Thorns

07

March 1st
Bahrain Grand Prix

Lando Norris

Pacing around the garage was the only thing that could even somewhat calm my nerves. My heart rate was racing through the roof, my thoughts flooding every corner of my mind in a panic. I hadn't slept. I had barely eaten. I fucked up.

My chances at pole were stripped from me by the one person I was hoping had come to the track with a poorly engineered car and a bad attitude. Instead, I was the poor sport who ended up with that.

The MCL38 was fast, better than whatever the fuck they handed me for preseason testing. But it was only fast enough to land me at a P2 start. After crossing the line following my final flying lap in the third qualifying session, my heart was beating out of my chest anxiously as I awaited Will's voice to announce my position.

"And... that's P2 Lando, P2," he finally broke the news, sounding just as disappointed as I would have expected him to for announcing anything that wasn't P1. If my heart rate at that moment could have been powering my car instead of the engine, I was sure I would have finished with a P1.

The words of Zak from earlier that day had rung through my head, and they haven't stopped since.

Zak was in Oscar's garage, speaking with him about something that was short of my knowledge. If I had to make an assumption though, it wasn't anything demeaning. Zak loved Oscar, just like the rest of McLaren. He was the golden boy who started to get all of the attention, despite his results consistently lower on the grid than mine. He had qualified P4, yet Zak praised his actions as if his other driver, a world championship contender, wasn't in P2.

But in Zak's words, "Lando Norris shouldn't be in P2, just how Max Verstappen shouldn't be in P1."

After their conversation came to an end, Zak walked past my garage and out to the pit wall, taking a seat and sliding his headset over his ears. Instead of letting the little boy inside of me feel sad without his approval, anger fueled me. Whatever. I didn't want to talk to Zak any more than he wanted to talk to me. We were both angry at each other, but both for different reasons. The only common denominator with our disagreement was my P2 from qualifying.

My feet wouldn't stop, the pacing getting faster as I peeled the Velcro at the top of my race suit off and refastened it again over and over.

"Five minutes to start of the formation lap. Let's get going," Will spoke through my earpieces, which had been dead silent in my ears for the last ten minutes that they had been in my ears. They drowned out most of the noise, allowing my thoughts to fuel my adrenaline to get on the track and prove to everyone that P2 was a mistake. Irritation forced an eye roll at the sound of Will's voice, but I followed the order.

I grabbed my balaclava and slid it over my head, adjusting it to hold all of my hair back and sit comfortably around my face. I grabbed my gloves and slid both of them on, wiggling my fingers around to make sure the fit was okay. One of my pit crew members, Joel, handed me my helmet, which I yanked on my head and met with my HANS device.

Stepping into the car, I felt angry. Angrier than when I slid into the seat yesterday before qualifying. Angrier than Abu Dhabi last December when I was a few points away from putting my hands all over a World Driver's Championship trophy, and ended up just short. I grabbed the steering wheel from off the top of the car, twisting and locking it into place.