Night Wait

Jacob wasn’t exactly sure how he’d worked out that Stoermer Vonich drove around the tracks on a Friday evening, every grand prix weekend. Maybe it was the noise- he also wasn’t sure how no one else seemed to notice, or if they did, seem to care. Maybe it was the fact that he noticed Stoermer’s Ferrari was always the wrong way around in his garage on Saturday mornings.

And he didn’t really know why he came to watch him. It has surprised him how easy it was to sneak into the grand stands at night, or at least at most circuits. Sometimes it meant he didn’t get much sleep, because sometimes the Ferrari would only come out after one in the morning. Sometimes it rained and could be very cold.

He shivered and let out a frosty breath into the crisp night air. Tonight was one of those cold nights. Tracks like Valencia or Spa were usually quite pleasant after the sun went down, but this was Canada, and the temperature dropped pretty quickly.

Wrapping his McLaren team jacket more tightly around him and rubbing his ribs in an effort to get warmer, Jacob craned his neck to see further over the barriers onto the track. He always sat right at the bottom row if he could, out of the way of the brightest lights that were always on at the sides of the seating area, and out of sight of anyone in the windows of the commentary and press boxes.

So this is the ‘glamour’ of the F1 life.

Just as he was sick of the podiums, he was sick of the hiding and the secrecy. He knew it was his own fault, his own fault for falling for someone he could never have, but he hated it all the same.

Jacob reluctantly peeled his sleeve back, exposing his wrist to the cold air as he checked the time. It was past midnight, and he’d usually spot the lights go on in Stoermer’s garage by now. Squinting, he sighed and sat back against the seat again- all the garages past the pit wall were shrouded in blackness.

The track was very dark, but there were a few lights around and it was probably enough to see by. Jacob’s stomach squirmed. He always got so nervous, waiting for the noise of that V8 engine. Often, different scenarios played over and over again in his head- what if he locks up and goes into the barriers, what if something goes wrong on the car, what if he has a serious accident. It was like a broken record, sharp and painful. He didn’t really know what he would do- he had no idea where to find the stewards, they were probably all in bed, and there wasn’t anyone else in particular to call. All he thought about was having to run across the tarmac towards the flames.

It made him feel sick just thinking about it, so he tried, as always, to turn his thoughts away from racing. Instantly an image of his little sister floated into his mind. Jacob’s family was small, but he liked it that way- fewer complications. His mother had died when he was much younger, and he didn’t remember a lot about her, only that she had been quite sharp-tongued and he had thought at the time, unfair and strict. But from what he had heard from his father, she had cared about him very much.

He had been born in the city of New York, but he had never been particularly attracted to it. Too many tight spaces. Far too many people. He had much preferred his long summers in Virginia, karting every day and enjoying the outdoors. It was his father who had first persuaded him to have a go at karting; he’d always had a fascination with cars (mainly the speed factor) but had never previously had the money to start anything. For an F1 driver he started relatively late into the karting championships, but quickly passed in to the Formulae.

He remembered that his mother had never particularly approved of his karting activities, but he wasn’t sure why. At the funeral his father had taken him aside and said, Jacob remembered the seriousness of his tone, that he should always continue doing what he loved, no matter who approved of it or not.

His sister, Jessica Jackson, was born just three months before his mother passed away. It was a hugely difficult time for him and his father, having to manage his karting while looking after a baby on their own. But he didn’t remember much other than the freedom he felt when he raced.

Of course, she wasn’t very little anymore- she turned thirteen next month. Since Jacob had progressed into Formula 1, he had grown more and more distant with his family, his father only occasionally coming to see him race, Jessie hardly ever. But Jacob forgave him for that; it probably only brought back memories of when his mother had been alive, and he suspected that his father didn’t want Jessie growing up in this kind of environment.

The main contact he had with his family was his uncle Robert, who often came to the circuits when they were in Europe, and here in Canada. Jacob really did like his uncle- he was his mother’s brother and so he felt like he was the main link back to her. Robert had been his family support that all drivers seemed to need at one stage or another, and Jacob was grateful for it.

His meandering train of thoughts was cut short as distant footsteps broke the shadowy silence of the grandstand. Jacob’s blood froze as they got louder and his body insisted on staying exactly where he was, as if the darkness would keep him safe. Get up, run that way-

But his legs refused to operate. The footsteps stopped and Jacob reluctantly turned his head, bracing himself for whatever extreme telling off he was about to get-

“Thought you’d be here.”

His eyes widened in surprise and relief. “Valerie?”

“Hey, Jake,” she smiled. His main engineer plonked herself in the seat next to him and shivered. “It’s freezing out here.”

“How did you get in?” Jacob asked, a little stunned.

“Same as you, I guess,” Valerie kept smiling, but he suddenly noticed that her usually enthusiastic olive green eyes were wary and worried. He opened his mouth to speak but frowned and closed it again, sweeping his gaze back to the pit wall on the other side of the track. They sat in silence for a minute.

“Are you waiting for him?” Jacob felt Valerie shiver next to him.

Jacob suddenly felt a flare of anger. “Can I not do anything anymore without someone knowing about it?” he muttered, tempted to stand up, but he wasn’t sure why.

He was hoping Valerie would respond with an equally irritated reply, but she remained silent. After a few moments the anger faded and he sighed, rubbing his eyes and running a hand through his hair.

Still no sign of him.

“Jake,” she began, then hesitated as he glanced at her.

“There isn’t any point in telling me not to,” he said stubbornly.

“I wasn’t going to,” Valerie crossed her arms, shivering again. “I was going to remind you that Joe wanted to talk to you about the set up for tomorrow, and you need to see Karsten before he goes to bed.”

Jacob groaned. Karsten was his trainer out here on track, and while the German was very thorough in his night-before-qualifying exercises, it never put Jacob (or Karsten) in the best of moods. Usually he would get all his jobs done before midnight, so he could come down to the track.

“Is he still up?” he rubbed his cheeks, trying to get some warmth into them.

“Well he usually waits up for you, doesn’t he?”

Jacob detected something else in her tone and narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying?”

Valerie paused again, and it was a long and thoughtful one. “You know the team care a lot about you, you know that, right?”

Jacob stared stonily out past the fence to the pit wall, still watching for any signs of light from the Ferrari garage. Nothing.

“And you don’t have to do this to yourself.”

Jacob turned his head. “Do what exactly?”

She gestured towards the silent circuit beyond the fence. “I’m talking about you, beating yourself up every race. I’m not the only one that notices.”

He gritted his teeth slightly but squared his shoulders. “I doubt anyone would guess.”

“It’s not about if they’d guess or not,” Valerie suddenly snapped. He glanced at her and her expression was not positive. “It doesn’t do you any good, Jake.”

He was about to reply with well I can’t exactly stop it, can I?, then realised how childish that sounded. Once again his anger faded into nothingness.

“I just mean that sometimes, it would do you good to look around at the people who care about you more than he does.” Valerie sighed, reached over and gently squeezed my hand. “I don’t like you being like this, it doesn’t do you or the car any good. You ruined the tyres far too quickly in Spa.”

Jacob couldn’t help but give a little laugh. Silence again. He wasn’t sure how long they sat there for in the darkness, just gazing out onto the track. His thoughts wouldn’t go to his family anymore, he was back thinking about the qualifying he would have to do tomorrow, and the race on Sunday. His main engineer, Joe, certainly thought he could get another podium, maybe even a win if they could get a good position over the Ferrari drivers.

No V8 noise. No light in the pit lane. Nothing.

“Maybe someone saw him last time,” Valerie whispered. It suddenly felt much more silent and Jacob agreed on the need to whisper.

“Apart from me, y’mean?” he asked sarcastically.

She nudged him with her elbow. “You should get some sleep. Q3 tomorrow, Joe said, nothing less.”

Jacob sighed heavily through his nose. “Okay.” He gave another small smile. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

His engineer grinned back, green eyes now back to their normal excitable self. Jacob was relieved. She stood up and disappeared up the shadowed steps.

Jacob sat more upright than before and gave one last, slightly forlorn glance over the track and pit lane opposite. She’s probably right, maybe he realises how stupid he’s being. He swallowed as he realised that sentence could also relate to himself.

‘You know the team care a lot about you, you know that, right?’

Without looking back, he stood up, wrapping his jacket around him once again, and started to walk back to the paddock to find Karsten.

Just smile and you'll be fine

Another race day, another podium.

As Jacob Jackson jogged up those fateful stairs, heart drumming wildly against his chest, he wondered miserably whether it would be worse than last time.

He was used to fake smiling now. Beaming at the race girls who stood, applauding and giving almost equally fake grins back, at the top of the set of steps, he desperately tried to block every single thought out of his head. Just smile and you’ll be fine, Valerie had told him.

The room. There was probably a name for this room but Jacob no longer thought about it, it was just the room. His body was refusing to work properly again, his legs felt like thin strips of paper and fingers fumbled as he hurriedly put on the watch they were supposed to wear.

This isn’t how this is supposed to happen dimly floated through his head. I should be happy.

Time irritatingly slowed down. A camera was hovering nearby but he ignored it the best he could, trying to act like a driver who had just come second should act. He was just being handed a cap when the source of his grief bounced into the room.

He looked exhausted, but excitedly so- his eyes gleamed with delight, his usually tidy black hair was messy and dripping with rain. He had unclasped the neck strap on his crimson Ferrari overalls and waved cheerfully at the camera as he bounded over to the table next to Jacob.

Jacob’s stomach now seemed to fall to the floor with a heavy thud and he desperately willed himself not to collapse. Don’t say anything, just pretend to fix the watch-

“That was brilliant,” the Ferrari driver said breathlessly, and Jacob saw him reach for a watch out of the corner of his eye.

Just ignore him, he’s not talking to you. Then Jacob realised that the third member of their podium, Gilles Lanier, hadn’t yet entered the room. Oh.

“Yeah, shame about the rain,” words tumbled out of Jacob’s mouth without him thinking. As usual the adrenaline that was still surging through his body kept his voice steady.

As the Ferrari driver fitted the cap on his drenched hair he grinned.

He’s waiting for you to say something else-

“What was it, lap 34 I think, started to aquaplane-“ he began, not really sure where he was going, but was interrupted anyway.

“Yes, pretty good, where’s Gilles?” He was still adjusting his cap, and whirled to look at the doorway, droplets of rain peppering Jacob’s neck as he did so.

“Always late, the French,” Jacob attempted a laugh but had to hastily turn it into a cough. He willed with all his heart that time would go faster and Gilles would appear in the doorway so they could get this over with. What you just said makes no sense, you fool.

His brain was already over analysing every single moment that had occurred in that room so far. The Ferrari driver had his back to him and the cameras were focused somewhere else, so for a few painful seconds he could close his eyes, try and be back on the circuit again. Blissfully, he could still hear the screaming of the engines and the bullets of water hitting his helmet if he listened hard enough and shut his eyes tight enough.

Thankfully the Mercedes Frenchman appeared at the doorway, looking vaguely irritated to have been held up by press, and within a few moments all three of them were ushered outside.

The weather seemed to agree with the awful pit that had formed in Jacob’s stomach, and it was still raining, the podium steps gleaming in the dull late afternoon light. Easily drowning out the noise of the water hammering on the surfaces was the mass of screaming fans down below.

Everything was a blur. Like it always was. He was standing on one side of the Ferrari driver- he could see the Ferrari mechanics down below, cheering and screaming and being generally beside themselves. It was their fourth podium out of six races so far in the season; they had reasons to be happy.

It was Jacob’s third time up there this year, and McLaren’s fourth. He could also make out his own mechanics through the lashing rain, mainly Valerie beaming and Joe yelling at the top of his lungs, at the barriers. Suddenly his heart lifted and he so badly wanted to jump down there with them, but instead he gave a wave and thumbs up back to them, his grin not entirely faked this time.

The German national anthem began, well known as being one of the longest on the podium, which was part of the reason Jacob disliked it so much. As soon as he took his eyes off his team, they immediately flicked to glance at the driver stood on the top step.

Stoermer Vonich, his name was. He was quickly becoming a strong and respected driver, easily one of the fastest on the grid and a fiery determination that not many could match. He was only twenty three years old, one year older than Jacob, and he had already driven for three teams and had sixteen podiums under his belt, having only been in F1 for three years.

Jacob blinked the rain out of his eyes, adjusting the cap on his head and fixing his gaze somewhere in the distance, above the heads of the crowd, but the rain dripping constantly off the brim of his hat distracted him. He stole another glance to his right. Stoermer was standing with his chin up and eyes closed, hands clasped behind his back, a truly satisfied and relieved smile playing on his lips, as the anthem went on.

It was difficult, racing against someone you love.

It was also difficult for Jacob to keep the grin on his face, glaring hard into the distance through the sheets of grey water. He hated being up there. Formula One was a glorious sport in which one could avoid a lot of people quite easily. He never had to talk to him on the grid, always avoided him around the paddock and when occasionally he was shoved into a press conference with him, it was quite easy to ignore the crimson cap and black hair in the row in front.

But on the podium, it was unavoidable to recognise the other drivers. Impossible not to at least share a few words about the race, impossible to not at least glance in the other’s direction, impossible to ignore the other’s existence.

To Jacob, podiums were a reminder of what he could never have.

Of course, it would be quite easy to avoid podiums all together. But he was a racing driver, it was physically impossible for him to not do the best he could, get the best out of the car and try for wins. It was what they lived for. But when Jacob had been given a seat at McLaren last season, falling in love was a complication he had not anticipated.

As the anthem ended, there were the trophies, then the inevitable champagne. Jacob moved and laughed and grinned instinctively, letting his body do the work and trusting himself to behave perfectly naturally. He had to. The only one who even had any idea that he was unfortunately in love with a Ferrari driver was Valerie, and while he trusted her completely, he could not afford to let slip anything else. Press followed him almost every waking moment of his life.

He wasn’t even sure if it was love. Love was a weird word to him, something that didn’t quite describe what was happening but it was the closest thing he could think of. As the champagne sprayed and cheers and yells from the crowd reached his ears, he caught a glimpse of Stoermer grinning through the rain. Their eyes met for a fleeting second, and Jacob felt like he was being stabbed in the chest, then it passed.

It probably wasn’t love. The last time he had had an actual long conversation with him had been four weeks ago, in Monaco- Stoermer had asked him what he liked to do outside of racing, while they were in the press circle after qualifying. They got chatting about cooking (Jacob had no idea how the topic had sprung up, he didn’t even like cooking), then someone from Sky Sports had grabbed Stoermer and dragged him away to be interviewed.

No, it was something else, Jacob thought dimly as they left the podium and the rain and headed for the conference room. Occasionally he told himself that it couldn’t be love, and then he would suddenly hope that he could just ignore it.

There was another moment in the corridor, with Stoermer walking just in front of him, where he could let his smile fade a little. It was still hard to believe he was only inches away from him, yet he could never tell him. It would probably ruin him, cost him his seat (not that he thought McLaren would particularly dislike him for it, but they’d have extra pressures and he’d probably quit anyway, rather than put them through that) and not to mention shame Stoermer for the near future of his career.

A little niggling thought at the back of his mind started to ask him the question that he wanted more than anything to know the answer to. But what if he-

They filed into the press conference room, the cameras turning towards them. Fake expression back on. Just smile and you’ll be fine.

---

I've sort of gone a bit mad with the planning for all of this. I've written out most of the drivers, their teams, main mechanics/ team principles and everything. :/ This fic joins on to my other one, and I think any F1 writing I do in the future will be part of this universe :) It's so fun to write, even though I have no idea what I'm really doing and I don't think it's very good. 

Anyway yeah, this was great fun, I'd really appreciate comments if you have the time :)

Night Drive

“The feeling I get when I’m racing is that it’s so much fun and gives me more satisfaction than anything else in life… You have the tremendous forces on your body when you step on the brakes and turn the wheel, your brain screams ‘Stop, that’s impossible!’ But then the car shows you that it can be done.”

Sebastian Vettel

--

Can’t think. Mustn’t think. Noise.

Roaring. The sound is like a thousand wild animals screaming from behind my ears. Impossibly, terrifyingly loud and fills my whole head, sharp tendrils of screeching burrowing into the deepest corners. Impossible. Anything natural should not be able to contain it, anything manmade should shatter and break and tear apart from the sheer force.

I can feel the earth inches away from my body. It protests against me, the power at my fingers and feet as I fly. Blink for a second and the view out into the dark has changed.

The lights on the track are lit but dimmed. Every three metres, blackness. Every three metres I am threatened with the dark, it could suck me in and never let me out; but I hold my nerve. Flash, flash, flash. Warmer and more comforting than the cameras.

Don’t hesitate.

I am alone. Hidden from sight, I can avoid the questions and the doubt and resentment from outside; and concentrate. On the thing I wanted.

Slowly, my fingers mould into the wheel and my legs fit with the contours of the carbon fibre. I don’t relax but it’s the closest I can get. I begin to hear my breathing over the animals behind my head. They were still there, of course, keeping me company and reassuring me that I was still alive and in danger.

As my lines got tighter and tighter with each lap, each corner, I feel the familiar ache of my body saying that it didn’t want to continue with the torture anymore. It was impossible that I was surviving this.

Formula One is about impossible things.

The ache wasn’t an ache anymore; it was more of a lifeline. Telling me that every part of my body was somehow still working and working together with the machine cocooning me.

Soaring.

I knew I couldn’t be out for much longer: not enough fuel. This was when it was best- the smallest amount of fuel possible. Lighter. Faster. Scarier.

Then came the stage of rhythms. I begin to notice distinct patterns in the different sounds around me, around my head. From the steady up and down howling of the engine to the tap of rubber against white paint, everything blends together inside my helmet.

It wasn’t quite Sunday yet. It was Friday night. Other people in the world might go out for a Friday night- well so did I.

Final lap. Sharp and almost painful bolts of electricity spin around my body- scientists call it adrenalin. I love it. The darkest part of the track engulfs me and if I dare to glance upwards I would be able to see the pinpricks of silver against the blackness of the sky.

Then comes the worst part- slowing down. Even as I enter the pit lane my drumming heart sinks.

Speed is what I live for.

The Ferrari sat in the darkened garage, the wrong way around. The driver was still sat in the cockpit, motionless, helmet still on and head tilted back, as if waiting for something. Even though the engine was no longer running, parts of the car were still moving, still hissing and cooling down. The garage, as well as the track, was deserted, as it was nearly two in the morning.

Outside, it was pleasantly warm, on the edge of humidity. A light breeze danced with the trees on the edges of the tarmac but other than that it was mostly silent now.

The driver of the Ferrari slowly climbed out of the car. He laid his snow white helmet on the sideboard and peeled off his balaclava, running a hand through his flattened black hair. Closing his eyes, he stretched his arms out and flexed his fingers, groaning as he did so, and then picked his way around the car again to find the light switch-

“Stoermer, you can’t keep doing this.”

As he flicked the lights on, his heart sank even lower. Damn.

He turned around, and sat on one of the stools at the other side of the garage was another, slightly older man dressed in Ferrari red. “If you seriously thought-“ the man began, but Stoermer cut him off.

“No, I didn’t, I don’t know what I was thinking,” he snapped, inadvertently slipping into a tone of sarcasm. His thoughts were still on the track.

Don’t hesitate, don’t think, just drive-

“You can’t do this again, it’s too much work for us.” The man’s expression was serious, but there was something in his eyes that Stoermer couldn’t quite see from across the garage. His hand was on the door handle that led to the corridor beyond, but he hesitated.

“For a driver you are so stupid sometimes,” the man said gravely.

Stoermer let out a heavy breath through his nose, unclenching his fist from the handle. A tingling, uncomfortably loud silence hung across the empty air over the car.

“Promise me you won’t do another night drive.”

Stoermer closed his eyes. There was no blackness behind his lids- he was back on the track, animals behind my head, corners tearing my body apart, lights go flash flash flash-

“Are you even listening to me?”

“I can’t, you know I can’t,” Stoermer gritted his teeth and turned around, unclasping the neck strap on his overalls. The familiar giddy crackling was firing around his body; he wanted to get straight back in the car and feel that roar again. “I can’t, it’s too…” he hesitated, trying to think of a better word but failed to come up with one- “too good.”

“Sit down,” the older man growled, and Stoermer had heard that tone before, and knew better than to ignore him. So he, as much as his body screamed and protested, promptly sat on the stool opposite him.

“Charlie, you know I can’t-“ Stoermer began, but the angry fire had lessened in his voice.

“Christ, Stoermer, stop feeling so god damn sorry for yourself, it’ll get you killed.” Charlie Bates was one inch shorter than Stoermer at six foot. This was usually to Stoermer’s advantage when they argued, but now they were both sitting down and for some reason Charlie’s stool was a bit higher than Stoermer’s own.

He couldn’t help but scowl. “We said this last-“

“Last time. Last time,” Charlie snapped aggressively. His dark eyes were even more fiery than normal. “That was two months ago. D’you know how long it takes me to cover up your mess after you come back? I had to wake Sam up in Spa!”

“Sam knows?” Stoermer asked, dismayed.

“Yes he bloody well knows! The whole team does!” Charlie clenched his jaw as Stoermer opened his mouth to speak, looking a little horrified. “Okay, not the whole team, I knew someone would blab and we can’t have the press knowing about your foolish-“ he waved an angry hand at the Ferrari sat next to them.

“I only drive for two hours every time, it’s not-“ Stoermer protested, but his chief engineer cut him off again.

“You drive. At night. Night, Stoermer,” he gritted his teeth. “This isn’t Singapore.”

“There’s enough light to see.”

“Not the point,” Charlie snapped shortly. “You make enough noise to wake the whole paddock up. Oh and did I mention that I had to wake Sam up in Spa?” He glared. “Y’know he doesn’t like being woken up at three in the morning. I don’t like dragging my mechanics down when they’ve had no coffee. It took us forever to move the car round.”

“Yeah, I guessed…” Stoermer realised how awful it sounded out loud. “I mean, I wondered who’d moved it round in the morning.” His ears reddened a little- he knew Charlie very well, he wasn’t afraid of arguing with him. But Sam, one of his mechanics, was probably his best friend on the team, and he would have preferred for him to not know about his night driving.

“Last time you said to me you’d stop it.” Charlie fixed him with that piercing glare of his, like an eagle pinning down his prey.

Stoermer ran both hands through his hair. His heart had almost returned to normal, but not quite. When he blinked instead of darkness, he could still see the track blazing out ahead of him. “I like driving at night,” he said carefully, and managed to keep any kind of aggressive tone out of his voice. Charlie didn’t interrupt him so he continued while he felt he had a chance. “It calms me down. I like the empty track, easier to find the right line.” He paused, hoping his words would somehow take effect. “And I’m not hurting anyone.” He knew immediately this was the wrong thing to say.

“What if you went off?” Charlie frowned, intensely serious. “Who’d come and help you?”

Stoermer opened his mouth but closed it again, rubbing his eyes. “I know. Just…”

“Just what?” the anger was back in his voice again. “It’s been two years since you’ve moved here. I am not letting this happen on my watch.”

“But-“ Stoermer looked up, but it was a half-hearted protest.

“You’re not young anymore, you’re supposed to be experienced. Not arrogant.”

“I’m not-“

“Yes, you are being arrogant. Going out there with no stewards around, d’you realise how mad that is?” Charlie looked resigned. “If I catch you again, you’re off the team.”

Stoermer felt like his heart had just dropped to the floor, all the breath knocked out of him. His body acted of its own accord and he stood up abruptly, nearly knocking the stool over.

“And I mean that,” Charlie frowned, but Stoermer thought that the fire had almost gone from his eyes.

Everything was still silent outside the garage, one of the lights on the pit wall flickering and the breeze still playing in the trees. Stoermer breathed in slowly, nodded shortly and with one glance at the car, turned on his heel, walking as purposefully towards the door as he could, but his arms were shaking somewhat. For the second time that night he clenched his fist around the handle and opened the door, gazing into the darkness of the corridor beyond. He paused.

“I know that I could die.” He didn’t look around. “I could die every time I step into that car. But I don’t like doing anything else,” he said simply. “I would risk myself all day every day if I could.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry, Charlie. It’s what I could die for, but it’s what I live for.” Without glancing back, Stoermer walked into the darkness of the corridor beyond.

--

‘These things bring you to reality as to how fragile you are; at the same moment you are doing something that nobody else is able to do. The same moment that you are seen as the best, the fastest and somebody that cannot be touched, you are enormously fragile. ‘

Ayrton Senna