chasing - lando norris

thirty five.

[cassie klein]

sunday, may 26
monaco grand prix

Everybody knows that where you start in Monaco is probably where you're going to finish.

P11 is not where I wanted to start, and is definitely not where I want to finish. Don't get me wrong, I'm ecstatic for Lando's P2 and Charles' pole at his home race; we celebrated that one last night at Charles' favourite restaurant with a disappointing lack of alcohol. But my own performance in qualifying yesterday was abysmal.

The steady thrum of the car buzzes through me as I wait somewhat patiently for the big hand of the clock to tick toward the 12. The final moments before the formation lap feel surreal, no matter how many races I've started. All the crew step away, leaving what was once a crowded and bustling grid a ghost town, aside from the 20 cars eager to start racing.

My foot twitches above the throttle as I watch Charles and Lando take off from my significant distance behind them. I wait what feels like an eternity before I step my foot on the throttle and start my formation lap. I weave left and right, trying to warm up the tires as I contain myself behind Pierre.

During the lap my mind wanders to something I definitely shouldn't be thinking about during a grand prix.

But I can't help myself.

The picture of messy curls and bright eyes flashes in my head, setting butterflies loose in my stomach at the mere thought of him.

God, am I pathetic?

I try to stifle the thoughts - push them to the back of my head and focus on the track and the race and the cars in front of me and the orange of the McLaren on the front row and the person in the cockpit-

"Radio check?"

I drag myself from the depths of my swimming thoughts and claw my way back to the present at the sound of Henry's voice.

"Yeah, copy," I reply before taking a deep breath. I'm suddenly aware of the fact that I'm turning the final corner and the grid is coming back into view. Nerves spark in my chest, crackling and fizzing as I lift off and slow to a stop at my spot at number 11.

I coach myself through some deep breaths as I wait for the final cars to line up. I replay the plan we formulated in my mind over and over, picturing the result in my head as if doing so will bring it to life.

Aim for a podium. All else fails, we're still in the points.

Simple. I can do this. Just make some overtakes and make sure you don't get undercut. Easy.

I watch the first light illuminate.

In and out, in and out.

The cars roar to life as the lights disappear.

I can do this.

*****

A red flag not even one lap into the race was - surprisingly - not on my bingo card.

It does absolutely nothing to calm the storm of nerves that's settled itself in my chest as I sit at the pit wall, headset on to listen to the engineers, and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The only somewhat comforting part of this whole mess is the fact there is three less drivers behind me - as messed up as that probably is. I'm glad Checo, Nico and Kevin are okay, but it also means that in the very worst case scenario, I'll finish P17.