I don’t care what he’s said about me. I’m sure it’s been nothing but good things because he loves to talk about me when I’m doing well and whenever it’ll bring him in a couple of quid. But quite frankly, his opinion is irrelevant.
‘I’ve got my eyes on another top-of-the-podium finish this season,’ I say. Despite being forced into media training at the very beginning of the season – which I still blame on Harper – I’m actually good at this. It’s hardly the first time I’ve neatly sidestepped any mention of the connection between me and my infamous father.
I laugh along as she plays me soundbites of the earlier clips. He says things like, ‘he’s just like his old man on the track,’ and that ‘I couldn’t be prouder of the driver Kian’s become over the last decade.’
It’s enough to make me want to vomit, but I fake pleasant acquiescence and quickly find a way to move on from the topic.
Thankfully, the rest of the interview is painless. We talk about how the Miami Grand Prix is becoming as big as the Super Bowl each year, and what I’m excited to see and do while I’m in America.
I’m sure she’s not expecting me to gush about the beach yoga, but Anna’s always saying I need to come across with a bit more warmth and ‘emotional authenticity’. I know this is to counteract my refusal to discuss Tyler Heath, and to court sponsors, so I go on about mindfulness for a bit and show my enthusiasm for the sunrise beach crowd. If Kelly is surprised, she hides it well.
Then she blindsides me again.
‘I hear there’s going to be a Kian Walker night at one of the bars in the gay village. Will you be attending that?’ Not evenI’veheard about this night that’s apparently being thrown in my name, but I definitely won’t be putting in an appearance.
‘While that sounds very cool and I’m honoured, it’s not really my scene. However, if you let me or the team know which bar it is, I’ll get some signed merch down to them.’ It’s the least I can do if I’m not going to go, and I don’t think Anna will object.
We end the interview on that and Kelly’s assistant hands me a business card with the name of the bar so I can get in touch. I’ll put the Hendersohm PR team on that straight away so I can focus on tomorrow’s race.
I’m lucky enough not to cross paths with Harper for the rest of the day. Physically, I’m doing a great job of avoiding him. Mentally, I’m actually feeling pretty robust after this afternoon’s session on the track. I’m so focused onnotthinking about him, however, that I miss the window of time to call Elise to say goodnight to the kids.
I eat what the hotel calls a ‘soul bowl’ alone in bed. I stay off social media and go through my night-before-a-race meditation routine. When I finally close my eyes to fall asleep, Harper James swaggers into my thoughts as though he’d never left.
I haven’t had sex dreams like that for a long time.
Needless to say, I go into the qualifiers half-asleep. Maybe even dangerously tired, to the point that I down two espressos in the garage and have to splash my face with ice-cold water.
It’s not my best pre-race warm-up, but it has to be done. The first two knockouts go fine – nothing special, but nothing truly awful. I’m in P6 going into the final qualifying round which is not where I want to be, but it definitely could be worse.
Yet, the second they let us go for the third time that day, I know something’s really, really wrong. I’m pushing the pedal and I’m still going forwards, but the car feels like it’s shaking. The engine is shuddering and spluttering as if it can’t find the energy to go any faster.
Maybe the engine and I are one, because I am eerily familiar with the feeling. It’s unsettling to have my inner turmoil reflected in the inanimate beast that’s normally growling and rumbling with barely leashed power. Today, neither of us has the edge.
‘What’s going on, Ki?’ Cole asks.
‘You tell me, mate!’
I’m not quite limping yet, but after one semi-decent lap everyone overtakes me and I just want to crawl back to the garage. For the first time in my career, I feel like giving in and going home.
Cole is buzzing in my ear with suggestions and feedback, but nothing’s working.
‘Just can’t get going. Doesn’t feel like the car’s even reaching half-throttle let alone full.’
‘Engine seems shot mate, sorry. It’s not putting out what we’d like. Everyone’s pissed off in here right now,’ Cole quickly replies.
Slamming my fists against the steering controls, I let out a deep, earth-shattering roar of frustration.
‘I thought we sorted this yesterday!’
I feel my temper flare. I’m really angry now – and only some of it is due to the technical failure of the car. I know I’m annoyed with myself – for losing focus, for getting side-tracked by Harper, for a missed opportunity that could cost me the trophy.
It feels like the engine’s about to fail completely, so I have no choice but to slow even more. I’m limping along now, and trying not to deafen Cole as I take out my frustration on his eardrums. I never really got going in these qualifiers, and the stats Cole’s giving me show I’ve hit nowhere near the numbers I expected. Come race day, I’m going to be staring at the exhausts of people I should have in my pocket. I don’t need to see anyone else’s lap times to know that.
At least I’ll still be top ten. I hate relying on other people having a worse day in order to do well. That’s not what elite performance should be about.
‘Where am I sitting?’ I ask Cole as the engine shudders.
‘P9. Everyone else is almost finished so that’s where you’ll end up.’ What he’s saying is I shouldn’t even try and finish. I should just get out now and let them pick the car up and return it to the garage. The team’s going to have an all-nighter to get it fixed and ready for tomorrow. I don’t envy them, but they’re not the ones out here doing the driving. The most useful thing I can do is rest up and come back with a good strategy for the race.
