Pit Lane Persephone

Chapter 13: Seb

Sunday, September 22 – Race 15: Barcelona, Spain

Spain has some of the most enthusiastic and passionate spectators on the whole road racing calendar. Finishing up the out lap to take my spot on the grid, I glance at the packed stands. Although the blue and white of Magister Honda dominates along with the national flag's unmistakable red and yellow, there's a fair representation of Cadmium apparel and the Italian Il Tricolore. Thousands cheer over the engines, adding to the excitement right before a start.

I weave between the bikes already at their marks, pulling all the way up to the front row. Having qualified in second place, I expect to take the middle spot, but Enzo waves me to pole position. After coming to a stop and cutting the engine, I raise my visor.

"Is this correct?" I ask in Italian.

"This is where the marshal put us." Enzo pokes his thumb at the official in the orange coveralls and bib standing in front, holding a red flag.

I remove my gloves and helmet, placing both on the gas tank. To my right are Nansei Racing's Kojima and Vasteras' Mraz respectively in second and third, so I consider the most likely explanation for Diego not taking the position he earned. "Is Martin out?" I ask. Although I'm not of a believer in karma, it would give me satisfaction after our last run-in.

"The number five Magister Honda bike received a grid penalty," Nigel says, walking up from behind and slapping my shoulder. "Martin was moved back twelve spots for intentionally holding up traffic during qualifying yesterday. The team had been appealing the ruling, but Race Control just finalized the decision."

Oh, shit. That's almost better than the local boy being out of the race all together. A 'Did Not Start' is usually due to illness or a technical issue with the bike that's beyond a rider's control. But a penalty is undeniably Diego's to own. And at his home race, too. The guy must be extra pissed off right about now.

I wipe my forehead with a towel one of the techs had draped over the handlebar. In spite of the shade from the umbrella girl, I'm already sweating in my suit. I wish we could just get the race started. This circus we have to hold every single time before a race wears me out more than the first five laps of direct competition.

Twisting my body in the seat, I look back, but the amount of people hanging out on the grid is so massive I can't see past the second row. When I turn forward again, Nicola is approaching with a buff guy in a tight, black t-shirt, Cadmium Racing baseball cap, and a VIP badge on the lanyard around his neck. Two video cameras and several photographers are trailing closely behind.

Our press officer hangs slightly back from the guest and mimes a 'this is the guy I told you about' message. Putting the towel down, I wait for the oft-practiced celebrity meet-and-greet. If I remember correctly, this one is a Scottish actor who's shooting a Hollywood blockbuster down in Malaga. A few pictures in the news will help promote both of us.

"Hey, Seb." The guy extends his hand with a smile, stopping by the bike's front wheel. "It's bloody great to meet you. I'm a huge fan."

"Thanks, man. Do you ride?" I ask, per Nicola's earlier recommendation. Finding mutual ground makes these encounters less painful, even if it's basically the same thing every other week.

The actor strokes the dark blonde stubble on his chin he'd grown out for his role as a pirate. "Only when my contract allows for it—you know, insurance and all—which happens to be less and less these days." He laughs, turning slightly toward the cameras.

"For sure." I nod, not caring one bit.

"You're on track for another championship, yeah?" the actor asks, crossing his arms.

I hate this assumption. Everyone always has more or less of a similar chance at doing well in a race. Even those who usually bring up the rear could occasionally finish well if the frontrunners mess up. The system of awarding twenty-five points for first place, then decreasing by five, four, three, two and one point for every other spot in the top six—then continuing to go down by one for places seven through fifteen, which earns one point—gives a big boost to those who occasionally do really well. Consistency only counts if you are always good. And your performance is always measured against how others finish. My chances at another world title can disappear with one bad move, whether through my own fault or through someone else's.

But at least the comment isn't as ridiculous as what that one American TV chef had said to me in the pit box at Sepang. "Sweet ride. I bet it gets you a lot of fine ass, am I right?" The man twice my age had then laughed at his own stupid joke.

"I do my best and we see if it is enough," I answer the actor's question now, hoping it will end the chit-chat to get me back to focusing on the race and the other guy off to drink his endless supply of Perrier waters in the VIP lounge.

"All right, man. I'm looking forward to seeing what you got. Good luck out there." Mr. Hollywood Movie Star who didn't even bother to introduce himself gives me a man-hug that's a weird combination of shaking hands, bumping shoulders, and tapping each others' backs.

"Grazie," I say with a final nod before the guy moves along.

Drying my head with the towel one more time, I pull my helmet back on just in time to avoid the trackside commentator. Armed with radio transmitter headphones and an auxiliary microphone, Andy has finished with Tobei and is happily trudging toward me. When I give a nearly indiscernible shake of my head and politely wave him off, he moves on to the second row.

There are still a few minutes until the grid is cleared and the sighting lap starts. But all I want to do until then is get everything out of my head and focus. Closing my eyes, I imagine the whole course, corner by corner and all that's in between. My hands subconsciously twitch as I mentally maneuver each turn in the proper gear, and my head tilts to mimic changes in direction.

I return to reality when the one-minute warning horn sounds. Pulling my gloves on, I wait for the techs to remove the stand before revving the engine. When everyone's off the grid, the marshal crosses the lane in front with the red flag. As soon as he's out of the way, we're off for the lap to warm up our engines and ensure there are no problems with our machines before the race finally begins.

The wind is cool against my neck, the only part of my body that isn't directly protected. I don't force nailing the start and four others get to turn one ahead of me, but it's a good chance to observe what my closest competitors can do before it really matters. Following their pace, I get loosened up for the upcoming twenty-two laps. With any luck, this will be the only time I'll have to stare down someone else's tailpipe.

I'm both relaxed and excited, always a good combination right about now. My tires are still a bit cool, sliding more than they'll be later in the race, but the handling feels perfect. After less than two minutes, the head of the gaggle exits turn thirteen. Although I need to stay focused on lining up for a good start, unexpected movement trackside catches my attention.

Past the low barrier wall, a coverall-wearing track worker is pushing a yellow and black bike up pit lane. On the near side, Lauren kicks the grass verge before stomping out the open gate. If she can't take to the grid now, she's out of the race, but what happened? Continued electrical issues? Man, if it is, that sucks.

As much as I want to know, I'm seconds away from show time. Taking the front spot once again, I put my right foot down, hold the clutch with one hand and rev the engine with the other. The air vibrates and the crowd must be on its feet, but all I see are the four darkened lights in the horizontal signal above the grid. When all turn red in quick succession then go out, I release the throttle and accelerate.

Kojima to my right gets a better start, and I can see Watts, Mura, and Mraz all in our lead group jockeying for an advantage. The first turn at this speed comes all too fast and leaves no time for armchair analysis, but when I beat the Japanese rider's red and black Honda into the first right hand corner, I have a good feeling I'll be standing at the top of the podium once again.