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Above the roar of the engine, Gordie Kellow could hear the horns in the harbour heralding his imminent win. For 77 laps it had been a battle to establish his superiority in the race, but he had finally broken his rival Max Lynderhorn and the 78th and final circuit of the Monaco track was now his triumph, the premier place on the podium secured so he could embrace in higher definition the vibrant colours of the Monte Carlo streets and the joyous spectators where previously that had all been a blur as he concentrated on maneuvering his car through his opponents.
Although he would be the one taking the plaudits he knew it was a team victory. Their first of the Grand Prix season. The intermittent weather had necessitated some quick tyre changes from intermediates to the hard tyres once the sunshine prevailed. The calls to do so had been done at precisely the right time, like his team off the track were as slick as the hard tyres that had enabled him to close the gap on the leaders and then overtake after emerging from the tunnel.
From the sharp first turn at Saint-Devote, Kellow felt at one with his engine, now it purred on that last lap, negotiating the tight right angle turn around the famous La Rascasse, faces displaying awe framed in the restaurant windows at his feat of superior speed driving to win the Monaco Grand Prix for Britain.
Gordie certainly didn’t need a pit stop to fuel his heart. It was filled to the brim as the chequered flag beckoned on the home straight, officially signalling his victory as he passed it. He raised his hands, and removed his goggles. Only then realising they weren’t goggles at all but his Happy Glasses.
The car was no longer moving. The lavish Mediterranean culture and high-rolling stakes of Monte Carlo had disappeared, apparently exchanged for the industrial landscape of Port Talbot. Furthermore, his McLaren MCL40 with which he had formed such a symbiotic relationship had also drastically changed. He was no longer in a monocoque, but had a passenger seat alongside him. An angular fellow with round, tortoiseshell framed glasses and gripping a clipboard occupied it. The look on his face appeared to indicate he would not be sharing in any of the champagne fuelled celebrations on the podium.
‘I am sorry to inform you, Mr Kellow,’ he said. ‘But you have failed your driving test.’
