CHAPTER 5 #2
Angel laughed and handed her a thick folder with a wink.
“This should get you started for this morning. Today is for observation. Tomorrow, we’ll use you at the autograph sessions and on race day we’ll keep you busy with all three races.
I need Isaac now, but if you have questions, feel free to ask any of the crew.
” He turned to Isaac, saying, “I think this will be your best year yet. This bike is what your brother won the championship with. It’s the best bike we’ve ever had.
” The two switched to Spanish as they moved across the room.
Anna wasn’t sure where to start, so she sat at the back of the garage on the first seat in a row of half a dozen chairs.
She read the information packet, making notes about Isaac’s team sponsors.
While she had time, she looked them up online.
Though some of them were familiar, many were not.
Most of these were European beer and motor oil brands, others were tires, the usual energy drinks, or well-known tech companies such as Lenovo and HP.
From a marketing perspective, wearing sponsorship logos and painting them on bikes, helmets, and grandstands seemed gaudy but efficient.
Everywhere the fans looked, or the riders went, they advertised their brand.
She settled in to read more about her duties.
She would help at autograph sessions with the stacks of pictures and her umbrella if Isaac needed shade.
Every time the media interviewed Isaac, she was responsible for the prep work, making sure he arrived at the right place at the correct time for cameras from Britain, Spain, and Italy, the three most common feeds.
MotoGP had a world-wide following. She hadn’t expected televised practices and fans in the grandstands today or tomorrow, but from the noise outside, the crowd seemed substantial.
On race day, she seemed to have several assistant or publicity duties besides umbrella work, which suited her fine—organizing lines, markers, and fan photos for signing.
All that sounded easy. They would pay her for six to eight hours of work for four days each race week, plus all food, lodging, and travel expenses.
She wouldn’t get rich on her wage, but it should be enough to live on if she was careful.
Product placement for pre and post-race interviews included helmets, hats for after the race, and water bottles.
Extra important if a rider placed in the top three or was the top independent racer for a race.
They’d assigned someone to show her tomorrow so she could do it for qualifying and subsequent events.
Getting things ready would make her feel useful.
Everything listed about regular racing operations seemed very particular, which she didn’t mind—at least the expectations were clear.
She would help at other weekend autograph sessions, like the one after the qualifying sessions on Saturday, and provide shade at other events for riders, Honda dignitaries, and MotoGP alumni.
Sometimes, like this Sunday, she’d be asked to hold a grid sign to mark the starting rows for the Moto2 and Moto3 races.
She licked her dry lips. With her concern about what she was supposed to wear, it seemed too soon.
Anna watched Isaac with her peripheral vision while he spoke with Angel and his crew, that fluttery feeling in her stomach returning whenever her eyes met Isaac’s—which happened too often to be accidental.
Once, Angel back-handed Isaac’s shoulder to regain his attention, and she ducked her head with a smile.
Still, she didn’t want to be too much of a distraction and studied the information packet while listening to the voices in the garage and the sounds of unfamiliar machinery.
Spanish, with odd bits of technical language in English, made for a strange conversation around her but she soon blocked it by keeping her head down and concentrating on learning her new job.
The section just beyond the temporary garage was called the pit lane, and the riders couldn’t exceed 60 km/h.
Anyone working in pit lane during the race needed to wear a safety helmet.
That didn’t include her as she’d return to the box after the race was underway.
Startled, she looked up when an announcement came through a ceiling speaker.
“Pit lane will open in ten minutes. Ten minutes until FP1.”
A timer started counting down, the bright red numbers easy to read in the dim evening light since massive overhead lights lit the track and its surroundings like bright sunlight.
Anna walked to the front of the garage to check out what was happening outside.
At the entrance, a faint breeze of warm air scuttled swirls of pale sand across the edge of the pit lane.
Beyond a dividing fence lay the Lusail International Circuit starting grid, where she would stand before the race on Sunday.
Staggered diagonal rows of three start lines per row filled the area.
Beyond the starting area, a ring of emerald-green turf surrounded the track, making the desert appear lush and inviting and, in the distance, the city lights sparkled like jewels against the growing darkness.
While she stood there, the pit crew rolled one of Isaac’s bikes outside to prepare for the first practice session.
Much smaller bikes had been whizzing around the track earlier, but she had paid little attention to their buzzing.
When the timer ran down to the last minute, the crew started his bike with a separate device.
Isaac tugged on his helmet, fastened the chinstrap, and tightened his gloves with Velcro strips.
With his full outfit on, he looked serious and ready for business.
“What’s the funny lump on the back of his suit?” She asked one of the young men who was adjusting something on the second bike. She couldn’t remember his name yet, either Manuel or Miguel.
“That’s his airbag. In case he crashes.” The young man with the ponytail winked. “I’m Miguel. Welcome to the team.”
She’d never heard of airbags in clothing, but she was too self-conscious to ask for more information, even if Miguel seemed friendly. The airbag in Isaac’s leathers must be like the inflatable kind in a vehicle.
Several more bikes started nearby, and Miguel took a pair of earplugs from his pocket and rolled them before inserting them into his ears. “It’s about to get loud.”
He arched an eyebrow, and she took a set from her pocket, too.
She’d been worried people wouldn’t like her wearing ear protection, but it looked to be standard practice.
Even Isaac had stuck some in before putting on his helmet.
Anna slipped hers in as bikes started all down the pit lane.
Even with protection, the roar of the bikes filled her chest, but it was a bearable rumble instead of a piercing whine.
She bit her lip and turned away from the helpful mechanic.
The idea that the riders rode so fast and crashed fairly often must add to the excitement, but to her, it just seemed dangerous.
She’d watched a couple of horrific crashes online last night before stopping.
It was too scary to think about watching real-time accidents.
Every few years, a MotoGP racer died. Had any of them been Isaac’s friends?
She shook her head, not wanting to think about crashing as she watched the beginning of FP1.
Within seconds, riders streamed past, nice and slow.
Isaac and Yoshi joined them. Many of the racers swerved back and forth, weaving the bikes as they worked their way toward the main part of the track.
She’d have to ask the reason for that later.
She soon lost them from sight around the corner.
The bike sounds faded but didn’t disappear as they returned in less than two minutes.
Turning to a TV screen in the box that showed the riders as they circled the track, she watched in fascination to see the riders in action.
She got caught up in the racing and lap times more than expected.
It was suspenseful and mesmerizing to watch the laps as the speed increased.
She sucked in her breath several times as riders came close to each other or wobbled at high speed.
Once Isaac came half out of his seat, and she found herself clutching her folder so tightly, she had indentations in her hand.
For the first lap or two, each rider rode at a moderate speed, somewhat less than full out.
After that, they did what the commentators called flying laps, where they rode faster and had incredible lean angles as they flew around the track, pushing themselves and their bikes to the limit.
Her hands grew damp as she waited for someone to crash, but the only rider to fall slid across the track as though in slow motion and walked away unscathed with only dusty, scuffed leathers.
There wasn’t much to differentiate most of the riders to her undiscerning eye, except for Vince who pulled her gaze on every lap, as did his young teammate.
They had a similar riding style that seemed more off the bike than on, as they clung to the seat and handlebars by some miracle.
From what she observed, Vince’s abilities were incredible.
It was no wonder he was a twelve-time champion.
Twice she watched with awe as he saved what should have been sure crashes that seemed to be taken in stride and barely affected his lap times.
Those around her seemed unfazed by his near misses—they must be his normal.