Thorns

16

March 20th
Australian Grand Prix

Lando Norris

Sprinting as fast as I could into the pit lane, I searched for the nearest trash bin.

My eyes frantically roamed the garages, willing to even run into one of the Red Bull garages if it meant I would make it to a trash. Bile was rising quickly in my throat. So quickly I was almost convinced I wouldn't get to a garbage can in time. It was as if everyone in the paddock just decided trash cans were not a necessity with how sparse they seemed to be when I needed one.

My garage was toward the front of the pit lane, so once I got inside, I ran to where the closest trash can was usually placed. I hunched over the sides and released my stomach acid violently. No food and no water. Purely my stomach muscles so tense, squeezing so tight that my vomiting reflex had no choice but to let out what was in my stomach, which was nothing.

Sweat coated every inch of me as I concluded my 5.2-something kilometer run around the Albert Park Circuit. Personally, I preferred my track runs at the ass crack of dawn over the track walks with the rest of the grid. I enjoyed the silence, even if it ended in my thoughts causing my stomach to fold on itself once I ran out of air and energy to keep running. The kilometers never became any easier, but I was usually lucky enough to make it back to the pit lane to puke. Most times at least.

I held myself over the round top of the trash, closing my eyes to try and refocus my breathing. To relax my thoughts now that I ran everything out. And puked it out, can't forget that. It was barely seven, the sun just making its way above the horizon. I had a few hours until my sponsorship meetings and whatever other media day events started, so I wasn't super worried about my composure. However, I didn't want to stay hunched over the trashcan much longer.

It was an ugly sight. Not something I wanted people to see. It would turn into another few thousand articles about how I was such a failure that even my stomach couldn't keep itself together. How I disappointed everyone in my life and that's why I was at the track sweating bullets before the sun rose. How I had nothing left to prove, the same way my stomach had nothing left to throw up but itself. A short story of self-sabotage and dehydration that someone could easily relate to how my season ended in December.

Standing upright again, I looked at what I left in the nearly empty trash bag. It really wasn't much since there wasn't anything to throw up. I didn't enjoy the feeling, but it was the only way I could get my cardio in. Do it when the world isn't watching, throw up my entire stomach where the world will never see, and continue on with my day like nothing ever happened. After firing Jon, this was the only way, whether I enjoyed it or not.

At this rate, why did I fire Jon? My regret was thicker than ever. I hated Jon, but if I could take him back just to get rid of Lelia, I would in a heartbeat. That was a pretty face I never wanted to see again after Miami last year. And the fact I have to look at her every weekend, for hours on end, every promotional event, every workout, every race... everywhere. I saw her face everywhere, whether she was even there or not.

She was like a parasite. Like a computer virus I couldn't get rid of. The kind that makes you give up completely and throw the computer away and just buy a new one because of how painstaking and agitating it is to try and fix it. Because of all the damage it already caused on your current computer that it's not even worth trying to save.

Why did she even bother coming to McLaren? She had all she needed, everything set up for her to be successful at Red Bull. Somewhere where she wouldn't have to be near me. Yeah, I would see her around the paddock, but at least she isn't working for me. Why the fuck did Zak have to dangle the money in front of her? He hooked a stack like it was a worm on a fishing pole and reeled her in.