Pit Lane Persephone

Chapter 7: Lauren

Sunday, September 8 – Race 14: Melbourne, Australia

My hands shake as I pull the leather gloves over my sweaty palms.

My hands never shake before a race. If they did, that would mean I was nervous. And I never get nervous. Not when I first rode a mini-bike that summer before first grade, not when I began competing under a sponsor, not when the California junior championship title was on the line, and certainly not now.

It's excitement. And adrenaline. Definitely not nerves.

I take a deep breath and suppress the urge to vomit into my helmet. Yesterday, I successfully completed a flying lap during the qualifying session to earn a grid spot for today's race. Granted I'll be starting from dead last, but small victories, right? It's not like I expected to take pole position on my first time out with the "big boys" as Diego put it. Asshat. What I wouldn't give to come in ahead of him at least once.

"You okay, Lo?" Dad pats my back.

I nod, not trusting my stomach just yet to open my mouth.

"I'll see you out there then," he adds, leaving me alone in the back of the pit box.

Seb's already up front, ready to jump on his bike as soon as the techs give the signal. He'd kept to himself all morning, staying in his trailer until just a few minutes ago. Even after showing up, he silently handed his cell and headphones to Nando and took his helmet in return.

I was actually surprised by this. Race day is when everyone who's anyone comes to the track, even if they aren't interested in the actual competition. There are plenty of pictures all over the web of the "stars"—like Austin, Diego, and yes, Seb—with local dignitaries, celebrities, and other big wigs taken in the paddock from earlier this season, so it's not like he was always against it. But times change, I guess.

My teammate may now be an iceman, but the energy inside the rest of the garage is unmatched. Everyone has a job to do as they make last minute preparations. Diagnostics are run. Equipment is checked and double-checked. And then every tool, spare part, and storage container is returned to its proper place so it could be easily grabbed when the time came again.

The rumble of the engines, screams from the crowds, and announcements over the loudspeaker are the most hardcore they've been all weekend, and any communication has to be either through wireless headsets or yelled. Sometimes it's more efficient to use hand signals, like the engineer who's now waving me to my bike.

Seb has just rolled out, and I belatedly wish I had taken his advice during free practice more seriously. Suddenly I feel like I've forgotten everything I know about motorcycle racing. The comfort I had with the track layout even during warm-ups this morning has now evaporated, and I want to have my teammate to follow around like during that last session. But he's going to be running his own race up there, starting from second place. I won't even get near him.

Walking those last twenty feet in an awkward, semi-hunched position thanks to the back hump on my leathers, I also feel like all eyes are now on me. But I'd rather have it keep my head from snapping too far back in case of a crash than being able to stand up straight. The stiff, protective material on my elbows and knees also pull my limbs into forty-five degree angles, but once I'm on the bike, everything fits exactly as designed, and the gear feels like a second skin.

Fans with paddock passes dangling on lanyards around their necks are nearby, snapping pictures and taking video that will probably end up on YouTube and Snapchat within minutes. A marshal signals that the course is clear, and I pull out into pit lane.