CHAPTER 12 #2
Isaac wasn’t sure how faithful the new camera crew would be to actual events, and it bothered him that their cameras seemed everywhere—a constant barrage of attention.
His mind flashed back to his birthday and the camera at the restaurant and the crew in Cervera weeks ago.
What had they caught on film? They couldn’t know the real reason he and his brother weren’t speaking.
There hadn’t been a camera at his mother’s. Their story would be skewed.
Despite his efforts to seem civil in public, he and Vince weren’t speaking. After they’d snubbed each other in parc ferme and been glacial on the podium for the last three races, their rift was common knowledge.
At the pre-race conference in Barcelona, Isaac watched Vince work the cameras and reporters with ease.
His easy-going manner impressed Isaac, and he had to give his brother grudging respect for dealing with the press this way for all these years.
Isaac found it nerve-wracking to have to answer all their questions while remaining calm and respectful.
This was the first time he’d been a contender in the championship, and the status came with considerable pressure and attention.
The last time he’d been fighting for a title was his final year in Moto2, ten years ago. While important to the Moto2 teams, that championship had been nothing like this one. The media had manufactured most of this championship rivalry, but that didn’t mean Isaac didn’t feel the demand to succeed.
Vince maintained smiles and a pleasant demeanor whenever the cameras were near, even if he avoided speaking to Isaac.
Isaac struggled to look as smooth on camera.
The situation reminded him of an occurrence that had garnered a bit of media attention years ago.
After a serious on-track racing incident, Vince and his former rival, who’d retired, hadn’t gotten along for seven years.
Despite mutual respect for each other’s racing abilities, the two men had never been friends, and Vince had become an expert on giving diplomatic answers that gave him the high ground.
This experience served him well amidst the current hostility.
Isaac fumbled for composure when the reporter’s words brought him back to the present.
“We understand that as brothers and close friends, you and Isaac have spent hours every day training together. Recently, your brother moved out of the home you shared. Has this affected your training regime? If so, how?” The Spanish reporter waited for Vince’s answer.
Vince glanced at Anna standing at the side of the room. She kept her chin high as she stood at Angel’s side in Isaac’s team colors.
“It’s not my fault if my little brother can’t keep up anymore and has placed less priority on training than I do,” said Vince, his voice sharp. His eyes met Isaac’s. “Perhaps that’s why he’s never won a race.”
Isaac ground down on his molars and kept his face neutral. That had been a low blow.
A different reporter waded into the fray. “If Isaac can’t keep up, how is he your closest championship rival this year?”
“Riding my cast-off bike is keeping him in this championship. Here, it’s the bike, not the rider. Being a champion takes hard work and dedication.” Vince’s dark eyes narrowed as he stared down the female reporter.
She swallowed but motioned her camera crew toward Isaac. She wasn’t cowed.
Was Vince implying that Isaac wasn’t dedicated? After all these years of training together and racing side-by-side, the idea was ludicrous. What a jerk.
“Isaac, what do you have to say? What could be more important than training this time of year?” The brN reporter was giving him a chance to counter.
“Thinking about a life after racing.” Isaac’s gaze cut to Anna’s where she stood with Angel.
Damn. His look, combined with parc ferme celebrations, would lead to more questions.
The ones working on the special might try to get her alone and ask questions.
He’d have to warn her to be careful. Unlike him, she was under no obligation to speak to them.
“What could be more important than racing?” said Vince, not giving up the topic. “More important than brothers? Ask him about his American girlfriend.” He spat the word ‘girlfriend,’ like it left a nasty taste in his mouth.
Isaac jumped to his feet, removed his mic, and dropped it onto the stool where he’d sat.
“I’m not doing this here.” His hands shook with anger.
“If anyone has racing questions, I’ll be happy to answer them later.
My personal life is off limits.” He left the room, the camera following until he was out the door, Angel and Anna following in his wake.
Angel took him aside. The older man’s face showed his concern. “Vince was out of line. Next time perhaps say, ‘no comment’ instead of walking out. It gives your brother too much power. Now, he can say anything, and you aren’t there to defend yourself.”
His crew chief was right, but at the moment, leaving had been satisfying.
“I know. I won’t do it again.” Isaac huffed a breath of air out.
“My brother really doesn’t like it when I don’t do what he wants.
” He’d given in to Vince and put his brother’s needs before his own for so long that he’d forgotten that Vince could be so spiteful.
“Just worry about yourself,” was Angel’s sage advice. “A happy rider is a fast rider.”
In Barcelona, Isaac started from the front row of the grid on a scorching hot day, typical for the first weekend in June.
Track temperatures stayed in the mid-forties—measured in degrees Celsius—all weekend, and almost all the riders chose the hardest tire options possible.
On Saturday, the grip had gone part way through FP4, with few riders finishing the session. Sunday afternoon was even hotter.
During the race, Isaac grit his teeth and pushed hard.
He almost caught Vince and spent most of the race trailing by less than a bike length as they flung themselves through corners and roared down the straights, pushing each other to their limit.
Late in the race, as expected, his tires ran out of grip, becoming slippery.
Cornering became an exercise of will to stay on track, and his muscles shook from the exertion.
Sweat ran down his face and impeded his vision, but he stuck it out. It would be the same for Vince.
Early in the last lap, there was a moment when Vince ran wide.
Isaac hesitated. He chose not to take advantage of the slight lapse because he worried about wiping out.
He told himself that it would have been too dangerous.
Once again, he settled for second place, crossing the finish line a tenth of a second behind his brother.
Standing next to Vince’s turned back in parc ferme, Isaac regretted playing it safe.
The victory had been there for the taking. Why hadn’t he pushed that bit harder?
With this victory, Vince had won three of four races since their fight, and the upcoming races—the last two before the summer break—were some of his favorite tracks.
This had been a stellar first half of the season for Vince, with seven wins already.
His brother had always trained and worked harder than anyone, but now he seemed more intent than ever on winning—at any cost.
His season looked to rival his 2019 season, his most dominant year to date.
With three extra races this year, Vince looked set to shatter his previous record for the most wins, most points, and most podium finishes in a single year for any rider of any class in MotoGP history.
All that success, and yet, he seemed miserable.
From what Isaac could infer from Catarina’s guarded remarks, Vince did nothing except work out and train.
He didn’t socialize or take breaks, even at home.
Now that Isaac was paying attention, in the month since Isaac had moved out, his brother had developed dark shadows under his eyes.
Vince probably wasn’t sleeping. He should be ecstatic and under less pressure because he’d earned a contract extension for the next two years and an option on two more, which he’d earned despite his age.
By the end of that contract, Vince would be forty.
His brother was getting what he wanted: More money, more accolades, and more time racing.
Several contract offers had extended to Isaac, but he hadn’t decided if he was coming back next year.
He turned down offers from all but his current team and let them know he was considering the terms. Angel knew what he was thinking, but management didn’t—Isaac had time before they needed a definitive answer.
The crux of the issue was that he didn’t know how much longer he wanted this lifestyle.
He’d come to grips with this being his last season before it had started, and despite his unprecedented success, he wasn’t sure he wanted to keep racing.
It was mentally and physically exhausting, and despite his recent on-track success, it wasn’t fulfilling enough.
He dropped off his leathers in the trailer and grabbed a Coke.
He resolved to talk to Anna about retirement during the summer break to learn her opinion.
Isaac loved having Anna with him at home and on the road, but being together wouldn’t have to change if he quit.
Some of what had rejuvenated his love of racing had been her excitement and seeing it through her eyes.
His bike was the best he’d had, and his racing had been the most focused and consistent of his career.
Some of that he chalked up to his overall happiness.
Still, racing felt like a placeholder for his real life that he was waiting to start.
What would Anna say if he decided not to race next year?
She’d become a dedicated fan and followed all the stats.
His most of all. Would she be as interested in him if he were just a regular guy at home?
More and more, he didn’t want to be like his brother, with no life other than racing.
Anna had, at last, told him the circumstances that had led to quitting her marketing job last spring.
She hadn’t forgiven her boss but had taken on a limited contract for a single client.
After she completed that job, the company begged to have her back.
To Isaac’s surprise, she refused the more permanent offer.
They wanted her to return to Seattle and offered her a sizeable promotion.
She explained to him she’d never liked her job and told them, “Thanks, but no thanks.” They hadn’t valued her when they’d had a chance, and now it was too late.
He admired she was sticking to her guns.
She wanted to write and see if she could make that a career.
She had seventy-five thousand words written in her story and said she was at about the three-quarter mark.
He could tell she got a lot of satisfaction from writing.
That had value. He frowned. He hadn’t figured out what he’d do without racing, nor had he written in his therapy journal since the day he’d met Anna.
It was probably still back in his old room at Vince’s.
Isaac glanced out the window of his trailer with its view of the back of the garages in pit lane while he waited for Anna.
There was still something or someone bothering her.
Twice this weekend, she’d arrived in the box shaken and upset.
She hadn’t told him what was happening or who she’d spoken to, and he hadn’t pushed.
He respected she wanted to handle it on her own, even if everyone needed help sometimes.
He’d already said she could tell him things, and reminding her again so soon might seem overbearing.
If he relaxed and let her choose the right time, like with the information about her old job, she might yet explain.
He watched carefully and didn’t think it was Vince bothering her, nor did he think it was anyone on the team.
She was popular with his crew, and Angel thought she was smart as a whip.
He’d called her amazing and said she reminded him of his oldest daughter—high praise from Angel—who was devoted to and proud of his daughters who were at university.
Anna still undervalued her worth, but until Isaac understood what else was going on, he couldn’t reason with her. This time, when she arrived, all thoughts of everything except her fled as he pulled her into his arms.