Chapter 6 #3
The garage isn’t particularly hot, but I’m sweating under my fireproofs, the material clinging to me in ways I’ve never been bothered by before.
Today, I’m choked and constricted, tempted to unzip my suit and grab one of the cooling apparatuses they use on the car and direct it toward me instead.
If there weren’t five photographers, an entire video crew, and an FIA official documenting my every move, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
Their presence is what gets me to move, not wanting to be watched up close like a zoo animal.
Thankfully my helmet’s already on and I’ve turned away enough that they can’t see the reluctance in my eyes.
As I grip the halo, the photographers take shot after shot of the scars that peek past my sleeves, and I can imagine the black-and-white edits they’ll post with some bullshit inspirational quote underneath.
My sweaty palms nearly slip off the titanium bar, but I swing my right leg into the cockpit without stumbling and drag my left in behind it. I take a second to adjust my suit before lowering myself down into the custom contours of my seat. And then I’m in.
My heart gallops in a ragged rhythm as I plug into the radio and put on my gloves while someone does up my seat belt. It’ll be a miracle if none of the three dozen people standing around see the way my hands shake, but I hide it by clutching the steering wheel tight.
My lead engineer leans down to give me last-minute guidance on how to take the corners and curbs, along with what data the team is looking to collect.
It’s simple stuff, nothing out of the ordinary, and yet I have to will my mind to stop screaming so I can pay attention.
I flip down my visor once he stands, needing more separation between me and the world.
After dragging in a few more deep breaths, I relax into the seat. Not that there’s much room for it – I’m crammed in here like tinned fish – but I’m more cradled than constrained. It’s the way it used to feel. The way I used to love. That’s a good sign, right? Fucking hell, it better be.
When it’s time, my lead mechanic gives me the signal to shift into gear, then he walks backward out of the garage to motion me into the pit lane. I take another breath, hold it, then hit the throttle.
The rumble of the engine vibrates through me as I swing out and trundle down the pit lane.
I take care to build speed slowly as I cross the white line of the pit exit and move onto the track, letting the tires heat before increasing my pace.
It’s all still second nature – every shift of the gears, every press of a button or flip of a switch.
It’s like I never spent five months away.
And I’m . . . fine.
But that’s all I am.
There’s no rush of anxiety as I start my next lap, then another and another, but there’s no joy or excitement or anything I’ve felt at the start of seasons past either, which might be even more devastating because .
. . fuck, the car feels good. It’s weighed down by testing sensors and it still needs adjusting, yes, but it’s smooth and steady and responds to my every touch as if it knows exactly what I want before I tell it.
This should have me thrilled for the year ahead, ready to sit down with the engineers and explain at length all the changes and tweaks I think the setup needs.
Yet all I can muster is some vague, fleeting anticipation and more than a little exasperation for the hours of meetings I’ll have to tolerate in order to make the car the best it can be.
The crushing indifference is worse than the fear I anticipated. The cockpit of an F1 car has been my sanctuary for almost half my life. Even with the horrors I’ve faced, I’m still more comfortable here than I am anywhere else.
But it doesn’t feel like home any more. It’s merely a place I’m expected to be, performing the job I’m expected to do. It’s an obligation. It’s no longer an all-consuming power.
The realization sparks something within me.
It heats the indifference into unsettled anger over losing that obsession, threatening to bring it to a boil.
It manifests in my foot pressing harder on the throttle, in disregarding the guidance on how gently to take the curbs, in letting the car loose to scream its way around the circuit.
‘You’re pushing too hard on these lap times,’ my engineer warns over the radio. ‘We need you maintaining to collect valid data.’
I don’t slow. I brake late in the next corner. I go flat out on the straight. I take the hairpin of turn one too fast and nearly lose the back end, recovering with a violent wiggle that has my heart tripping over itself with a sick, furious glee.
And then I do it all over again. Faster this time. Harder.
‘Zaid, you need to back off,’ he cautions once more, a little more forceful, as if that will get me to listen.
I feel something now. It’s twisting and slithering. It wraps around my stomach and squeezes. I don’t like it, but it’s better than nothing.
‘Box, box.’ This time it isn’t the voice of my engineer, but of our team principal, practically spitting the words. ‘Now.’
I let his anger wash over me before downshifting and slowing, heeding his directive to return to the pit lane.
And finally, I smile.