“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. ‘
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