Pit Lane Persephone

Chapter 27: Seb (Part 1 of 2)

Sunday, October 27 – Race 17: Mugello, Italy

The Magister Honda bikes have dominated in 3Prix all weekend with Mura and Martin already getting the top two qualifying times leading up to the race. Being sick all week didn't help me one bit, but thanks to the doctor-prescribed extra rest and daily B-12 shots (along with my existing mastery of my home track), I was still able to qualify yesterday in fifth place. When the two-man battle for third midway through today's twenty-lap race knocks Butler and Danielli off their rhythm, I'm right there to take advantage of it.

For the next fifty kilometers, I fight to keep this position all the while breathing second-place Martin's exhaust. I hate trailing the Spaniard, but the nearly forty minute race time is exerting enough when I'm at one hundred percent. Right now I'm running purely on adrenaline, muscle memory, and an extra boost of electrolytes. Although trying to overtake the white and blue Japanese machine is tempting, today it's too much of a risk. Maintaining my position is all that matters.

I need this podium in front of my home crowd. It has nothing to do with Nigel and the team. Screw all that. I want this for myself.

I squeeze the grips harder, my gloves tightening around my fingers. When at two hundred thirty kilometers per hour I whiz past the "P3 L1" notation on my pit board showing I'm entering the final lap still in third place, I begin a mental countdown of the turns remaining. Fifteen.

The bike vibrates under me as the engine purrs, the sound—muffled through my helmet and combined with the ambient wind—the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. With the gentle, green slopes of the Apennines directly ahead, I cross the finish line and drift all the way to the right. But I'm not here for the scenery. It's time to kick some ass.

Running along the tri-colored rumble strips separating the track from the pit lane entrance, I move back left to stay on the ideal race line and lean into the curve. The deceleration into the sharp right at the end of the eleven hundred meter straight forces my entire body weight forward, and my legs tense. Fourteen.

Exiting the hairpin, a ninety-degree left—thirteen—is followed by an equally angled right. Twelve. Tapping down the gear peg with my boot's toe, I shift up to add speed and briefly narrow the gap between my bike and Martin's Honda before another left and right in quick succession. The Ducati's rear wobbles on the exit, but I keep it together. Eleven and ten. The next straight takes me past a Jumbotron screen, but my eyes never leave the track. It leads into a lazy right—nine—before the fast left. Eight. I accelerate again through the next three rights—seven, six, and five—then flip the bike to take the upcoming left. Four. The second hairpin turns me back around one hundred eighty degrees giving me a good view of Kojima, who's now in fourth on the red and black machine, for a moment as we head in opposite directions. My engine grumbles in the lower gears and takes me right again—three—into an almost nonexistent left-and-right combo for two and one. Briefly on the throttle coming into the final corner, I tap the brakes before downshifting. Leaning left, sparks fly as the foot peg scrapes the ground.

Tucking my head down and squeezing my thighs against the gas tank, I stay in the gear until the gauge skirts the red-zone. Shifting up at the last moment brings the most out of the engine, and the bike flies down the smooth, black asphalt. My peripheral vision catches the two leaders crossing the finish line. A split second later, I roar past the checkered flag, too. Finito.

Gradually letting up on my speed, I enter the victory lap to cheers from the crowd and waves from the track workers. On turn two, I straighten up and wave back. I've actually done it. It's not my best result of the season, but I can't stop grinning. While a win would have been amazing, on a day like this—and after the shitty week I've had—third is good. It got me on the podium and also put that second world title within reach. Yeah, today is really fucking good.