Thorns

19

March 23rd
Australian Grand Prix

Lando Norris

The engine drones beneath me and the tires grip the asphalt with a force that almost feels like it's tethering me to the track. I barely register the roar of the crowd in the grandstands; all that matters is the stretch of tarmac ahead, the fleeting seconds where I can make it count. The heat from the car's cockpit presses against me, but it's nothing compared to the fire burning inside my chest. This is it. This is the moment that makes all the pain, all the sacrifice, worth it.

Max is ahead of me. The gap is small, just a few tenths. The race has been long, but I've been watching him, studying his moves, and I know he's giving everything to hold this lead. I've got to do the same, and then some. The pressure is suffocating, but I thrive in it.

Max's pace has been consistent, smooth, and almost effortless. But I know him well enough to know that he's pushing just as hard as I am. The difference is I've got something to prove. This race, this weekend, it's more than just points. It's my shot to prove that I'm not just a contender. I'm the one who should be leading.

I can hear William's voice in my ear, calm and controlled, but I don't hear the words. I'm too focused, too immersed in the rhythm of the car and the track. My hands grip the steering wheel tighter as I take the next corner, pushing the limits of the car's capabilities, daring it to hold onto the edge of control. The tires protest under the strain, but I don't back off.

Max pulls away a little on the straights, but I close the gap through the corners. It's not enough, though. Not yet. I need more. I need to find that extra fraction of a second that will bring me closer, that will give me a shot to overtake him. The pressure is mounting. Every move I make could be the one that decides everything. Every gear change, every braking point, every inch of the track I cover. It's all part of this relentless drive to get to the front.

The team is feeding me data, but it's just noise in the back of my mind. It's me versus Max, and everything else fades away. I push harder, my body instinctively moving with the car, staying in sync with the machine. I feel the sweat start to trickle down my face, the grip of my gloves dampening as I make a late dive into turn four, threading the needle between precision and risk.

Max's rearview mirror flashes before me, and I see his car shift slightly, just a flicker of hesitation. I know that look. It's the kind of thing that happens when you're under pressure. You try to force a perfect lap, but the smallest mistake can break everything. I've seen it happen before, and I'm hoping this is the moment.

I push even harder. My foot is pressed to the throttle like I've never pressed it before, my eyes locked on the road ahead. The car responds, the engine screaming beneath me, the steering wheel vibrating in my hands. I'm not just fighting for a position anymore. I'm fighting for everything I've worked for. The sleepless nights, the days of sacrifice, the pressure that never lets up.

I'm closing the gap. Slowly, but surely. The gap between Max and me, between first and second, starts to shrink.

I can almost taste the win. It's so close I can feel it in my bones.

I'm driving beyond my own limits now, barely aware of the heat radiating from the car, the sweat soaking through my race suit. Every muscle in my body is engaged. My back stiffens, my legs burn from the constant pressure, and my neck screams for relief as I fight to keep my head steady.

The world is nothing but the track, the car, and the race. Nothing else is real.

And with one final push, I'm right behind him. I can see the gap narrowing, the tires squealing in protest as I brake later and later, pushing the car to the brink of disaster. The adrenaline is coursing through me, my heart thumping in my chest like a drum.