January 25, 1976 - Autódromo José Carlos Pace, Interlagos, São Paulo
The heat rose in shimmering waves from the tarmac as twenty-two Formula One cars sat arrayed on the sloping grid. The grandstands were a sea of Brazilian flags and hand-painted banners, the crowd's roar a constant, vibrating presence that seemed to make the very air pulse. This was Interlagos—raw, unforgiving, and impossibly fast.
In the Brabham garage, Jack Hartley stood with his arms crossed, his young face betraying nothing of the tension coiled in his chest. He'd been in this timeline for four months, still struggling to adapt to a life devoid of personal technology. No mobile phone, no instant access, and no obvious way to put his three decades of future expertise to proper use. He often felt profoundly disconnected, a ghost from the future.
The garage itself held no computers, no live telemetry screens, no high-tech sensors—just the blind calls and instinct that would guide the race. Yet standing here, amidst the sharp tang of oil and fuel, watching the crew move with that familiar balletic urgency, the feeling vanished. This was the raw, unadulterated racing he had known for thirty-four years, and getting back into the mix made his adaptation much easier, like he'd never been away. The BT45 sat on the grid in ninth position, its red and Martini-striped livery pristine. Carlos Pace was already buckled inside, the straps pulling tight across his chest.
Charlie leaned in toward Jack and spoke quietly above the general noise of the paddock. "Pace has been trying to put some heat into the carbon discs during the warm-up, but it won't be enough for the first lap. They're a gamble."
Jack nodded. "We'll need visual confirmation in the first few laps—see them start to glow—to give him a signal to really push forward."
Gordon Murray, his Scottish accent cutting through the air. "Jack, keep a sharp eye on Carlos's car during these early laps and notify me the moment those brakes reach the appropriate temperature. You'll be the first to know."
Jack nodded once, his jaw tight. The five red lights mounted above the grid began their sequence.
The television feed cut to the commentary box, where two voices prepared to guide millions through the chaos about to unfold.
"Welcome to São Paulo!" Murray Walker's voice carried its trademark urgency even before the race began. "We are live at Interlagos for the Brazilian Grand Prix, the curtain-raiser for the 1976 season! The atmosphere here is absolutely electric! All eyes are on this front row—pole position belongs to James Hunt in the McLaren, but right beside him sits the reigning World Champion, Niki Lauda!"
Raymond Baxter, the measured counterpoint to Murray's enthusiasm, added his analysis: "It's the two of them, Hunt and Lauda, continuing their battle from Formula 3. The cool, calculated Austrian against the hard-charging Englishman. Hunt must convert this pole position or risk Lauda disappearing with the championship before it's properly begun. The McLaren is quick, but look at those two Ferraris—Lauda in second, and Clay Regazzoni starting fourth. That 312T has tremendous torque. On this uphill start, Regazzoni could jump them both."
"The potential for carnage is enormous!" Murray interjected. "Twenty-two cars, tightly bunched, on one of the fastest circuits we visit! They're all stationary now... the mechanics are clear... Lauda's giving the throttle a final blip... Hunt is focused on that light array..."
The grid fell silent for one impossible moment.
"The lights are on! One... two... three... four... five red lights!"
The pause stretched like a wire about to snap.
"They're OUT! GO! GO! GO!"
The world exploded into sound.
James Hunt's McLaren-Ford launched cleanly from pole, the rear tires scrabbling for grip on the uphill gradient, but before he'd completed ten meters, he was swallowed by a scarlet blur.
From the second row, Clay Regazzoni's Ferrari detonated off the line with the kind of launch that makes mechanics weep with joy and rivals curse their luck. The Italian twelve-cylinder's torque found instant, ferocious purchase, and the Swiss driver threaded the needle between his teammate and the stunned pole-sitter. By the time they crested the hill toward Curva 1, Regazzoni was already a car length clear, Lauda tucked neatly into second, and Hunt scrambling to hold third.
"WHAT A START!" Murray's voice cracked with excitement. "Regazzoni takes the lead! The Ferrari just flew past Hunt! That is a devastating launch! The Swiss driver is away and clear!"
"Perfect execution," Raymond added. "Lauda saw his teammate coming and gave him room—sensible racing. But look at the midfield, Murray. It's absolute chaos!"
The sudden compression of the field as Regazzoni's charge forced everyone to adjust triggered a chain reaction through the pack. Further back, two black-and-gold Lotuses, Mario Andretti at P16 and Ronnie Peterson at P18, squeezed together in the desperate scramble for position. They touched wheels and spun violently across the track, their cars pirouetting through the pack like deadly projectiles.
The spinning Lotuses clipped the rear wings of two cars directly ahead—both machines forced into violent, destabilizing wobbles but somehow staying on track. Carbon fiber debris exploded across the racing line as Andretti and Peterson careened into the barriers in a shower of shattered composites and lost hopes.
"CRASH! Two cars out! The Lotuses! Andretti and Peterson! Contact! They've taken each other out and nearly collected two others! They're finished before the first corner! What a disaster for Team Lotus!"
Yellow flags waved desperately along the back straight as drivers further forward instinctively lifted, seeing the plumes of smoke and debris skittering across the racing line. The pack ahead—already locked in a congested, wheel-to-wheel battle through the compression zone—was forced into split-second decisions: brake, swerve, or trust the gap would hold.
But amid the chaos and the yellow-flag hesitation, brilliance emerged. Jody Scheckter, starting P13, saw not danger but a wide-open opportunity. While others checked up, he drove his Tyrrell onto the higher-risk, less-grippy "dirty side" of the track like a man possessed, maintaining a blistering pace.
He sliced past Tom Pryce at P12, carved around a startled Jacques Laffite at P11, and muscled by Patrick Depailler at P10 on the outside. With a breathtaking burst of speed, he claimed tenth position before the pack even reached Curva do Sol, slotting in directly behind Carlos Pace at P9.
"UNBELIEVABLE!" Murray shouted. "Scheckter has come from thirteenth and he's already in tenth! Look at him! He took the outside line, the dirty line, and he's threaded the needle through that mess! He passed Pryce, Laffite, and Depailler! That is absolutely brilliant opportunism!"
"He didn't just see a gap, Murray," Raymond calmly replied. "It's what separates the great from the good. He saw the sudden brake-check effect ripple through Depailler, Laffite, and Pryce, who were all focused inward towards the apex. They created the congestion, and Scheckter, thirteenth on the grid, had the perfect view of the gap opening on the outside. The others hesitated for a split second because of the yellow flag; Scheckter just saw a green light and a clear track!"
"He drove through it like a man possessed! Tenth place now, breathing down Pace's neck! What a start for Tyrrell!"
In the Brabham garage, Jack watched the first-lap chaos unfold on the small television monitor mounted above the pit wall. The car's number flashed across the screen as it approached the first corner, now with a familiar yellow-and-black Tyrrell plastered to its rear wing.
"Why's he letting Scheckter get such an easy run at him?" Charlie asked, frowning at the monitor. "Jody looks aggressive, he's going to try and muscle past."
"He's not letting him," Jack replied, his voice firm but low. "He's being smart. The discs are stone cold, Charlie. He tries to dive-bomb someone now, he'll sail straight off the circuit. Pace is keeping his composure."
Gordon watched the feed along with them, his eyes calculating the current performance and lap times. "Exactly. He's driving defensively, not aggressively. The last thing we need is a cold-brake lock-up. Lap three, maybe four. Then he can attack."
On track, Carlos Pace drove with the patience of a man who understood his machinery. The Brabham felt heavy beneath him, the brake pedal stiff and unresponsive—a lethal combination at these speeds. Around him, drivers were making desperate lunges, fighting for every position, but Pace held his line, took the safe gaps, and preserved his tires.
He saw the flash of Tyrrell's nose as Jody Scheckter tried to push ahead and overtake him, but Pace just kept it cool. He was in no mood to fight out with a driver who was pushing beyond the limits when his own crucial stopping power was missing. He gave Scheckter enough room to take the ninth spot without having to lock up and risk flat-spotting a tire or, worse, running off.
Scheckter swept past, and the Tyrrell was suddenly ninth, with the red and blue Brabham now settled into tenth.
John Watson's Penske, qualified eighth, coughed once, twice, then began trailing smoke. The British driver nursed it onto the grass at Laranjinha—his race over before it had truly begun.
"More retirements!" called Murray. "Watson is out with what looks like a fuel system failure! And there goes Ian Ashley's BRM with oil pressure trouble. Four cars gone in two laps!"
The carnage had elevated everyone. Scheckter used a strong exit to slingshot past the March, dropping Brambilla to eighth. The flying South African was now firmly in seventh. and Pace returned to ninth—right back where he'd started, but now with clearer air ahead. Vittorio Brambilla's March sat in eight position, the Italian running a steady pace but unaware of the storm building behind him.
But Pace couldn't capitalize yet—not with cold brakes, not with the pedal feeling like wood under his right foot.
He watched Brambilla's March pull away slightly through the fast corners, the March driver taking liberties Pace couldn't afford. Not yet.
Behind his visor, Pace set his jaw. Patience. Just a few more laps.
By lap five, the field had stabilized into something resembling order, though the gaps remained fluid and the battles intense.
"Let's update the running order," Raymond Baxter said, his voice cutting through the engine noise. "After five laps: Regazzoni leads from Lauda by just over a second. James Hunt holds third, under pressure from Jean-Pierre Jarier's Shadow. Emerson Fittipaldi is fifth, Jochen Mass sixth. Then comes Jody Scheckter—remarkable start from the Tyrrell driver, climbing from thirteenth to seventh. Vittorio Brambilla runs eighth in the March, Carlos Pace ninth, and Patrick Depailler completes the top ten."
Jack stood at the pit wall now, binoculars trained on the Brabham as it flashed past the main grandstand. He was watching the front brake discs, looking for the telltale glow that would indicate proper operating temperature.
Lap five: nothing. Just dull metal catching sunlight.
Gordon Murray appeared beside him, stopwatch in hand. "Brake temps?"
"Not yet."
Bernie leaned against the pit counter, watching the lap times tick by on the timing screen. Pace was holding ninth, but losing a tenth here, two-tenths there to Brambilla ahead. The March driver was pulling a gap.
Lap six: a faint orange glow appeared on the discs as Pace braked for Curva 1.
"Getting there," Jack muttered.
Lap seven: the glow intensified, a dull red visible even in daylight.
Jack lowered the binoculars and turned to Bernie. "He's got heat."
Bernie moved toward the race engineer. "Tell Pace the braking system is operational. He can push now."
The engineer grabbed the pit board. A moment later, the freshly chalked message flashed across the pit wall for Pace to see as he passed: BRAKES HOT PUSH
As he crossed the main grandstand, Pace saw the pit board thrust out: BRAKES HOT PUSH.
Simultaneously, the stiff, dead pedal under his right foot transformed into something alive, screaming, and responsive. His blood was not just boiling, it was lava fueled by the roar of the home crowd and the voices of his compatriots. He felt a sudden, aggressive spike of adrenaline. He did not think; he decided.
Unleash.
He slammed the pedal entering Curva do Sol, and the car shed speed with a brutal, shocking efficiency that made him grin inside his helmet.
The gap to Brambilla was 1.2 seconds. Manageable.
Pace's entire approach shattered the prior caution. Where he'd been nursing the car through corners, preserving momentum, he was now a predator. He could brake deeper, later, harder than anyone running conventional steel discs. He was racing at home, and he was hunting.
Through the fast sweepers of Curva do Sol, he gained a tenth; through the technical infield section at Sargento, another tenth. At Cotovelo, he braked so late the rear stepped out slightly, but the carbon system held, devouring speed with precision that felt like cheating.
By lap eight, the gap was 0.7 seconds.
In the grandstands, the Brazilian crowd was beginning to sense something. The red and blue Brabham was catching the March. Sector by sector, corner by corner, the local hero was hunting.
"Look at Pace!" Murray's voice rose with excitement. "He's absolutely flying now! That Brabham is reeling in Brambilla! The Brazilian has found another gear!"
"It's the braking advantage," Raymond observed. "Watch the entry to these corners, Murray. Pace is carrying impossible speed into the braking zones. Those revolutionary discs are giving him at least half a car length advantage on every heavy braking point. Brambilla's March simply can't match it."
Pace felt it too—the crowd's energy transmitted through the circuit itself. Every time he flashed past the main grandstand, the roar intensified. They knew. They could see the gap closing on the timing screens, hear it in the commentary echoing from thousands of transistor radios.
By the end of lap eight, Pace was 0.3 seconds behind Brambilla. Close enough to smell the exhaust fumes from the March. Close enough to make his move.
His target was clear. Brambilla was quick in the fast stuff, but vulnerable under braking. The Italian was defending, but Pace had the weapon to break through.
One lap. One chance.
Meanwhile, at the front, the Ferrari civil war had reached its climax.
Niki Lauda had spent seven laps studying his teammate's lines, noting where Regazzoni was strong, where he was vulnerable, where the Swiss driver's defense could be exploited. On lap seven, through the fast kink before the main straight, Lauda made his move.
He closed to within inches through the sweeping left-right complex, carried absurd speed onto the straight, and pulled alongside Regazzoni as they thundered past the grandstands. The two scarlet cars ran side-by-side, inches apart, the distinctive howl of their boxer engines merging into a single scream.
Into Curva 1, Lauda braked impossibly late on the outside line, holding his nerve as they ran wheel-to-wheel through the corner. Regazzoni had to concede or collect them both. The champion's calculated aggression won.
Lauda surged through, his car planted and stable, using the full width of the track through Curva 2.
"LAUDA LEADS!" Murray shouted. "The champion has taken control! Ferrari one-two, but it's Lauda dictating the pace now! That was a statement of intent! Pure, clinical precision!"
"Regazzoni won't be happy," Raymond noted. "But Lauda's move was perfectly judged. That's why he's the champion. He waited for his moment, then executed flawlessly."
Behind them, James Hunt watched the red cars pull away and knew he'd have to find something extraordinary to stay on terms. But for now, his focus was holding third from Jarier's persistent Shadow.
Lap nine. The moment arrived.
Carlos Pace was glued to Brambilla's gearbox as they accelerated out of Junção toward the fast, banked right-hander of Ferradura. The March driver knew the Brazilian was there—he'd been checking his mirrors constantly, seeing the red and blue Brabham filling his vision.
Pace launched his first attack into the legendary, high-speed, banked curve of Ferradura. He drove the Brabham deep, carrying significantly more entry speed, aiming for the outside line.
"He's trying it on the outside!" Murray shouted. "Pace is going around the outside into Ferradura! That takes enormous commitment!"
Brambilla saw the move developing and immediately moved to block the line, forcing Pace to the very edge of the track. Pace had to lift just enough to avoid running onto the grass, conceding the move at high velocity. They flashed through the banked curve side-by-side before Brambilla's defensive line held.
"Brambilla shuts him down!" Raymond called. "Good defending from the Italian, but Pace isn't giving up!"
The crowd noise noticeably increased. They could see it developing—their local hero on the attack, pushing, probing, refusing to back down.
After a brief breather through the fast downhill section, Pace set up his second attempt into the sweeping entry of Curva do Sol. This time, he had a better plan.
"Braking marker! Look at the difference!" Raymond's voice carried technical precision. "Pace is half a car-length later with those carbon discs! He's right up the inside now!"
Pace stamped hard on the pedal, the discs glowing red-hot now, and the Brabham shed speed with brutal efficiency. He pulled level with Brambilla and dove toward the apex, committed fully to the inside line.
Brambilla reacted with desperate speed, using his better exit grip to force a cut-back maneuver. The two cars ran through the sweeping curve wheel-to-wheel, paint trading, neither giving an inch.
"OH! So close!" Murray's frustration was audible. "Brambilla forces him wide on the exit! Pace has to tuck back in! But the pressure is relentless!"
The grandstands were on their feet now, sections of the crowd chanting "PA-CE! PA-CE! PA-CE!" The rhythm pounded through the circuit.
Pace used Alfa Romeo's power to close the gap again through the tight sequence of Curva do Sargento and Laranja. At the entry to Sargento, he braked a car-length later than the March driver, pulling alongside for the third time.
"He's losing his rhythm!" Raymond observed. "Brambilla's locking a wheel slightly into Sargento—you can see the smoke! But he's still holding the defensive line through sheer determination!"
Brambilla held firm through the complex, but the battle was beginning to affect his precision. His lines were getting ragged, his defenses more desperate than calculated. Pace was forced onto the marbles on the exit of Laranja and had to concede the position again, but the Italian's defense was cracking.
Inside his helmet, Pace's breathing was controlled, measured. Three attempts. Three defenses. But Brambilla was weakening. One more corner. One perfect execution.
The final execution came through the frantic complex that led to the main straight. Pace had studied Brambilla's pattern—the March driver was braking early into Cotovelo, protecting the inside, then accelerating hard through the descending kink of Mergulho.
Pace feinted left, suggesting another inside attempt. Brambilla bit, moving to cover.
Then Pace did something brilliant. He feigned an early lift, making Brambilla think the attack was over. His opponent relaxed fractionally, braking a half-car length earlier than necessary to protect the inside.
Pace held the throttle for one split-second longer, then absolutely annihilated the brake pedal.
"THIS IS IT!" Murray screamed. "THIS IS THE MOVE! PACE HAS GONE DEEP! DEEPER THAN ANYONE! He's side-by-side on the entry to Mergulho!"
The carbon discs glowed white-hot. The Brabham shed speed impossibly fast. Pace turned in on a line Brambilla couldn't have imagined, getting fully alongside before the apex.
The two cars ran through the fast, descending kink of Mergulho side-by-side, but Pace had the momentum, the line, and the commitment. He pulled clear on the exit, the Brabham firmly ahead.
"YES! HE'S DONE IT!" Murray's voice broke with emotion. "CARLOS PACE IS THROUGH! That was a SUBLIME move! He just drove around him in the braking zone! The crowd is absolutely ELECTRIC!"
The grandstands erupted. Two hundred thousand Brazilians screaming themselves hoarse, flags waving, the noise a physical wall of sound that washed over the circuit. The local hero had delivered. The patient wait, the calculated stalking, the perfect execution—Pace was through into eighth.
Behind him, Brambilla could only watch the red and blue Brabham pull away, the decisive gap opening with every corner. The Italian shook his head inside his helmet, knowing he'd been beaten not by luck or error, but by superior technology and brilliant driving. His March was beginning to develop a worrying vibration through the steering wheel—something in the engine bay wasn't quite right. He'd lost the position, and now his car was starting to protest the punishment.
In the Brabham garage, Jack allowed himself the smallest of smiles. Charlie was grinning openly, the stopwatch still clutched in his hand. Bernie's expression remained neutral, but his eyes carried satisfaction.
"Carbon brakes work," Bernie said simply.
"At least for now," Gordon replied.
Jack said nothing, but the tension in his shoulders finally released. Months of work. Months of doubt and testing and redesign. And now, in front of two hundred thousand Brazilians, it had worked exactly as promised.