parents bought expensive equipment for amateur pursuits.

After greeting Rümeysa, he turned back to Fatih. “Since you have all the equipment, we can move to the basics training immediately, if you’re ready.”

“Yes, we can start,” Rümeysa answered, also getting to her feet as they all headed back towards the indoor track.

……..

“Have you driven a kart before?” Burak asked Fatih, who now stood beside a gleaming red Bambino kart, his balaclava and helmet already on.

“Yes.”

“Good. So, you know the basics already? Did you learn at another academy?”

“I know the basics,” Fatih confirmed. “But no, I didn’t learn it from an academy. My mom bought me a kart last March, and I’ve been driving it every day in the park, practicing alone.”

“Okay,” Burak said, sighing internally. ‘Kid’s probably bragging, been driving crudely around cones,’ he thought. “Since you say you know the rules, I’ll have you drive a few probing laps first. We’ll see what you know and if you need a refresher on anything. Understood?”

“Yes,” Fatih replied as he expertly hopped into the kart. Burak powered it on.

“You can go now,” the instructor said once the engine was running and Fatih was blipping the throttle, his foot on the brake.

“Shouldn’t I wait for the engine to warm up a little?” Fatih asked, genuinely surprised he was being told to go immediately.

“No need, you can go,” Burak waved him on, already starting to walk back out of the pit lane towards the observers’ room just behind it.

Given permission, Fatih didn’t linger. He lifted his foot from the brake and accelerated smoothly out of the pit lane. He had already studied the track layout displayed in the waiting area and memorized it, forming initial racing lines in his mind. Now, he just needed to adjust them based on the actual grip levels.

…..

While Rümeysa and the receptionist made small talk, Burak was completely silent, his eyes fixed on the small kart circulating on the track. His initial casual observation had sharpened into keen interest.

‘Where did he learn that?’ he asked himself, watching Fatih weave gently on the straights to warm his tires, clearly performing a reconnaissance and warm-up lap simultaneously.

This continued for three laps. With each new lap, Fatih subtly altered his lines, exploring different parts of the track, obviously testing for grip. Burak’s train of thought was abruptly interrupted as he saw the boy approach the final corner before the main straight. Instead of braking conventionally, Fatih seemed to carry more speed, stepping on the gas early, and letting the kart run wide onto the straight, foot still hard on the accelerator.

‘He’s starting a flying lap!’ Burak realized, instantly grabbing the stopwatch from the windowsill and clicking it the moment Fatih crossed the start/finish line.

The kid braked incredibly late for the first left-hander, hitting the middle apex perfectly before accelerating out. He took the second corner of the following chicane without braking at all, keeping the engine singing on the short straight.

As the lap progressed, the surprise in Burak’s eyes grew, widening with each corner. Fatih was employing techniques far beyond what any beginner, let alone a six-year-old with only park experience, should know. He was trail-braking into turns, subtly shifting his weight to the outside on corner entry to load the outer tires for more grip, allowing for higher entry and exit speeds. He even used the brakes to induce a hint of oversteer – a controlled brake-steer – to help rotate the kart in tighter, higher-speed sections. His throttle application was smooth and precise, his steering inputs minimal, maintaining momentum while adhering to an almost perfect racing line, consistently using the areas of maximum grip.

“Oh my god,” Burak breathed, unable to contain his astonishment. He glanced at the stopwatch in his hand as Fatih flashed past the start/finish line, completing his first flying lap, but the boy hadn’t slowed, immediately launching into a second.

[01:35:276] was the time for the first lap. Burak quickly reset the main timer but kept the lap split.

[01:35:256] on his second lap, Fatih had shaved off two-hundredths of a second.

[01:35:263]  a tiny loss on the third, but still faster than his first.

Then the times tumbled:

[01:35:201]

[01:35:196]

[01:35:163]

[01:35:129]

[01:35:087]

[01:35:026]

And finally, on his tenth timed lap: [01:34:875]

With each lap, he had consistently refined his lines, pushing closer to the limit, breaking his previous best or matching it. His tenth and final flying lap was nearly half a second faster than his first. He then completed a cool-down lap before smoothly pulling into the pit lane.

“Are you sure he hasn’t received any professional training?” Burak asked, his gaze lifting from the stopwatch to Rümeysa, his voice tinged with disbelief. He wondered if he had misheard Fatih earlier.

“No, none at all,” Rümeysa replied, a curious look on her face as to why he was so insistent. “He only watches Formula 1 races and drives the kart I bought him alone in the park. That’s precisely why I decided to register him here, so he could receive professional training.”

“What is it, Burak?” the receptionist interjected, prompting him for the expected “he has potential” speech, internally pleased. The instructor’s acting seemed much improved today; he looked genuinely serious.

“Your son,” Burak said, turning to Rümeysa, his voice now filled with genuine excitement, “just broke the Bambino lap record for this track by more than seven seconds.” He then looked at Fatih, who was still sitting patiently in the kart.

“He’s a genius,” Burak added, a wide smile spreading across his face, his eyes sparkling. He realized he had just stumbled upon the kind of student instructors dream of, one who could bring glory to both the academy and himself.

“What?!” Both the receptionist and Rümeysa exclaimed in unison, though their reasons for surprise differed. The receptionist was shocked because the boy had just unequivocally earned himself a full scholarship, blowing her usual sales tactics out of the water. Rümeysa, on the other hand, was stunned and overjoyed to hear that her son, so passionate about racing, truly possessed an extraordinary talent for it. What more could a mother ask?