The announcer fills my headphones. “And so begins this year’s British Grand Prix, with an unlikely lead and renewed rivalry as Arthur Bianco makes it through the first turns untouched, followed by an agitated Jean Baudelaire, fast on his trail.”
Damn it. I zoom in tighter to the orange blur as he careens around the bends, straining to hear Arthur’s voice through the announcer’s excitement.
“How’s your visibility, King?” That’s Cameron, and that’s a bit of worry in his tone. I bite my lip so hard, I taste Chapstick and copper. I shouldn’t have sprung the fake-dating thing on Arthur before this race. What if I threw him off, and now he’s not going to be able to concentrate for the next fifty-one laps? The rain has to make this circuit more dangerous than usual, and he hasn’t had as much experience this season, in a car, as the other guys.
My chest aches as the first real thoughts I’ve had in minutes take shape.
Please say you’re okay. Please be safe.
Just… don’t get hurt.
“Oh, I’m having a party out here, Cam,” Arthur says, and hearing his voice—measured and concentrated and a touch ridiculous—makes me let out the breath I’ve been holding.
He’s okay. He’s safe.
He won’t get hurt.
“Excellent,” Cameron replies. “Keep your position.”
“Copy.”
The beginning of the race whirls by, a swirl of radioed words and minute-long breaks while the pack’s on the other side of the track and my heart pounding each time a car gets anywhere close to Arthur’s. Something like a line forms behind him after the first laps; it almost looks like the drivers are trying to follow where he’s driving, tracking a path through the slick circuit. Then the rain lets up, and I flick my camera down the line as they race by. That Leone has dropped into third. That must take some of the pressure off Arthur, right?
“How’s the weather?” Arthur asks Cameron, right on cue.
“Hard to say. Wind’s going quick, though. Pay attention to your grip.”
“Happy days.”
There’s so much strategy to this sport. Each passing car. Every one of the ninety minutes that dance by. When was the last time I thought of how many seconds pour into a minute? Felt life like a digital alarm clock, with big red numbers counting down to zero? Every second of the race burns across my nervous system as I watch Arthur drive by, and by, and by, until my fingers are numb and it’s just me and the camera and the quiet that falls when the cars aren’t in front of us. Focused, completely. I barely blink when there’s an “incident” on the thirtieth lap, after the drizzle has cleared and the circuit is drier—two cars that were running parallel close behind Arthur touching tires, then the other bumped off, spiraling through the grass into a fence. Arthur asks if the drivers are good, Cameron confirms they are, and then we go on. Accepting the danger and moving forward anyway.
My attention only wavers when Cameron snaps at Arthur to “box, box, box” and he pulls into the pit lane, the view illuminatedon a large television screen above the track. The pit stop is a dance. Helmeted mechanics crush around him. Two grab the car. Tires are swapped. It lasts all of two seconds, then he’s back on the circuit and I’m back with him, as close as I can get with my camera. Wondering how he can trust that those faceless mechanics put his tires on perfectly—how can he put his life into the gloved hands of this many other people?
I adjust my lens. Get a better shot of the bend in the track. There’s the orange car, yellow, red, green, silver, here one moment, then gone. Arthur isn’t only trusting the Ignition crew to keep him safe while he’s out there. The drivers must trust each other, on some level. You hear the cars before you see them, engines screaming across the circuit on the approach, but youfeelthem before you hear them, one after the other, the air around you shifting before the sound hits. It does something ancient to my body—raw and primal, a silent whistle that something larger and faster and more powerful than me is around. And yet, there are twenty of them. On one track. Driving at a million miles per hour, all at once.
They’re who I need to film next. I have to start interviewing Arthurandthe other drivers he competes against if I’m going to accurately capture this world.
“Pardon me, lovely.” There’s a bald man in an oversized Ignition parka next to me. “Are you filming for the broadcast?”
“Oh—no.” I glance at him, back at the track, him. “I’m… making a film.”
“About who?”
“Arthur Bianco?” Don’t know why his name comes out like a question.
The man grins. “You found the right spot. I’m the biggest fan that boy’s got.”
Laughing under my breath, I get a shot of the stranger’s excitedsmile, since I’ve got twenty seconds or so until Arthur’s car is back around the circuit. In under fifteen seconds, I learn that he’s a nurse, single, and drove here from Cardiff, a “bloody long drive, but worth it, well worth it.”
“You’re enjoying your day?” I ask.
The cars approach. We go quiet. Our heads turn left, forward, right in sync. Behind us, someone yells in French.
The cars leave, conversation resumes. “Love, this is the best day of my year.” He chuckles and takes a swig from his water bottle. “Beautiful English weather, big happy crowd, and I’ve got my boy Bianco out there again.”
I don’t feel proud or anything. That would be ridiculous, seeing as I barely know Arthur and can’t take any credit for him getting to race this weekend. Documentarians don’t feel proud of their subject matters, nor would they condone such a silly and ridiculous and gas-guzzling sport that… I…
Really like watching. In the rain. With strangers.
