The Future Starts Here.
The Future Starts Here.
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Chillcavern
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The Future Starts Here.
Intriguing, intriguing.
Do love the little side plot of Noura and her teammate swapping 5th place finishes to keep pace for ART at least.
Here’s hoping future races are kinder than Jeddah
Do love the little side plot of Noura and her teammate swapping 5th place finishes to keep pace for ART at least.
Here’s hoping future races are kinder than Jeddah
The Future Starts Here.
Antonelli on Pole Again, ART's Kassir & O'Sullivan Face Uphill Battle in Melbourne Round 3
Formula 2 arrives at Albert Park this weekend for Round 3 of the season, and while Prema’s Andrea Kimi Antonelli looks set to continue his early dominance, ART Grand Prix find themselves on the back foot once again.
Antonelli, the 18-year-old Italian phenom, secured pole position for the second straight race after topping qualifying on Friday. Fresh off a commanding win in Jeddah, he’s now the clear favorite to keep Prema’s momentum rolling with another victory in Melbourne.
But for ART, the story couldn’t be more different. Both drivers struggled to extract pace around Albert Park, with Zak O’Sullivan qualifying 20th and Noura Kassir 21st, marking the second consecutive round where Kassir will line up near the back of the grid.
For Kassir, the weekend represents another opportunity to prove why there’s so much buzz around her F2 campaign. Despite the disappointing qualifying, her raw speed and racecraft have shown glimpses of promise, and with the chaotic nature of Melbourne’s circuit, there’s still a path to salvage points for ART.
“The team knows we’re not where we want to be,” an ART insider told ESPN. “But Noura has the fight in her — if she can survive the opening laps and take advantage of safety cars, she can turn this into a statement race.”
Prema, meanwhile, are setting the standard early in 2025. With Antonelli locking down the front row again, the Italian outfit has its sights firmly set on a second straight F2 victory, reinforcing their grip on both the drivers’ and teams’ standings.
The Future Starts Here.
Happy to have you along for the RIDEThe Argentinian
I'm sure I'll incorporate more stats along the way. I'm still figuring out the layout myself. Tennis would be cool!
Captain Canada wrote: ↑18 Aug 2025, 08:45This is sick! Excited to follow along and see where this journey takes you
appreciate it brudda
Yeah he certainly saved the day in Round 2 for us. That 2 second penalty really costed me because I finished around 16th or 17th iirc. Melbourne up nextChillcavern wrote: ↑18 Aug 2025, 13:23Intriguing, intriguing.
Do love the little side plot of Noura and her teammate swapping 5th place finishes to keep pace for ART at least.
Here’s hoping future races are kinder than Jeddah
The Future Starts Here.
Prema Racing Steps Ahead With A Massive Lead Following Antonelli's 2nd Straight F2 Victory
F2, Round 3 - Albert Park Grand Prix Circuit, Melbourne, Australia
Antonelli stands at the center of the podium with a second straight win for Prema!
Starting #21 on the grid, Noura Kassir is named today's Driver of the Day after conquering 9 places to finish 12th.
The Future Starts Here.
Melbourne, and the Ghost Carried Home.
Two days after Melbourne, the countryside of Yonne was unusually still. A thin wind passed over the fields, bending the grass toward the narrow road that led into ART’s base at Villeneuve-la-Guyard. Inside, the silence broke in intervals. The sharp roar of an engine cutting through the dusk, fading, then returning again like an echo.
Noura Kassir was still running laps.
She had started 21st in Melbourne, and for hours afterward, that number clung to her like a curse. Twenty-first. Last but one. She thought about it on the flight home, thought about it while walking alone through Charles de Gaulle, and thought about it again that night as she stared at the ceiling of her apartment. She had finished 12th in the race after overtaking nine cars, but that wasn’t what lingered in her mind. What stayed was the humiliation of starting so far back, of being forced to prove herself from nothing.
“I should be at the front,” she had whispered to no one, as the engine in her memory replayed itself, over and over, long after she had left the circuit in Australia.
Now, here in France, that ghost followed her home.
“Box this lap, Noura,” her engineer’s voice cracked through the radio. Marcus sounded almost apologetic, as if he were speaking to someone fragile. “It’s late. The team needs rest. You need rest..”
Noura’s eyes stayed fixed on the track ahead, the walls blurred by speed. Her own voice was quiet, almost detached:
“Not yet, Marcus. Run it again.”
Each lap felt like a loop in some private ritual. Kassir made the same corners, the same mistakes, along with the same flicker of time across her dash that never quite satisfied. A half-second too slow here. A fraction lost there. She carried Melbourne with her, the way some people carry a scar inside their chest.
Between runs, she returned to the pit, visor raised, speaking in clipped suggestions that sounded less like commands and more like confessions.
“The front end is washing out. Make it stiffer. Rear’s unstable — give me more downforce.”
The mechanics listened. They made their changes. And still she said the same thing when the work was done:
“Run it again.”
Marcus leaned back in his chair, exhausted, staring at the darkening sky beyond the garage. Sofia, the strategist, stood at his shoulder, arms crossed.
“She won’t stop,” Sofia said. Her voice carried no judgment, only observation. “It isn’t about lap time. She’s fighting with herself.”
On track again, the car surged into the twilight. The world outside the cockpit seemed to fall away. No team, no rivals, no spectators. Just her, the car, and the thin line of asphalt curling ahead. In the rhythm of the laps, she felt frustration, peace, failure, & hope, circling together like birds chasing one another’s shadow.
Her delta flashed green. A tenth quicker. Then another.
She smiled, barely. It was enough to keep going.
“See?!” she said into the radio, voice thin with fatigue. “We're getting closer, Marcus! I told you! Let's keep going, team.”
Marcus didn’t answer right away. The team knew the cycle, knew she would not stop until the night itself drew her back into stillness. But that was what made Noura, Noura.
And so the car went on, cutting through the falling dark of Yonne, chasing not the race ahead. It wasn't about the standings or the headlines for Noura, but the quiet, impossible idea of perfection.
Two days after Melbourne, the countryside of Yonne was unusually still. A thin wind passed over the fields, bending the grass toward the narrow road that led into ART’s base at Villeneuve-la-Guyard. Inside, the silence broke in intervals. The sharp roar of an engine cutting through the dusk, fading, then returning again like an echo.
Noura Kassir was still running laps.
She had started 21st in Melbourne, and for hours afterward, that number clung to her like a curse. Twenty-first. Last but one. She thought about it on the flight home, thought about it while walking alone through Charles de Gaulle, and thought about it again that night as she stared at the ceiling of her apartment. She had finished 12th in the race after overtaking nine cars, but that wasn’t what lingered in her mind. What stayed was the humiliation of starting so far back, of being forced to prove herself from nothing.
“I should be at the front,” she had whispered to no one, as the engine in her memory replayed itself, over and over, long after she had left the circuit in Australia.
Now, here in France, that ghost followed her home.
“Box this lap, Noura,” her engineer’s voice cracked through the radio. Marcus sounded almost apologetic, as if he were speaking to someone fragile. “It’s late. The team needs rest. You need rest..”
Noura’s eyes stayed fixed on the track ahead, the walls blurred by speed. Her own voice was quiet, almost detached:
“Not yet, Marcus. Run it again.”
Each lap felt like a loop in some private ritual. Kassir made the same corners, the same mistakes, along with the same flicker of time across her dash that never quite satisfied. A half-second too slow here. A fraction lost there. She carried Melbourne with her, the way some people carry a scar inside their chest.
Between runs, she returned to the pit, visor raised, speaking in clipped suggestions that sounded less like commands and more like confessions.
“The front end is washing out. Make it stiffer. Rear’s unstable — give me more downforce.”
The mechanics listened. They made their changes. And still she said the same thing when the work was done:
“Run it again.”
Marcus leaned back in his chair, exhausted, staring at the darkening sky beyond the garage. Sofia, the strategist, stood at his shoulder, arms crossed.
“She won’t stop,” Sofia said. Her voice carried no judgment, only observation. “It isn’t about lap time. She’s fighting with herself.”
On track again, the car surged into the twilight. The world outside the cockpit seemed to fall away. No team, no rivals, no spectators. Just her, the car, and the thin line of asphalt curling ahead. In the rhythm of the laps, she felt frustration, peace, failure, & hope, circling together like birds chasing one another’s shadow.
Her delta flashed green. A tenth quicker. Then another.
She smiled, barely. It was enough to keep going.
“See?!” she said into the radio, voice thin with fatigue. “We're getting closer, Marcus! I told you! Let's keep going, team.”
Marcus didn’t answer right away. The team knew the cycle, knew she would not stop until the night itself drew her back into stillness. But that was what made Noura, Noura.
And so the car went on, cutting through the falling dark of Yonne, chasing not the race ahead. It wasn't about the standings or the headlines for Noura, but the quiet, impossible idea of perfection.
The Future Starts Here.
Melbourne, and the Ghost Carried Home.
(continued at Imola)
The air in Imola was heavy with spring, damp earth and gasoline mixing together in the paddock. The Emilia Romagna Grand Prix had returned, and with it the nervous pulse of a thousand mechanics, drivers, and engineers, all preparing to measure themselves against time itself.
Noura Kassir sat in the ART garage, suit zipped up, hands folded tightly in her lap. She wasn’t thinking of the track outside, but the month behind her. The laps from sun up to sun down at Villeneuve-la-Guyard, the endless tinkering, the voices telling her to stop when she couldn’t.
This was where it had to matter.
Marcus Bell leaned against the pit wall, headset crooked over his hair, watching her. “All right,” he said softly, trying to keep the weight from his voice. “You’ve put the work in. This is your chance to show it, Noura.”
“Thank you, Marcus..” Noura replied, without looking up. Her voice was calm. “I’m here to do more than show it. I'm here to prove it.”
From the corner, strategist Sofia Almasi glanced up from her clipboard. “Qualifying at Imola is brutal. One mistake and the lap is gone. Keep your head clean, Kassir. Don’t chase ghosts out there.”
Noura finally lifted her gaze, her dark eyes steady. “You know me so well, Sofia.”
Sofia smiled faintly, as if she’d expected nothing less.
The mechanics wheeled the car forward, its nose gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The sound of drills and ratchets filled the garage, sharp as punctuation in the quiet. One mechanic tightened the belts across the seat, waiting for Noura to climb in.
Marcus stepped closer. “Listen,” he said, voice low now. “You’ve qualified 21st twice. That doesn’t matter anymore. Right here, right now, you’ve got clean air, a fast car, and a track that punishes fear. Leave Melbourne behind. Trust yourself.”
Noura stood, pulling her gloves on one finger at a time. Her heartbeat was steady, like it had slowed into rhythm with the sound of the car’s idling engine. She placed a hand on the halo, feeling its cool metal.
“I’ll leave Melbourne behind,” she said quietly. “But the ghost comes with me. I will never forget that feeling.”
Then she lowered herself into the cockpit. The belts were pulled tight. The engine fired to life. And in the roar of it all, Marcus’s voice came through the radio one last time:
“All right, Noura. Show us what you’ve got.”
The pit light flicked from red to green.
And she was off.
--
The qualifying board flickered on the screen above the garage.
14th — Noura Kassir. 21st — Zak O’Sullivan.
Fourteenth. It wasn’t a podium, not even close, but it felt like sunlight breaking through a month of rain.
She pulled off her gloves, her hands still trembling from the wheel, and Marcus was the first to meet her eyes. His tired face cracked with a massive smile.
“You did it, Noura!” he said, as he pulled her in for a hug. “That’s a proper step forward!”
Sofia joined in, her voice calm but warm. “You’ve given us a chance tomorrow. ART can work with this!”
Noura smiled. “We can get points in Imola. If we play this right..” she turned, catching sight of Zak just a few steps away, helmet in hand. His expression was unreadable, his eyes fixed on the floor.
“Zak,” she said, pitching her voice carefully. “If I can get a good start, and you can hold back the pack at the rear, we can....”
But before she could finish, he shifted his helmet higher under his arm and walked past her, silent, as though her words hadn’t even reached him.
The celebration dimmed into something quieter. Marcus and Sofia exchanged a look but said nothing. Noura stood still for a moment, the weight of his silence pressing down harder than the result on the board.
She whispered to herself, half as a reminder, & half as a mantra.
“We’re a team.. Let it go, Noura..”
But Zak was already gone. She looked around at everyone with ART Grand Prix who saw the difficult sight among teammates.
"Don't let the distractions set in.. I'll just have to get it done myself."
(continued at Imola)
The air in Imola was heavy with spring, damp earth and gasoline mixing together in the paddock. The Emilia Romagna Grand Prix had returned, and with it the nervous pulse of a thousand mechanics, drivers, and engineers, all preparing to measure themselves against time itself.
Noura Kassir sat in the ART garage, suit zipped up, hands folded tightly in her lap. She wasn’t thinking of the track outside, but the month behind her. The laps from sun up to sun down at Villeneuve-la-Guyard, the endless tinkering, the voices telling her to stop when she couldn’t.
This was where it had to matter.
Marcus Bell leaned against the pit wall, headset crooked over his hair, watching her. “All right,” he said softly, trying to keep the weight from his voice. “You’ve put the work in. This is your chance to show it, Noura.”
“Thank you, Marcus..” Noura replied, without looking up. Her voice was calm. “I’m here to do more than show it. I'm here to prove it.”
From the corner, strategist Sofia Almasi glanced up from her clipboard. “Qualifying at Imola is brutal. One mistake and the lap is gone. Keep your head clean, Kassir. Don’t chase ghosts out there.”
Noura finally lifted her gaze, her dark eyes steady. “You know me so well, Sofia.”
Sofia smiled faintly, as if she’d expected nothing less.
The mechanics wheeled the car forward, its nose gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The sound of drills and ratchets filled the garage, sharp as punctuation in the quiet. One mechanic tightened the belts across the seat, waiting for Noura to climb in.
Marcus stepped closer. “Listen,” he said, voice low now. “You’ve qualified 21st twice. That doesn’t matter anymore. Right here, right now, you’ve got clean air, a fast car, and a track that punishes fear. Leave Melbourne behind. Trust yourself.”
Noura stood, pulling her gloves on one finger at a time. Her heartbeat was steady, like it had slowed into rhythm with the sound of the car’s idling engine. She placed a hand on the halo, feeling its cool metal.
“I’ll leave Melbourne behind,” she said quietly. “But the ghost comes with me. I will never forget that feeling.”
Then she lowered herself into the cockpit. The belts were pulled tight. The engine fired to life. And in the roar of it all, Marcus’s voice came through the radio one last time:
“All right, Noura. Show us what you’ve got.”
The pit light flicked from red to green.
And she was off.
--
The qualifying board flickered on the screen above the garage.
14th — Noura Kassir. 21st — Zak O’Sullivan.
Fourteenth. It wasn’t a podium, not even close, but it felt like sunlight breaking through a month of rain.
She pulled off her gloves, her hands still trembling from the wheel, and Marcus was the first to meet her eyes. His tired face cracked with a massive smile.
“You did it, Noura!” he said, as he pulled her in for a hug. “That’s a proper step forward!”
Sofia joined in, her voice calm but warm. “You’ve given us a chance tomorrow. ART can work with this!”
Noura smiled. “We can get points in Imola. If we play this right..” she turned, catching sight of Zak just a few steps away, helmet in hand. His expression was unreadable, his eyes fixed on the floor.
“Zak,” she said, pitching her voice carefully. “If I can get a good start, and you can hold back the pack at the rear, we can....”
But before she could finish, he shifted his helmet higher under his arm and walked past her, silent, as though her words hadn’t even reached him.
The celebration dimmed into something quieter. Marcus and Sofia exchanged a look but said nothing. Noura stood still for a moment, the weight of his silence pressing down harder than the result on the board.
She whispered to herself, half as a reminder, & half as a mantra.
“We’re a team.. Let it go, Noura..”
But Zak was already gone. She looked around at everyone with ART Grand Prix who saw the difficult sight among teammates.
"Don't let the distractions set in.. I'll just have to get it done myself."
The Future Starts Here.
loving this, maybe even inspired
The Future Starts Here.
Antonelli & Bearman Finish First & Second For PREMA As F2's Standings Begin To Trend Towards A Blowout
F2, Round 4 - Emilia Romagna Grand Prix, Imola, Emilia-Romagna, Italy
Andrea Kimi Antonelli continues to make it look easy as he dominates F2 with a total 81 points through 4 rounds!
Noura Kassir manages to take lead over Campos Racing' Pepe Martí after an unusual collision.
From 14th starting the grid to finishing 6th. Noura Kassir gets ART Grand Prix back on the board after securing her team 9 points in Italy.