It’s here. The day we’ve been working toward all winter. The day the new engine will fire up -- we hope. We’ve been building this motor from plans alone. Today we’ll find out just how much work is needed before the formal testing process begins in two months. The first stage is to hear the engine finally running though, so here we all are, gathered around in the factory, waiting for the time to tick over and for the ignition to be fired up.

The clock ticks over the hour and rather than breaking into a collective cheer, the tension in the room is palpable as every single person holds their breath.

Chase presses the button to start the car as is customary at this event.

The engine rattles and stalls.

There’s not a single person in the room who doesn’t let a groan escape. It’s going to be a long night.

Chase once again depresses the ignition, full of hope that doing the same thing again will give a different result.

Another splutter, but of course, it’s not enough to get this baby even once around the track.

Trevor, our head engineer, raises his hand. “Come on guys,” he says as he turns his back and heads off toward a corner where he can huddle with his advisers. This team is the best in the industry, but developing a new car on paper is always an unknown entity and we’re all prepared for an all-nighter, regardless of our shift patterns.

We need to do our own unofficial circuit testing before we head off abroad for formal testing with all the other teams. This car therefore needs to be up and working, with Elliott behind the wheel at our local circuit in just three days. The pressure is on. We’re already geared up for a 24 hour a day work program, so the only way we’re going to get this car out of this workshop and onto the track in time is if we all put our shift patterns to one side and just work.

“Thank goodness you can stay in my quarters,” Elliott mumbles behind his hand, grinning at me.

“What are you so happy about?” I ask.

“It’ll be nice to not be holed up here alone for once. Having you here with me will be like a home from home.”

I laugh. I can’t argue when he puts it like that. “Yeah, without the need for either of us to cook your ludicrously healthy meals.” I roll my eyes.

Two hours later and the light hearted banter is forgotten. Elliott is pacing, waiting for the chance to sit in the car and feel the vibration of the engine for the first time. I can see the mix of excitement and agitation in the way his face moves.

My problems are way more serious. The engineers have figured out that the motor isn’t firing up because there’s a blockage which is preventing the fuel from lighting up the engine. So, our group of mechanics needs to disassemble this complex set of custom made parts in order to access and fix the problem.

“We need to take everything off,” Greg says.

“Yep, got that,” I mutter. I’m not sure how else he thought we'd get the job done.

“Hey, I heard that Beaumont!” He shoves me as he passes, but he’s still smiling.

Another two hours later and we’ve succeeded in locating our issue. I’ve scraped the skin from my too large hand which was stuck in a too small space, trying to locate and reattach a loose nut by using a spanner with a long arm and wing mirrors. I kid you not. These spaces are too tight to get your head in; it’s the only way.

Finally with the erroneous nut sorted out, we’re rebuilding the car, hoping, no praying actually, that our simple adjustment will be enough to crank the engine to life.

And so, in a moment of déjà vu, we’re standing waiting to see whether our changes have been effective, or whether we’re going to have to pull this monster apart again.

We gather with less breathless expectation this time.

Chase makes a show of approaching the button like he’s about to embark a marathon, when in fact, that started a year ago. He bows, but we just want to know whether the blasted fix has worked. The last thing we want is to be here any longer than need be. He points his finger in the air, holds it around for the room to see before bowing and finally bending over the cockpit and pressing the darned button.

A growl rumbles around the room, ricocheting off the pristine walls of our high end garage as car number 66 thunders to life.

“Hallelujah,” Elliott cries as he scrambles forward and jumps in the cockpit, one foot in, one on the sleek nose of the car.

He stands, jubilant as though he’s just won the championship and shouts, “This year’s winning car.”

The place erupts into a chorus of cheers, and whoops, “Get in there,” someone shouts.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” Elliott hollers and the emotion is too much for me. The tide rises and I swallow, fighting the urge to cry.