Pit Lane Persephone

Chapter 29: Seb (Part 1 of 2)

Sunday, November 10 – Race 18: Laguna Seca, California, USA

An electric guitar cover of Pachelbel's Canon in D blasts through my ear buds as I wait in the back of the box for pit lane to open. On the other side, my teammate is already wearing her helmet, and she's flexing her legs to stretch out her suit. From here, you can barely see the scuff on her new, white leathers from her low-side crash in pre-race warm ups.

She wasn't hurt and even minor the damage to her bike was purely cosmetic, so I shouldn't be worrying about it. But it's too easy to lose confidence on a day like today, even for a pro like her.

Of course, I'd have a better idea about her state of mind if we'd had a chance to talk. But between me being busy with local racers, reporters, and VIPs and her never-ending trail of friends stopping by the pit box, we didn't have a moment alone. Her friend Cameron and that Tanner guy who crashed here a few weeks ago are also here with Marcus, getting ready to watch the race. Tanner's arm is still in a sling, but that hasn't stopped him from bragging about how he was first in this or top in that when talking about his racing career. Asshole.

"Andiamo!" Enzo yells, getting my attention.

Pulling the buds out and my helmet on, I finish prepping as I walk to the bike. Lauren is on her way out too, and I hold up my hand for a high-five. She nearly leaves me hanging, but her glove smacks mine at the last second.

I wait until she pulls out into pit lane before I also follow her around the track to the grid one last time. Shit. This will be our last race together for a very long time—if not forever—won't it? The realization hits me harder than I thought it would, but I can't lose focus. Feelings can wait. The next hour is about action.

I take the last few corners while watching Lauren's form. She has hundreds more hours on this track than I do, so I've stolen a few of her moves already. I can still beat her on the straights, but she's way more fearless than me in the turns. The way she flew down the inclined corkscrew for the first time in front of me on Friday caused me to curse out-loud. When I tried to replicate her line on the next lap, I nearly crashed.

She was probably pushing even harder this morning during warm-ups, which led to the mistake. It was both stupid and admirable. She had everything to lose and nothing to gain from having a good practice session. She'd already earned the number eleven grid position during qualifiers yesterday, and she could have irreparably damaged herself or the bike—or even both—this morning ahead of the race. But I don't fault her one bit for the gamble, and I'm pretty sure it's for the same reason that Nigel didn't give her grief about the incident.

She's on home turf. It's her last race. She's ready to own Laguna Seca or go down trying.

I should have done the same thing two weeks ago at Mugello. Actually, I should have done the same thing yesterday, too. I left nothing to chance and qualified second. That pretty much sums up my whole season, doesn't it? Being number two in so many ways, whether on the track against my competitors, in the pits compared to Austin, or in the life of the most amazing girl I've ever met.

Stopping in the middle spot on the first row of the starting grid, I let the techs prop up the bike and sit back. I wave off a reporter. Diego Martin is on my left on pole. Gareth Watts is on the right. 

Do I have anything to lose? Hell yeah. 

I could majorly screw up and not even finish, ending up without any points at all for the race. If by some miracle my closest competitors have an equally bad day, Austin could still keep his top spot. He's three points ahead of me overall and just nine points ahead of Diego and Tobei. Dai, Gareth, and Reid aren't too far behind either, giving us all a mathematical chance of being the world champion this year. Doing well in this last race isn't the only priority. Where we all finish in relation to each other also matters. That makes it extra risky for me to push myself to the limit. 

But am I going to go for that win, anyway? You bet I am. 

Being crowned the best wouldn't have the same meaning if I didn't. Plus, I can't have that smug Spaniard taunting me from a higher run of the podium. This time, I want to be looking down on him when the trophies are given out.