chasing - lando norris

eighteen.

(t.w. - SA)
[cassie klein]

friday, march 22.
australian grand prix - practice.

I rip through turn 8, testing the limits of the new tires and modifications the team made over the break. My heart flutters at the understeer, my tires skidding as I regain control.

"Tommy, there's no grip in these tires," I say, holding my breath as I approach turn 9.

"Copy. Box, Cass, box," Tommy says through the radio.

"Is it something with the car?" I ask, braking through the final corners on the approach to the pit lane.

"Looking into it now, Cass. Uh, we'll send you out after pit and see how we go."

"Copy."

I ease off the throttle, slowing down to enter the pit lane and rolling to a stop between the group of mechanics. They work fast, hoisting up the car as the chorus of drills and whirrs sounds. I'm on the ground as soon as it began, and I put my foot down to exit the pits.

Come on, Cass.

Practice doesn't have an effect on grid positions, but to me every lap counts. The faster I go, the further I push the car, the more comfortable I feel with other drivers on the track during the race.

It's rocky through turns 1 and 2, and I find myself using most of my strength to keep the car on the track.

"No, somethings not right Tommy," I say, easing off the throttle. I can feel the tires loosing traction on the tarmac, the grip completely gone.

"No, Cass, there's a problem with the car. Stop when safe, stop the car." Tommy says, and my heart sinks as I slow to a stop on the edge of the track. "Sorry about that, Cass."

"Thanks Tom," I say, crawling through the halo and hoisting myself out of the car. I rip off my helmet and balaclava, holding them in one hand as the other runs through my hair.

Frustration bubbles in my chest, hammering against my ribcage mercilessly.

I wait, leaning against the wall, for the medic car to arrive. I look over my shoulder and wave at the crowds behind me, masking my frustration with a bright smile. The sound of the cars flying past makes me flinch every now and then, sending small gusts of wind across my face.

It feels like an eternity of simmering in my shame before the car makes it to me. I hang my head as I crawl into the open door, giving one last smile and thumbs up to the audience before shutting the door.

I breathe a sigh of relief at the distance between the crowds and myself.

The ride back to the garage is a painful one, the whole time my mind is preoccupied with the consequences of that practice. I'd made it through the first practice unscathed, setting a solid lap time and feeling out the track. The plan for the second practice was to push the limits and get more comfortable with the track.

The car failing with only 10 minutes left in the hour long practice was not on the agenda.

At least it happened today, and not during qualifying. I try to look on the bright side.

The bright side isn't looking very bright.

Stepping out the car is like a death wish, a group of reporters trying to ask questions and gauge my emotions. I try to smile and keep walking, each question feeling like a stab at my ego.

"Of course it's frustrating, but I trust the team will sort out the problem and we'll be all set for qualifying tomorrow," I say, giving a weak smile and wave as I step into the garage and into the safety of its walls.