Drive

Learning to get back in the driving seat

As he turned out of the corner, shifting into 5th gear, the grandstand came into sight. Foot down, he accelerated down the straight, the engine whining but responding to his commands, driver and vehicle as one, a perfect union.

His wasn't the best car, he knew that. It wasn't the fastest. It wasn't the biggest. It wasn't even the best looking.

But it was his.

He had been driving this circuit for years. He had started out in the garage, cleaning up, fetching parts, learning his craft. Eventually his chance had come behind the wheel and he grasped it firmly.

Others had come and gone, moving away to more complicated tracks but he had remained loyal to his team. He knew every undulation, every nook and cranny. He knew the trick of getting the dodgy starter motor to engage and just when to lift off the accelerator to make sure the car didn't slide off the track.

But recently things had started to change. It was a gradual process that soon snowballed. It started with the track. What had once been simple, familiar had started to change. A new stand here, a raised corner there. All to attract new sponsors they had said. And it had worked. The field had doubled from 10 to 20 cars and the stands had never been so full.

But that meant other changes. Increased competition meant that races were tougher and he soon started to fall back into the pack. Where once he led from the front, now he found himself scrapping in the middle order until finally he was reduced to the backmarkers.

And the team started to change around him. New engineers, new owners, new roles that he didn't understand. New owners brought more money but more money brought more pressure. 'Shouldn't we be doing better?' they would ask. 'Why are we making so many mistakes?'

They didn't understand. None of them did. It had all become so complicated. New buttons, new gear ratios, new tyre pressures, new sensors. He didn't understand half of it but he didn't dare tell the owners in case they thought he was stupid, that he couldn't do it anymore.

Where once he looked forward to the release of a race day, now he came to dread the whole weekend. His passion had become a grind, his hobby a chore.

I am a failure. Why aren't I better than this?

'Why don't you give it up?' his friends asked. 'Why not do something else?'

Because this is all I know. All that I am.

As he accelerated down the straight, he checked his mirror for the car to his left, jostling with him for 19th place. He gripped the wheel, cursing as his fingers tried to adjust the myriad settings the designers had added this year.

'We need to manage the tyres,' came the message over the headset.

'Adjust the brake bias,' came another.

'We need to push for a points finish.'

He shifted down, gripped the wheel and moved over to the racing line, hitting the apex, taking the corner full on, ready to accelerate out of the corner and...

The car spun violently as it clipped the car behind, lifting into the air before crashing back down, screeching inexorably towards the concrete barrier where it thudded with a sickening crunch.

As the blood trickled down his face and the pain shot through his mangled, broken leg, a single thought drifted through his head.

'I failed...'

***

The physical rehab was hard and it was painful. But the body heals, even when it has been broken. But the mind? That takes far longer.

He wanted to come back straight away but they wouldn't let him. 'There is no rush,' they said. 'The car will be waiting for you when you are ready.'

They made him talk to someone. A therapist. He didn't understand why. It was just a crash, could have happened to anyone. But they kept pushing and pushing. 'How do you feel?' they would ask. The answer was always the same.

Like a failure.

Two weeks became a month. One month became two. And then finally he began to understand. He wasn't a failure.

I was ill.

He had thought he had become too old, to slow, that he had been surpassed and left behind. Everything seemed too complex. He wasn't smart enough, he wasn't quick enough. He wasn't good enough.

But finally the layers began to peel and he understood. His fear had held him back. Fear of failure. Fear of admitting weakness. Fear of asking for help. His body had been broken but it was his mind that needed to be fixed.

After three months, he was ready to get back in the driving seat. He was looking forward to racing again, but this time on his own terms. That was when they told him.

'We've got a new driver. We don't need you anymore.'

Why? Why didn't they want him? After all he had done for them, all he had sacrificed, this is how they treat him? Discarded when he needed them most.

He allowed himself the anger but he would not allow himself to be defeated. He understood what he was worth. He was not defined by the car.

He took some time away to gain perspective but the call of the track was too strong. Eventually he contacted a rival team to see if they had room for him. 'We can't offer you a seat,' they said, 'but you can come and work in the garage.' It would do. It was a way back in. Of course, he never told them the full story.

And he was happy. No more pressure. No more stress. That was for others, he could just do his job.

But after a while, he started to miss it. Being a driver was intense, it had made him ill. But it also made him feel alive.

With the new season approaching, the car needed to be tested. He thought about asking for some track time, a chance to get back behind the wheel. This would be the moment when he could start to claw back some of what he was.

But he couldn't. As much as he missed it, as much as he wanted it, he was scared. And so he stayed in the background, unsure of what his role was, frustrated and bitter and yet scared to move on.

And then it happened.

The car had been in good shape. This was shaping up to be a good season for the team. Their lead driver had been recording superlative lap times and as he took the final corner, it looked set to be his best yet when suddenly he lost control, the car skidding and thudding awkwardly into the barrier.

The drive was not seriously hurt but damage to his wrist meant that he couldn't race.

He was in the garage when they found him. The owners didn't usually bother him down here. There was no need. He wasn't anybody important. Not anymore.

'How can I help you?' he asked.

'We need you to drive'