𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐈 | 𝐂𝐋𝟏𝟔

𝐗𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈

·˚ ༘

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April 25th 2023

CHARLES LECLERC

The sun of Baku beat down on the city streets, reflecting off the skyscrapers and historic architecture. Even in the early morning, the air was thick with heat and the scent of the Caspian Sea. I stood on the balcony of my hotel room, taking in the view for a moment before heading out. Today was all about preparation. Every race demanded perfection, and Baku was no exception.

I pulled on what I'd usually wear for days like these—a simple black T-shirt and shorts—grabbed my water bottle, and headed to the hotel gym. As I walked through the lobby, a few guests recognized me and offered nods or words of support. I smiled and waved, feeling a mix of pride and pressure. Every gesture reminded me of the expectations I carried on my shoulders.

The gym was quiet, nobody ever goes to hotel gyms anyway. I spotted my trainer, Marco, already setting up. He was a no-nonsense kind of guy, built like a tank. He greeted me with a firm handshake and a pat on the back.

"Ready to sweat, Charles?" Marco asked, his voice gruff but warm.

"Always," I replied, stretching my arms above my head. "What's on the agenda today?"

"Start with a warm-up run on the treadmill, then we'll move on to strength training. After that, some reaction drills, mental exercises, and neck training. You know the drill."

I nodded, stepping onto the treadmill. As I started running, I focused on my breathing, letting the sounds of my steps and the machine drown out my thoughts. The view of Baku's skyline, visible through the large windows, blurred into a haze of colors. This was my time to zone in, to push everything else aside and dedicate myself fully to the grind.

After the run, Marco led me through a series of strength exercises—deadlifts, squats, and core work.

"Keep your form tight, Charles," Marco instructed, his eyes sharp and watchful. "Don't rush. Quality over quantity."

I grunted in acknowledgment, focusing on maintaining perfect form. Sweat dripped down my face, my muscles burned, but I welcomed the pain. 

Once the strength training was done, we moved on to reaction drills. Marco had set up a series of lights and sensors that tested my reaction time and hand-eye coordination. 

"Alright, Charles. Ready?" Marco asked, holding a stopwatch.

I nodded, my eyes fixed on the first set of lights. The drill began, and I moved swiftly, hitting each target as it lit up. My focus was laser-sharp, my movements instinctive. Marco called out encouragements and corrections, his voice a steady guide through the rapid-fire challenge.

"Good, keep it up! Faster, faster!" Marco urged.

I pushed harder, my hands flying between the targets. The world narrowed down to just the lights and the rhythm of my breath.

Finally, the drill ended, and Marco clicked the stopwatch. "Impressive time, Charles. You've shaved off another half-second from last week."

After the session, Marco clapped me on the shoulder. "Great work today, Charles. You're ready."

I nodded, feeling a sense of accomplishment. "Thanks, Marco. I couldn't do this without you."

He chuckled. "You do the hard part, Charles. I just make sure you stay on track."