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Elaine did care what others thought of her, horribly much so. She had thought about it, long and hard, which hair length would be best. Longer hair would make her look more girlish, people would like to see a beautiful girl. They’d also think she was weak, simply because she was a woman. Short hair also had its perks and downsides; she’d look more boyish, people wouldn’t judge her for emotions, clearly she wasn’t focused on beauty but on racing. On the other hand, she wouldn’t look as innocent and nice. Sponsors wouldn’t like that. So Elaine cared, horribly so, and so she cut her hair shoulder length so she could get the best of both sides.
Adriane was not like that and maybe that was the reason why Elaine also didn’t care for her opinion.
She kept her hair short but styled it. Sometimes she put makeup on before getting in the car. She did not care a single bit for what others said behind her back, the names other drivers called her, but she didn’t have to when she put it on pole once again. It was infuriating, how everyone loved her, she was the angel of a whole god forsaken world, the poster every boy had on their wall, even dressed in the covering race suits, but nothing seemed to go her way at the same time. Elaine wanted to whack her over the head. If only she thought for a second, planned, didn’t rush in, she’d spare not just herself but both of them quite a few mean questions by the journalists.
Because Elaine would have hit one of the media sharks years ago if that wouldn’t have ruined her carefully crafted reputation; because she was a woman and it was fine to ask her disrespectful questions and she had learned that. Adriane never had. Adriane complained, fought and kicked and then she looked up at Elaine, with big brown eyes and all the guilt only a catholic girl could experience.
Because she failed to realize that they were in this together, even if not in one team, not on track, what Adriane did influenced Elaine and what Elaine did influenced Adriane. When Adriane crashed in Monaco, Elaine had been the one that had been questioned if women couldn’t keep a cool enough head to race, even if she won. Another year in Monaco, earlier, Adriane had been the one that had been asked if women were too scared to be drivers. Even if she had fought and outraced all the men. Even if they had ended on the top two steps on the podium, even if they beat everyone else, people tried to find weak spots and Adriane spewed with them.
And Elaine was tired; she had been in the title fight when she had been the only woman on the grid, in that hellish cursed season in ‘82, when the goal hadn’t been winning the championship but instead coming out alive. And she had done it. She had been and still was considered one of the best, had made everyone believe in the dream, a woman could be world champion, had been the perfect driver and then won a championship in flying colours, just for the scrawny angel faced Adriane Senna to come along and break it all down, made headlines with her rash and dangerous behaviour and put both of them in danger.
Elaine hated a lot of people, even if she would never admit to it. Sponsors would hate that, she just smiled and said thank you to them, but she truly hated Adriane Senna. She had hoped, no expected, the younger woman would listen to her once they were on the same team. She didn’t mind that Adriane was a real challenge to drive against, it was actually a pleasure and she had been excited to race her. They could have dominated, but instead Adriane beat her down. As if she was one of the men.
Monaco, 1984
Elaine had heard of Adriane, obviously she did. She had won multiple formula ford races and in other series, had attracted media from all over the world, not just a wunderkind, but a wunder girl, and wasn’t that worth a news story! It was no big surprise Toleman had signed her. Elaine thought, no hoped, her excellent results were part of the reason. She wasn't a champion yet, but she had shown what a woman could do, that she was able to race and to fight.
But a Toleman was a Toleman and even Elaine herself had struggled in the first season, so although it was disappointing, she knew Adriane's time would come and they'd be able to properly race each other sooner than later.
It turned out to be sooner, sooner even than Elaine had expected.
Monaco was rainy. The other drivers marvelled at the crown jewel of race tracks, the beautiful tight twisting streets, where just the smallest twitch could make the difference between finding the cool sea or the sparkling champagne on the top step. And Elaine loved Monaco just the same, the same way she loved her sport, the sport she wanted to make hers even further. She had stood on the podium before, but she wanted even more than that. She wanted to be in the history books, and the McLaren was good, really good, she had a realistic chance, if only she put her foot down.
Niki was a difficult man. He at least respected Elaine and wanted to beat her. Not for being a woman, but for his goal to be the best racer of all time and she could respect that wish. If anything, it was an honor he saw her as a fair rival. Still, he taught her a thing; rain was dangerous. Obviously Elaine had heard of it, could see it when she looked into his face and she knew the dangers of stepping into the car. She remembered that time in ‘82, one of the first times she had properly talked to him. Back then, in the hotel when the others were still around. It was a horrific season and Elaine wanted to change the sport, she knew she would support Niki through this.
In the pouring rain that seemed to roar louder than any engines could, when even more experienced drivers spun out and she prayed they got out of the car safely, she couldn’t tell in the aftermath why she had waved her hands to end the race. Balestre liked her well enough, maybe for being french too, maybe because he had found a liking to her, but she didn’t mind. She wouldn’t have minded, even to lose, but she didn’t want to lose her life to the reckless risk of driving, the potential of someone not even seing her car and taking her out, or worse, themselves.
Adriane wouldn’t agree with that. Stupid, hot headed and loud Adriane, with the frown on her lips like the world had promised her this win. And Elaine would only see the videos later, what the other girl had done. There was an air of the unbelievable to her, like a goddess woken up, a butterfly hatched from its cocoon. But where Elaine had expected the same almost childish glee on her face, the way the younger girl had proven herself, she saw something much worse; the snarl of a lion that had tasted blood and knew what it wanted.
It was plastered over every newspaper that got any hand on Adriane, then; where woman too scared to be racers? Adrianne had called her scared, a sore loser, but most papers didn’t even grace her the honor that she was flying on track. The few that did barely accepted her as a woman, but annoyed Elaine had to realize that Adriane must have thought that was a good thing. What a horribly foolish girl.
But Elaine knew disappointment and anger. The shit Renault and her own country gave her, whatever’s wrong with Piquet on a bad day.
So, Elaine watched Adrianne. Curly hair and fashion icon and the queen of brazil, growing in fame like the rebirth of her god she so prays for. Elaine didn’t know if shes playing her naive, childish emotionality or if it’s a trick to get whatever she wanted. Elaine didn’t want to find out.
Still, just a few years later, two championships stood between them; and still theres the star, shining brighter than golden Monaco nights. Honda wanted a Brazilian, to be specific, they wanted Piquet, Elaine guessed. Good championships. But he was not the same star that Adrianne was, because even those that barely follow Formula 1 can tell that she was something special, roaring though life the same way she raced through tracks, won and fought like a lioness and still, with her sweet curls, soft face and bug brown eyes she was just the countries darling.
So Elaine wanted her, she insisted. She would be better marketing, anyways. And deep down, maybe like this she could be the sort of older mentor that Niki had been to here. They were still rivals, it there was a respect for each other. Elaine missed him, a bit, he was a good man. But Adrianne was the future, a burning star, and together they could be better than any of the men, she knew. Maybe she could teach Adriane a bit, to be more aware. She was getting used by the media, and Elaine didn’t like that, if only for the way they were dogpiling on her for everything the younger said.
The next few years were a whirlwirnd of speed, emotions and the sour taste of the spraying champagne, shared between them like the juice of the gods.
And with Adrianne, life was like a storm anyways. She was torn between the fresh winds of energy, knowing that they both were the best, the glowing smiles and the knowledge that no one could ever beat them. But there were the dark days, too, when Adrianne seemed to awake to the devil herself. Anger and tears and whatever else she seemed to summon.
There was a love for the car, too. For their engineers, the japanese that adored them, especially Adrianne thought, for bringing Honda to glory, everyone involved in the dream that was McLaren. It was the best. They were the best. Broke records that seemed to hit everyone in the face that still didn’t believe women could do it. Because they did.
But there were the slower times too, in the privacy of motorhomes. Elaine had become familiar to Adrianes, what everyone around them called their special little girls club. The only time she saw Adrianne bare, no make up or fancy clothes or accessories dangling around her neck and wrists. Only her, in a too small tank top that revealed slivers of her waist, shorts that would be scandalous everywhere outside of brazil.
In a way, Elaine was jealous. Her own nose crooked from breaking it one time too often, she was smaller, chaotic curls and the signs of the sport imprinted in her body, her broader neck and scarred hands. She had always belonged to the men, to play rough and not care for her looks, but she cared for Adriannes looks, couldn’t decide whether she was enamored or simply jealous. It was like that with a lot of things when it came to Adrianne; the way she drove, her looks, the way she spoke and made every journalist love and hate her the same. The way she could make Elaine hate her, only for her soft eyes to be enough to convince Elaine to let her back in her back.
At least it was like that, right until Adriane broke the one uncrossable threshold; when she targeted Elaine on track. Not in the privacy of their motorhome, scratching fights and screaming words, but crashes, the refusal to even say her name. There were things Elaine could handle, wanted to handle for their sake, for being the best.
But she had also grown up on her own, had been chased out by Renault and fought for everything she had. That was why she left.
She was someone without Adriane, too, without McLaren even. Had won and almost been crowned champion with Renault and even if Ferrari was a fucking shit show, she was great at Williams, she held records that would take years to beat, from any man and even from Adrianne.
She had done everything she wanted to do, proved everything, and what had she come out with? Aged, hated by half her country and sport, loved by the other half. Some nights she woke up, with the fear of having to go out again, right until the day she wouldn’t come home anymore. Somedays they called her foolish, calculated, not a real racer when she settled with winning with more P2s than risking crashes in hopes for wins. But it wasn’t the lack of points that she feared, it was the crashes. She had seen it all, what happened when winning came before safety. She saw that same thing in Adrianes eyes, heard it at night when Adriane regarded Elaines sleep in favor of calling her, weeping voice asking her to come back.
She would, to the races. Even if Adriane brought it against her, she loved the sport. She would always come back, had found jobs on the outside, but she would never come back on track.
Maybe it was petty. Mean to Adriane, who would never get the chance to beat her again, take Williams from her too. But Elaine didn’t care.
If it wasn’t for the sport, she thought, they would have made good girlfriends. Japan, Monaco, it wouldn’t have been places of anger and seething but maybe of vacations and nice memories.
Italy surely was nicer when the waves of fans clad in red didn’t despise you.