Thankfully, it’s not a sprint weekend so I’m not losing out on possible extra points. Silver linings and all that.
‘Harper’s position?’ I ask once I’m stationary on the side of the track. I wait for the go-ahead that says it’s safe to climb out, and I want to have time to compose myself before I face anyone.
‘P4.’
Damn it! That motherfucker!
His first time on this Miami track and he’s gone and crushed it.
It’s like he’s coated in Teflon. Nothing sticks!
If I wasn’t so annoyed at myself and at the situation I’d probably find his skill a turn-on.
‘Track’s clear. You can step out now.’ Following Cole’s instructions, I walk the final few metres to the finish line. Walking over it on foot instead of speeding past is a weird feeling.
Of course, the first bloody thing I see is Harper hugging Johannes. The pair jumping up and down like little children at Christmas.
Does he not understand the concept of a team?
Was he not crying over Johannes just the other day?
For fuck’s sake!
‘Who finished P1?’
I’m glad to still have my helmet on so no one can see my face.
‘Johannes,’ Cole says simply.
Fantastic. Fan-fucking-tastic.
They are going to be truly insufferable.
From where I’m standing, I contemplate whether I can get past them without having to acknowledge them, but I’m sure all eyes are on me because of my poor performance today, and if I dodge two of the better top finishers – one of whom is my teammate – it’ll reflect poorly on all of us.
Time to put on your big-boy pants, Walker.
So I get it over with, striding up to them, offering my congratulations, fist-bumping and clapping backs and shoulders, before retreating to the Hendersohm pit to lick my wounds. I prepare myself for a barrage of questions from the technicians about how the car actually felt at different points, and I’m quick to engage in the discussion, because I need the car to be perfect tomorrow if I have any hope of getting out of P9.
I’m afforded only five minutes of downtime before Harper swings by to collect me for the post-qualifying meeting in the Hendersohm garage.
‘You okay?’ Harper asks.
This is the first time I’ve been alone with him since the other night.
I grunt in response, not quite sure how to dredge up eloquence appropriate to this situation. I definitely don’t want to talk about what happened. The only thing I want to know is how he does it. How does he manage to go through life without anything touching him?
‘I don’t know how you just did that.’ The honest truth rolls bitterly off my tongue.
‘Did what? Qualify fourth? Mate, you’re normally above me. You know how better than I do.’
I don’t know if he’s deliberately misunderstanding the question or ifthisis exactly how he does it – by not overthinking.
Or by not thinking at all.
‘You’re like a worm in my brain, James.’
I try to shrug it off, but this moment’s too important, I need Montreal under my belt to keep me in good standings to take home the Drivers’ Championship this year.
