THREE - Daniel Ricciardo

Chapter 43 - Silverstone

DANIEL

What a shitty day, what a shitty race. The result a resounding confirmation in my head that stepping away from the shit show that was my driving, would be a good thing for me. Thirteenth! Fucking thirteenth. No points scored, no credibility gained. Just another figuratively speaking car crash of a drive. I wanted to scream, punch Zak square in the face and tear down the car piece by piece. The only part of me that cared was the fact in which Lando had come sixth, scoring eight points for the team.

To top this shitty day off was the fact that McLaren had organised my birthday dinner this evening, which meant that I had to put on my best fake smile and pretend I wanted to be there when all I really wanted to do was bury my head underneath the bedsheets and pretend I didn't exist. My embarrassment grew deeper at the knowledge of Amy's parents, brother, sister-in-law and niece were all upstairs watching me from the paddock this afternoon. I didn't want to face the sympathy and comments from onlookers who felt sorry for me when deep down they were questioning my abilities.

"Fuck this!" I screamed and threw my water bottle so it collided with the back wall in my drivers room. Michael sat in the corner, ignoring my outbursts as he continued to swipe his phone. My fists balled up either side of me, wanting to smash my way out of here and physically hurt everyone on the outside of it. Michael had always kept me grounded, allowing me to have my aggressive episodes before moving on to the next chapter, not wanting to dwell on past events. Michael's rule was to only focus on the day and let it go the day after. He wanted a clean slate on a morning; 'don't let the previous 24 hours spill over into the next.'

"Pull yourself together, mate. Amy's family are upstairs." He reminded me as he stood up and placed a cap onto his head, picking up his water bottle.

"Fucking brilliant. I can't wait to explain why I'm so fucking shit at my job." I exhaled and placed my hands onto my hips, controlling my breathing ensuring my heart beats were regulated and controlled.

Something every Formula One driver had the ability to do is control. Not only over the car but over yourself. On a bad day, you need to face the media and that can sometimes be extremely jarring on days like today. On days where you don't want to talk to anyone or have to explain yourself. Days where you just wanted to tell the world to 'fuck off' and move on. I couldn't exactly tell that to Amy's parents though so I needed to gain perspective.

One thing which almost always calmed me down is to remember Monaco 2018. My most ballsy drive to date. One where I finally had redemption and I finally proved to all my haters that I could do it. That I could drive around those tight corners and bends like a mad man, someone who had a death wish or bounty on their head, and bring home the bacon. I was on pole position, seven fucking seconds ahead of Vettel. What a moment.

Michael's hand patted my shoulder as I calmed down, moving out of the drivers room and guiding me up to hospitality where I would be paraded around like a freak in a freak show before the horrible media duties started. Carlos passed me on the way, sweaty and stinking of champagne. For him, this was his first podium, a massive victory. I hugged him tight and congratulated him, understanding the elation he must feel within. The resounding relief when you win your first race is a feeling which cannot be reciprocated again.

Amy's body turned around as we walked into the room, many people applauding as I entered, smacking my back and informing me that I provided a good drive or that it was a shame about the result. Either backhanded compliment given to me was something I just needed to smile away. Brush off and move on to the next statement made about this afternoon's race.

How I wished that in the blink of an eye, everyone
would disappear from this room, leaving only Amy and myself in here. Where I could hold her, or she could hold me, and we could be in each others arms for the foreseeable.