Track Map Courtesy of Brembo Brakes
Grand Prix of Qatar
Losail International Circuit
LENGTH: 5.4 km / 3.34 miles
CORNERS: 6 left - 10 right
WIDTH: 12 m. / 39.37 ft.
LONGEST STRAIGHT: 1068 m. / 3503.94 ft.
Laps: 22
Red Flag Finish: 16 (3/4 of laps)
Total distance: 118.4 km / 73.5 miles
March of the gladiators
The floor of the gladiator pens was baked hard by the desert heat. Sand, blown in from the dunes, mingled with the rotting corpses of dead grass. Together they soaked up the rancid blood that spilled from guts of the futuristic machines that were kept there. The gladiators who shared the space did not pace restlessly. They sat in meditation, waiting for the final rays of the sun to drain away. Only then would the Colosseum come alive under the cold, impersonal and artificial light. Only then could they do battle and determine which of them was the best.
The reigning champion of the arena is young, cocky and headstrong. He is quick with a smile, a boyish grin that can draw you in and disarm you. Yet behind that levity is a ruthless dedication to victory that overshadows all else. His beguiling smile covers the viciousness with which he thrusts his weapon into any opening while on the track, eviscerating any opponent who dares to stand between himself and the finish line. He flashes it at them with a wink and a nod while they can still see his face, knowing that in moments the visor will go down and all pretenses will be over. They think that on this day he is weak, even vulnerable. Last year he wasn't even good enough to be on the podium, finishing fourth. The year before that he was 3rd. The year before that he was fifth. To have any hope of branding his competitors with fear he must return to a state of mind four years in the past, when he stood on the top step and looked down upon the conquered.
They were rivals before, now they are rivals again. Behind his back, they call the journeyman gladiator a ....... son of King Arthur. He is not British, and yet his success appears backed through the wizardry of MotoGP's own Merlin the sorcerer. Arcane conjurings and incantations have created a beast, a fire breathing dragon of a machine that only he can tame. He came close last year, the closest anyone has come to dethroning the current champion without actually standing over his broken body awaiting the decree - thumbs up, or thumbs down. Like a mantra, a single number repeats in his head. 2 - the place he finished at seasons end. 2 - the place he finished at this area last year, and the year before, and the year before that. He wants to mount that top step; like so many before it is a passion that drives him almost to madness. To finally do so will require that he achieve ultimate mastery, the perfect symbiosis of man and machine.
When you are given little, little is expected of you. It is a testament to how much he has done with the scraps he was given that his name is spoken with such anticipation. He lies in wait, caged in the way of animals, eager for the hunt. He does not fear the champion, or the contender. Let them come, with their wealthy patrons and sorcerous trickery. Last year he was nobody, and already the crowds screamed his name as he parried and slashed his way through the field. He had fallen short, ultimately, but he had put the field on notice. Now he is one year wiser, 18 races more experienced. So let them come. All he needs to win is a cooler head once he takes the lead, to temper the youthful exuberance and bring the bike home to the end.
