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“He’s not allowed. He was just showing DuPunk that he could,” Matty closes his lips tightly and folds his arms over his chest.
“What, why?” I ask. That doesn’t make any sense. I thought the whole point of racing was that the fastest driver wins. Matty just shakes his head knowingly and continues watching the television monitors. Jack slips one of his long, toned arms around my shoulders and gives me a little squeeze of comfort. We’re commiserating, but I don’t understand why. I have so much to learn.
Round and round they go, Lennox chasing Digby and the cars behind them occasionally changing positions and coming into the pit lanes, some cars break down and they retire from the race. Rounding a hairpin corner with just ten laps to go, suddenly the cameras pan to both Celeritas cars again and Digby has gone too fast into a corner. Blue smoke pours from his front tires which are locked up stiff. His car smacks the side of another one, and Digby goes off track, into a gravel pit, careening the nose straight into a barrier wall, bits of carbon fiber and plastic shards shattering off the car.
Matty and Jack both erupt into a ruckus of laughter but I’m wide-eyed and shocked. Is he hurt? Apparently not, as seconds later, Digby removes his steering wheel, climbs out of the cockpit, then spikes the steering wheel down into the gravel in a rant. The track marshals are there to escort him off the race track and Digby kicks one of the car’s tires on his way past.
“Now’s your time,” Matty says to no one in particular, his head forward and locked onto the television monitors. We all watch silently as the laps tick down and Lennox comes to life, inching ever closer to the lead cars on every straight and into every corner. He passes one blue car and is in third place. Matty, Jack, and I squeal and jump and pump our fists. There’s one lap to go and the television shows the crowd on their feet, erupting with cheers as Lennox overtakes one more red car on the final lap right before the checkered flag. Second!
My heart is beating so loud I can hear it pumping through my earphones. Jack and Matty give each other a one-armed manly hug and Jack pulls my head to his chest to muss up my hair. “Second, that’s amazing!” I cry.
“It’s not first,” Matty quips, ever the pessimist and fact-checker, “but it’s a win for Lennox.”
As the cars cross the finish line and start making their way back into the pits, Jack and Matty take off to meet Lennox and to assist with the post-race ritual. I follow the group of pit crew and engineers to swarm beneath the elevated podium platform and by the time we arrive, the top three drivers are making their way onto the platform as their names and final positions are called. Hundreds of people clamor against the metal crowd barricades to get as close as possible and, for once, my small size helps me squeeze in upfront amongst other Celeritas crew.
Lennox is standing tall and proud on his second-place step, his hair soaked from sweat, drops of perspiration dripping from his dark brown locks down his face and into the neck of his race suit. His face is red from physical exertion but there is no hiding the emotion and glee in his eyes as he points to fans with a huge Scottish flag below the podium, taps a fist to his heart than points directly at them.
The drivers are handed their trophies by diplomats in swanky pinstriped suits and another man in with a British accent asks each driver a few interview questions but I barely hear them. I am captivated watching Lennox stand with his shoulders back and his head tall, hands behind his back as he scans the crowd and nods to pockets of fans screaming his name.
I feel my eyes start to fill with moisture and quickly dab them and clear my throat to get ahold of myself. I don’t know why I’m so emotional. It’s just seeing him up there, chest flexed, the wide stance of his hips, and the noble square of his jaw - I’m proud of him.
Music kicks off and each driver grabs an oversized bottle of Monet champagne and spray
each other down, spray the British interviewer, and take long, deep chugs of the cool bubbly. Lennox comes to the edge of the elevated platform and sprays everyone below, several droplets of the sticky, cold sweetness hitting me as the Celeritas pit crew scream and celebrate.
As the drivers make their way off the podium, I fight my way through the mob and start jogging my way back to the motorhome so I can capture any celebratory moments with Lennox and be present during the post-race press coverage.
I’m winded by the time I arrive to the front of our the Celeritas motorhome where Lennox has also just swaggered up and is about to head inside, leaving a herd of cameramen and media just outside our door. “Lennox!” I call and he pauses his hand on the door.
He swivels just in time for me to pirouette on my tiptoes and throw my arms around his neck. “Congratulations,” I exclaim into his neck as he bends to wrap one strong arm under my ass and lift me up to his full height, pulling me tight against him. It’s only a second before he drops me back down but he’s slick with sweat and filled with testosterone and adrenaline. Despite racing for two hours in the Australian sun, his scent of wood and moss and leather surrounds me.
I gaze up at his hollowed cheeks and chiseled jaw and I want to kiss this stupidly handsome, proud man.
Nine
MUST SEE: Gibbes Storms to Second Place Finish in Cracking Australian Grand Prix
Headline: Lennox Gibbes Cinches Driver of the Day Award by Sport Guild Readers
Blog: Give us More Gibbes!
“Gettin’ robbed, gettin’ stoned, gettin’ beat up, broken boned. Gettin’ had, gettin’ took, I tell you, folks. It’s harder than it looks.” - AC/DC - It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock and Roll)
Mallory
“Can you see out the window,” I ask Aria as I maneuver my laptop screen around my charming second-story brick flat at headquarters to give her the grand tour via Skype. “Sometimes there are sheep out in that field, sheep! How British is that?”
“I’m so jealous! I’m here looking out our window with a view of the sanitation station,” Aria jokes.
We landed in London less than 48 hours ago and when I made my way back to my cozy new home in Aylesbury, I must have slept for the first 24 hours. I didn’t even bother to unpack my boxes which have mostly arrived from the States. I need to ask Matty for tips and tricks for coping with jetlag because I am all kinds of out of sorts.
There are at least two housing buildings on campus, as far as I can tell. Both are old-world brown brick construction, original windows with white shutters, and old slate roof tiles with occasional patches of green moss growing between them. They’re tucked away from the other Celeritas buildings and overlook a meadow that is green with lush spring grass. It’s quintessential small-town Britain. The kitchen and bath are both small but updated and manage to keep the old-timey feel.
According to Sandra, Lennox’s flat is direct across the hall from mine and Matty and Jack share a flat on the first floor. The third floor above us has two flats for executives. I haven’t seen anyone else in the building but me, but I’ve also been sleeping like the dead and wouldn’t have noticed a rampaging moose roaming about. The campus is sprawling with a massive glass front factory building a quarter of a mile down a narrow red brick road, a modern office complex, and beyond that is a test track for the cars. I haven’t had time to tour anything besides the office complex and meet some of the security guards who patrol the gated grounds.
“Did you get to do anything cool in Australia?” Aria asks, sipping her morning coffee while I’m thinking of another afternoon nap on my side of the world.
“There was no time, really. I was busy trying to make a good first impression and keep Lennox in line, clean up all of his social media accounts, beg him to behave at all the press conferences.” I tell her.
