Burn

Chapter 34: Superstition

MAX

Days before every F1 race, drivers and engineers from each team participate in a time-honored ritual.

The track walk.

Sometimes this happens on Wednesday, the day before practice. Other races, like this one in Montreal, the track walk happens on Thursday morning, prior to practice. For the seasoned drivers like me, it's optional, and for the younger drivers, it's essential.

Walking the track is a way to get to know the circuit. See if anything's changed since last year. Look at the curbs, and judge in our minds how our cars — and our driving — will fare. It's also a chance for the team social media crew to get photos and videos of us scrutinizing every millimeter of the track, and fans believe that we're doing this to look for any possible advantage on race day, however small.

Mostly, though, the track walk is tradition. For me, it's superstition. I could shrug off, having won here in Montreal four times in my career. God knows I have a ton to do, from charity appearances here in the city, to autographs, to a session with my physical therapist.

But I enjoy the walk, and today with Esteban, Jack, and a few other engineers, is no different. We're gathered to walk around the 4.361 kilometer circuit — that's just over 2.7 miles — in drizzly, cool weather.

The four of us are bundled in black Team Onassis windbreakers, and Esteban and I are wearing knit caps. It's that chilly out here, and neither of us want to risk getting a cold.

As we leave the garage, the our group of engineers protectively form a circle around Esteban and me — this is also the day when fans with week-long, VIP tickets can stroll around pit lane. We don't need to be distracted or delayed by people seeking photos or autographs.

A few people slip through, though, so Esteban and I pause to accommodate them. Both of us are big softies when it comes to that, never turning down a request if we don't have to.

Finally, we're out on the asphalt of the track, walking briskly. The Circuit Gilles Villeneuve is one of my favorite tracks in the world, actually. While I love Monaco for the glamour and street racing, and Singapore for the night circuit, the Montreal track is unique because it's set in an actual park, one that's normally open to the public, except on race week. It's situated on an actual island in the St. Lawrence River, but also a quick subway ride to the heart of downtown.

We set out in the soft rain. Jack and I spread out from the others, and several hundred yards ahead I see another team doing the same thing we are.

I couldn't get enough of this track. I wanted to soak it all in. That was the joy of the track walk, seeing the course in its pristine state, without fans, without engines. It was just me and the asphalt, and it always feels like I'm soaking up the energy of the track with every step I take.

"How were your few days off?" Jack interrupts my reverie with a hesitant tone, then clears his throat. "I saw the photos of Lily at the hospital."

I keep walking, my hands stuffed in my jeans pockets.

"She's doing much better. The doctor said she's got quite an allergy to those plants," I say in a clipped tone, hoping he won't ask more questions.

"Mate, let me give you a piece of advice," he says.

I glower at him. He's going to warn me about Lily's father, the man who signs my paycheck. Surely Jack understands that since I'm at the peak of my career, I'm practically untouchable.

"No woman is worth your career. You've still got years ahead of you in this sport."

I remain silent, mulling this advice over. Do I have years left? At twenty-nine, I'm on the cusp of the twilight of my racing career. Sure, other guys have stayed in until their mid-thirties and early forties. But the reality is, this is a young man's sport and the injuries I've sustained are bound to slow me down at some point.

As we walk, I think about all the times I've raced on this track. It's always been good to me — great, actually. I've won five of the seven races I've been in here. That first, when I was only twenty-two, was my first podium. I'd come in third, and that was when I was dating Lily.

I'd stood on that stage after the race, spraying champagne in the crowd. All I could think of was celebrating with her. Taking her in my arms and kissing her. Holding her tight, and never letting go.

I don't care what Jack, or the world, says. I've wanted Lily for years, and pride and a sense of decency kept me from contacting her. Now that she wants me, I'm not letting her go again. Even the thought of her by my side gives me a new energy about this weekend's race, as if everything I'm seeing and experiencing is fresh again.

About a kilometer into our walk, the sun peeks through the thick foliage of pine trees, and I take a deep breath. The scent of rain and fresh-cut grass tickles my nose.

We're now at turn six, and Jack stops on the steep embankment, waving me over.

"They've redone the curbs here," he says, pointing to the embankment. "It feels steeper than last year."

Doesn't everything feel steeper than last year, more difficult, more fraught with potential roadblocks?

This is what I'm best at, though. Overcoming obstacles. Winning when it's impossible, just like when I started from the back of the pack three years ago here in Montreal, and ended up third on the podium, keeping me in play for the championship. All the racing analysts on TV said I couldn't do it, but I did...

I look at the curb and nod, taking it in. Unlike what the race fans see on television, embankments are often steeper than they look — and they can be pitfalls for the drivers. Deadly ones, in some cases.

We continue walking, with Jack and I chatting about various adjustments I need to make at certain corners. Our little group pauses at a new speed bump, which was installed at a chicane to keep drivers from cutting the corner. We all stand on the bump and jump up and down a little, talking about how we'll handle this in the cars.

Then we round the hairpin and saunter down the straightaway. The rain picks up, pelting us with cool, steady pinpricks. As the pits come into view, my phone buzzes in my pocket. It's a text from Tanya, and I have to hold my hand over the screen to shield it from the rain.

Please meet me ASAP in the conference room after your track walk.