I suppose it’s nice to hear some internet comments other than how much I suck, but my mind is drifting elsewhere as it does before every race now. Team strategy for this race is as usual: DuPont gets the priority strategy and pitstop preference, I’m to assist, block our rivals, and not overtake. New season, same bullshit.
I need out of this contract before I kill DuPont or kill my career altogether. More than that, I loathe what this has done to my fans, supporters, people who used to get joy from watching a good race on Sunday. As the only driver from Scotland on the grid right now, every race disappoints my entire country. I disappoint my entire country. The Scottish flags being flown by diehard fans are fewer in number at every race.
Seeing them in the crowd, holding signs and screaming my name, was addictive. For a few minutes after a race win when I was on the podium spraying champagne and hearing the Scottish anthem played, I felt like a god. I was hooked. So when it all came crashing down on me, it crashed hard. Now I’ll never reach those impossible standards I’ve set for myself again - not with Celeritas.
“Are you back to ignoring me, now?” I feel Mallory’s hand on my arm and realize I’ve not heard anything she’s said as we approach the garage bays.
“You talk so much sometimes I need to tune you out, for my sanity.” I keep walking as her short legs hustle to keep up.
“Yes, well, not only am I a damn fine Publicity Manager, I’m a pretty good harpy, too.”
“Aye, A+ on being a harpy. Your parents must be proud.”
Her face falls and her smile fades and I wonder what that’s about but I’m much more concerned about something else when I walk into the garage. “Dicklicker! Back onto your side of the garage,” I point the correct direction to my pompous dimwit of a team member who is on my side, talking to my engineer, Seth.
“Ms. Mitchell,” he croons at Mallory beside me. “Still stuck working with this ill-bred brute, how unfortunate!”
He takes a step toward Mallory but I head him off by putting my body between his and hers. Seth is quick to professionally shuffle him and his dumb coiffed bleach-blond hair back to his own bay and then the crew needs me on track so I grab my helmet and make toward my car that’s parked and waiting for me.
“Hey!” I hear Mallory shout and I turn back at the last second. “Good luck!” She yells.
I’d like to shout back that luck has nothing to do with what’s going to happen today but she’s not my
friend and this is not the time nor place. So I simply dip my head to nod to her then turn back around to keep marching toward the next shitty result I’m about to disappoint everyone with.
On purpose.
???
Mallory
Matty hands me an oversized set of black headphones from a wall charging rack and I join him and Jack in the far back of the Celeritas garage as the first race of the season is minutes from kicking off. I’m bouncing with excitement watching the cars lined up on the grid on the dozen live television monitors hanging in the viewing area. This is the first F1 race I’ve ever watched and I have so many questions.
All twenty cars roar to life as the clock ticks toward go-time and they start their formation lap. The whole building rumbles from the chorus of horsepower of these impressive cars making their way past. Matty, who seems to take satisfaction from correcting everyone’s statements on nearly any topic with his encyclopedic knowledge of statistics and figures, is only too happy to point out what I’m watching and why the drivers are doing what they’re doing.
“When they swerve back and forth like that across the track,” he points as I watch all twenty cars weaving and bobbling across the tarmac, “they’re warming up their tires.”
“Because cold tires have no grip, right?” I’ve done as much reading as I can on the subject, but cars and I have never seen eye-to-eye, so my technical knowledge is limited. Plus, seeing it in person, hearing it, feeling the engines reverberating in my bones, is a much different experience.
The energy in the air is palpable as the cars line up on the grid and the overhead start lights come on above the drivers.
5,4,3,2,1 and lights out.
The cars take off like a shot, the whole pack bunching up as cars try to dart around each other, maneuvering into prime position for the first corner. It is beautiful, controlled chaos. Before the pack reaches Turn 1, two cars at the rear of the group have rubbed tires together and a plume of smoke arises between them, sending one car halfway off the track but the driver recovers after a partial spin and takes off after the pack again.
I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand but then the camera pans to the front of the group of cars and Matty lets out a roar, “Yes!”, his clenched fists pumping into the air as he watches the television monitor.
“Run right into that foppish fuckboy,” Jack joins in screaming.
Lennox has passed two cars and is now right behind Digby, inches off his rear wing. The two cars dance around the track, blasting down straights and swooping through chicanes as the pack separates and spreads out, the front-running cars pulling away from the slower cars at the rear. Lap after lap they chase each other.
One yellow car near the back has a tire blow out and the driver creeps it back into the pit lane, chunks of rubber flying off the damaged wheel. My fingers are clenched in front of me and my stomach is rolling in excitement and nerves. I had no idea this was so exciting and… fun! I jump and clap as both Digby and Lennox pass another car in quick succession. Twenty laps pass before I know it. Matty’s doing his best to answer my questions and point out what’s happening.
Digby’s car darts into the pit lane and moments later he stops in front of the garage where ninjas in black Celeritas jumpsuits change his tires out in the literal blink of an eye, then his car takes off again. On the next lap, its Lennox’s car in for fresh tires and as he stops the car for 2.3 seconds in front of us, I can’t help but scream for him, even though he surely cannot hear me, “Go, Lennox!”
He re-enters the race right behind Digby on track again and Matty explains that was the goal, to put him back out right there in that position. They’re back on it, Lennox so close to the rear of Digby’s car I don’t see how they don’t touch and crash. Finally, on a long straight, Lennox darts out from behind Digby and pulls alongside him, both cars blasting along the street circuit at unimaginable speeds, neck and neck. “Yes! Go, go, go!” I bounce and grab Jack’s arm in excitement. But Lennox just holds steady, squarely even with Digby’s car, then falls back behind him as they take a sharp corner.
“Why didn’t he pass Digby?” I shout to Matty over the noise of the circuit.