Lover / Charles Leclerc

𝟬𝟬𝟬. the blanche family

LOVER -
prologue.

YOU HEAR ABOUT THE GREATS OF FORMULA ONE. And depending on who you support and who you grew up watching, you'll have a different opinion. Those in France lived divided, divided between whether they should support ALAIN PROST or MARC BLANCHE.

The much younger opponent Marc Blanche, proved to be a hidden challenger. Rising up to f1 in 1989, coincidentally one of the years Alain had won the title. He'd witnessed the many battles of AYRTON SENNA and Prost, on edge.

Every-time he stepped into his car, Marc prayed. He prayed to whoever was listening that he would step out of the car two hours later, safe from distress. He prayed for every other driver on the grid, that they too return in the same condition they entered the race in.

In the summer, Marc had replaced JEAN ALESI at Scuderia Ferrari. That dream he had once had of being sat in the red car coming true. But, my God, had it got off on the wrong foot. In the mist of his anticipation and anxiety, Marc couldn't hide this feeling of worry.

Although that race hadn't proved to be so distressing. For him at least. He hadn't been majorly challenged, the fight for first had mainly been in-front of him between DAMON HILL and MICHAEL SCHUMACHER. But at the end of the day, he was happy with his p3. A podium on his debut for the Tifosi.

That would only be the start for him.

The p2 he earned in the next race, made him rush with adrenaline. Race by race he was picking off the podium places until he reached the top. (Granted there was only technically three steps but no one wanted to ruin his bubble)

Arriving at the San Marino Grand Prix, no one could get him to stand still. The thought of qualifying on Saturday had made him sleep like a baby, of course he knew that if he could get pole position he stood a better chance at getting the win. But he did like a challenge.

The challenge he had obtained was to get Ayrton excited for the day, right from the crack of dawn he hadn't smiled or barely laughed. Marc described him as a walking zombie, too worried to think straight.

Ayrton had opened up to Marc behind the back of the pits, revealing his anxiousness towards racing this weekend with the amount of injuries that had already prevailed from the Friday qualifying session.

The advice Marc had given was simple to Ayrton. Drive simply and safely. Both the drivers in that moment had realized it was better for them both to be safe and sound, alert of their surroundings than to be the next stretched out of the circuit.

When Marc had sat back in his Ferrari, getting ready for qualifying, a pit formed in his stomach. That anxiousness coming back from the first race of the season. And he hated it.
His laps hadn't improved and currently he was sitting p3, behind Michael and Ayrton.

He was frustrated. Everyone saw it in his garage, those who were commentating saw it. Marc was desperate for a win and sometimes that desperation caused mistakes. And he'd made far too many.

Marc's own parents would say that their sons worst quality was that he was too critical of himself. Of course, to be an F1 driver you want to win. You want to be the best. But Marc could not rest until he perfected every tiny thing. If his exit on turn three wasn't good enough you best believe he would stay up late, closing his eyes and imaging the car set up before him. Imagining the perfect way to attack the corner.