Full Throttle

Eau Rouge

"Who do you think is gonna win?" I asked Lando, who was beside me. We were waiting for our media interviews and watching the Formula Two race that was about to start.
"I'm not sure to be honest. Oh, that was a good start there!"
"Yeah, fucking hell!"
It was nice watching people that I used to drive against, and actually being able to cheer everybody on now that I wasn't driving against them anymore. We watched on the big screens as the cars passed the line to start the second lap.
"Jesus Christ, the speed that they're going up Eau Rouge, doesn't feel like that in the car, does it?" I laughed. My laughter quickly faded, and I grabbed Lando instinctively as one of the cars spun out towards the end of the turn, causing the car behind to swerve, hitting the barriers and crumpling at the, what I thought must be about 160mph speed. Another car hit the car that went into the barriers and rolled, breaking the first car up even more.
"Fuck," I gasped. "Who was that?"
"I don't know. Fuck, that was horrible. Please let them be okay," Lando said, almost whispering. I looked around, hearing the wail of the ambulance and releasing my grasp on Lando's arm.
"Alex!" I called over my old teammate. "Alex! Who was that? Did you see who it was?"
"No. Fuck, I hope they're okay."
I checked my watch.
"Shit, I'm late for briefing. I'm sorry, I've got to run," I said, taking off in the direction of the motorhome, my mind still on what I had just witnessed.
"I'm sorry I'm late," I said, coming to a stop inside of the briefing room.
"Did you see who was involved in the crash?" Pierre asked. I shook my head and sat down. The briefing started up again, but I couldn't properly pay attention; neither could Pierre by the look of it. I wrung my hands, trying to keep my focus, but my brain just wasn't with it. Sharp pains flared up in my chest and I winced, reaching for my bottle of water that sat on the desk, only to find that my hands were shaking as I picked it up. The door opened and I looked towards the person standing at the door.
"The drivers involved in the crash were Juan-Manuel Correa and Anthoine Hubert."
My eyes shot to Pierre, who sat frozen in his seat. Anthoine was his best friend. I put my hand on his shoulder.
"I'm sure that he'll be okay," I whispered, although I didn't believe it, and I don't think he did either. Coming out of that meeting room 15 minutes later and walking down the steps with Pierre was tense. We saw his family in the main area with tears in their eyes. My heart sank, and Pierre crumpled, his face breaking as he spoke in slow French.
Anthoine was dead.

"Charles!" I knocked gently on his hotel room door. Behind me were George and Lando, carrying a few beers. It was time to extend what had become tradition after a bad day. The Formula 2 race had been cancelled after the crash, although that was inevitable, and we had each used our own time when we got back to the hotel to let out our feelings alone. I'd texted the two men standing behind me and asked if they fancied a beer. They'd said yes, and so I'd gone out to buy some. We decided collectively to include the Ferrari driver in the make-shift therapy session, and we'd discussed whether or not to go to Pierre as well. We'd come to the conclusion that he probably wanted some time alone; Anthoine was his best friend, after all. The door in front of us opened to reveal a red-eyed Charles, who looked tiredly at us before seeing the beers and inviting us inside. We sat on the balcony. No exchanging of words happened, only the passing of beers and the cracking of bottle tops filled the empty space around us. There was nothing to say, nothing to feel, nothing that could put into words the shock and denial and grief that buried itself at the pits of our stomachs. We'd lost one of our own, and that was something that nobody would ever be able to describe the feeling of. Anthoine, as we all knew, was a good racer, and most important of all, he was a good person. I'd only spoken to him a few times, but seeing him race, there was no doubt in anybody's mind that he would have been in formula 1 before too long. Everyone spoke highly of him, and it was certain that he would be missed greatly within our sport. Even though we as racing drivers were never scared of our sport, his death had reminded us all of the dangers we face whenever we climb into our cars. For me, the consequences of gambling against those dangers were all too present in my mind; my own crash was forefront in my thoughts with every passing second. I looked around me at my friends, all of them seemingly deep in their own thoughts, and placed a hand on Charles' shoulder. He turned to me; our thoughts being exchanged between one another through a simple glance. There was nothing any of us could say to dispel what we were all feeling. We had each other's company, and in a time such as this, that was all we could be fortunate for.