Chapter 25 Collateral Damage
COLLATERAL DAMAGE
I was back at the paddock simulation center in Milton Keynes for a follow-up technical interview when I ran into Mason Banning in the lobby. He was waiting for his own appointment, coffee in hand.
“Hell of a piece,” he said, pouring coffee. “Siripanit basically calling Hirsch a coward. That must have been difficult to write.”
I looked up sharply. “He didn’t call him a coward.”
“The internet thinks he did.” Mason’s expression was sympathetic but knowing. “Headlines are already spinning it as ‘Ferrari driver says Hirsch afraid to compete.’ You made real news, Pulaski. Uncomfortable news. That’s good journalism.”
“It doesn’t feel good.”
“It’s not supposed to.” Mason leaned against the counter. “But after all the whispers about you being too close to your subject, this proves you’re not pulling punches. Even when it costs you something.”
After Mason left, I sat there, coffee growing cold in my hands.
I’d done my job. I’d reported something true, something uncomfortable, and the world had rewarded me for it. Editors were pleased. Colleagues were impressed. The piece was spreading faster than anything I’d written all season.
So why did it feel like I’d just kicked a support beam out from under my own life?
The smell of the coffee was sharp and burnt, industrial. For a moment it shifted into something else in my memory. Something hotter, richer, threaded with oil and rubber. Fuel.
When I could barely read myself, my mom read me Chitty Chitty Bang Bang until I knew every page by heart. I wanted a car that could do flips and races and still make it home for dinner.
I couldn’t help smiling at the memory. It was a British edition, and the pages were thick, scarred where I’d chewed the corners. She’d sit at the edge of my bed and read in her calm, steady voice, turning each page like it mattered.
I carried that book everywhere. Then my mother found a battered hand-me-down model of the flying car at a flea market. The little metal Chitty was missing one wing and half its paint, but I pushed it across the rug like it could still fly.
One Saturday morning my father found me sprawled on the living room rug, pushing it in a frantic circle, holding it in my hand and making it fly, and I growled engine noises.
His laugh was surprised and delighted. “You want to hear what race cars really sound like?”
An hour later we were in his truck with the windows down, the air warm and rushing.
I remember the way he kept glancing at me, like we were sharing a secret my mother would appreciate but never quite understand.
When we pulled into the parking lot at Nazareth Speedway, the sound hit first. A rising mechanical scream that vibrated in my ribs.
The air smelled like hot brakes and fried food.
We climbed the bleachers and sat next to each other, me leaning into his side, with his arm around my shoulder.
The first time the cars flashed past, color and motion and fury compressed into a heartbeat, I forgot to breathe.
The smell of fuel burned sweet in the air. My father grinned at my expression.
“See that blue one?” he said, nodding as a car tore past. “I helped build that engine.”
I watched it disappear into the next corner, suddenly certain it was faster than all the others. Later I would learn it ran in the top class that night. At the time I only knew that something my father had touched was flying.
The idea that something born in his cramped garage could move that fast made my chest swell until it hurt.
“Pretty good, huh?” he asked.
It was more than good. It was overwhelming and perfect and real in a way the book had only promised.
But that night, when my mother read the story again, her voice soft in the dark, I understood something I didn’t have words for yet.
The race at the track had been thunder and heat and motion.
The old race car in the book held the moment still long enough for me to live inside it.
I wanted both.
The memory faded, leaving me in the lobby with my untouched coffee and the hum of quiet conversation around me. I’d been chasing that balance ever since. The place where speed and story met, where the chaos of the track could be shaped into something that made sense on a page.
I hadn’t wandered into this world because of Jonathan. I’d been walking toward it since I was small enough to fall asleep with a picture book pressed against my chest and the echo of engines ringing in my ears.
The ache in my stomach eased, not gone but steadier. Whatever this cost me personally, the work itself was still mine. It always had been.
Thursday Evening - The Cost of Objectivity
Thea called at 6 PM.
“The Siripanit piece is everywhere,” she said without preamble. “ESPN picked it up. Sky Sports is running it as their lead F1 story. You’ve officially moved the needle.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“It’s good journalism.” I heard the approval in her voice. “This is exactly what I needed to see, that you can write about Hirsch without compromising editorial standards. Even when it costs you something personally. “
“It cost a lot,” I said quietly.
“I know. That’s how you know it was the right call.” She paused. “How is he handling it?”
“He says he’s not angry. But he also said Nat’s right, which is worse.”
“Mm.” Thea considered this. “Wally, you can’t protect him from his own insecurities. That’s not your job as a journalist or as his friend. Your job is to report the truth and let him decide what to do with it.”
Her voice softened slightly. “But my guess? He’ll use this. Turn it into fuel. Prove Nat wrong on track. And in the future, he’ll remember that you gave him honest coverage when you could have given him propaganda.”
After hanging up, I opened my messages.
WALDO: I’m sorry the coverage created a storm. I tried to keep it fair.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
JONATHAN: I know you did. It’s not your fault people only read headlines. I just need to prove Nat wrong on track.
WALDO: You already have.
JONATHAN: Then I’ll do it again. Differently this time. See you in Hungary?
WALDO: Hungary.
I stared at that exchange, trying to convince myself everything was fine.
But somewhere between a Ferrari driver diagnosing Jonathan’s deepest fear and me publishing those words for the world to dissect, something had shifted.
I’d chosen journalism over protecting someone I loved.
It was the right choice.
It just didn’t feel like winning.
Friday Morning - The American Motorsports Comparison
The final piece required no interviews, just analysis drawing on my Pocono IndyCar experience and time covering Formula 1. The contrast was stark: American oval racing prioritized accessibility and blue-collar authenticity, while F1 emphasized technical sophistication and international glamour.
IndyCar tickets cost $50 for decent seats; F1 paddock passes cost $500 and sell out years in advance.
American racing celebrates beer and barbecue; Formula 1 offers champagne and canapés.
The fundamental question isn’t which approach is better, but whether these two motorsport cultures can learn from each other as F1 expands its American footprint.
I submitted the piece that afternoon. All my assignments completed on schedule and within word count. Whether they met Apex’s editorial standards would determine my future.
Thea reviewed my work late Friday afternoon, spreading printed drafts across her desk while I waited in the chair across from her.
The Silverstone piece had run long but captured environmental insights other journalists missed.
The interview with Lando was fun, but with a serious environmental undertone.
She was delighted about the coverage the piece about Nat had generated.
And she liked the US piece, but thought it needed more depth before it could be published.
“You’re planning to head back to the States, aren’t you?”
I nodded. “Thought I would check back in on a few things.”
“Good. You could do some more with your US piece while you’re there.” She leaned back in her chair. “Which brings us to your future. We want to offer you senior correspondent, but not just for Formula 1.”
She pulled out a folder containing what appeared to be a detailed job description.
“Based in London during European season, but you’d report internationally.
Asian leg, IndyCar, IMSA, selected NASCAR events.
The idea is to build comprehensive motorsports journalism that covers racing globally, not just F1. ”
I scanned the proposal, noting salary figures that dwarfed anything I’d made in Philadelphia, travel budgets that would allow proper coverage of multiple racing series, editorial support that meant working with photographers and fact-checkers rather than handling everything alone, or scrambling to source images at the last minute.
“Timeline?”
“Decision by the end of Spa and the start of the summer break. The 2026 planning cycle starts in September, and this kind of expansion requires lead time.” Thea leaned back in her chair.
“But I want you to think about it properly. Take two weeks back in Philadelphia. Handle whatever personal business needs handling. Cover something local for us, maybe the IndyCar race at Pocono, so you understand what American motorsports coverage would involve.”
“And if I say yes?”
“Then you relocate to London by Christmas, and we build something significant together.” Her smile carried quiet confidence.
“But Wally, understand what you’d be committing to.
This isn’t just career advancement, it’s becoming a specialist in a very narrow field.
Formula 1 and motorsports would become your entire professional identity. ”
When I got back to the apartment, I texted Jonathan to ask when we could talk. “I’m flying to Philadelphia tomorrow afternoon,” I added. “Want to talk about what Apex has offered before I put a whole ocean between us.”
He replied that he would FaceTime me later that night, and the chime happened shortly after nine o’clock. The tile flickered on my phone: his face framed by a high-windowed apartment, the hum of night traffic in the background.
I told him what Thea had offered.
“So,” Jonathan said, voice gentle. “London by Christmas. What do you think?”
I held the phone steady. “I don’t know. It’s a lot to take in.”
“It starts with you,” Jonathan said. “First and foremost, it’s your career and your decision. What do you think? You loved making a difference with your work in Philadelphia. Could you give that up for a niche like motorsports?”
“I wrote a good environmental piece on Silverstone this week and touched on environmental concerns with Lando Norris. And I could always freelance on the side, in between traveling to races. It’s a lot of money, Jonathan. And the travel budget means I could keep up with you.”
“I know you worry about the financial difference between us, Waldo. But that should be low on your list of priorities.”
“I love the idea that we could travel together on the Formula 1 circuit,” I admitted. “This would be a way for us to keep building whatever we have between us.”
“What we have is love, Waldo,” Jonathan said gently.
“I know. But I’m worried that I’m moving into your life. What if we break up, and we’re still joined at the hip? Or if something happens and you have to stop racing, and I’m stuck covering motorsports?”
Jonathan blew out a deep breath. “I understand you’re trying to predict the future, but no one can do that. All we have is now. What does your heart say?”
“That’s easy. That I want to be with you.”
“Then take the job and meet me in Hungary for the rest of the European circuit, and we’ll see what happens.”
I exhaled, the day’s adrenaline finally fading. “And if I say no, and go back to Philadelphia?”
His eyes didn’t waver. “Then I’ll chase you across time zones. Because it’s you, not the area code that matters to me.”
He yawned. “I’ve got to get to bed. Early practice tomorrow. Think about what you want, Waldo. And if you can, think about what we want as a couple too.”
The screen went dark. I stared at my reflection in the glass for a long moment. The offer was no longer just about journalism. It was a crossroads.