I’ve been analysing all of his film from this track, calculating every statistic from every practice, qualifier and race he’s done in Hungary, and I’ve come across something I’m desperate to show him to remind him of the real Johannes.
So, the first time he emerges from his room, I pounce on him. ‘Hey.’
He jumps a little, eyes wide but not bloodshot like they were on the plane.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. I just, uh, have something I want to show you. Do you have a minute?’
For a second he doesn’t move. I can tell he doesn’t want to listen to me, but more of the same isn’t what he needs right now. I open my eyes wide and smile, adding, ‘Please?’ in my gentlest tone. As I said, I’ll do anything.
‘Okay,’ he says, gesturing. ‘Lead the way.’
It’s only a short walk to where my laptop is set up, a number on a PowerPoint page on my screen waiting for him. ‘Do you know what this is?’ I ask, my mouse highlighting the numbers–1:16.623.
He shrugs with what feels like apathy.
‘The record for the fastest lap on this track.’ I pause for dramatic effect. ‘You know who set it?’ The right corner of Johannes’s lip tilts upwards a fraction. ‘Of course you do. It was you. Last year when you beat Harper by seven seconds. Seven!’
I’ve watched that race so many times in the last twenty-four hours. I know exactly which lap won it for him. The image of him celebrating on top of the car is burned into my brain. And then there’s the podium. He had a completely blissed-out look on his face as he took it all in. It wasn’t even his first win, but it was the first time his name went into the racing history books. It clearly meant a lot to him.
He stares at the numbers for a long few minutes. I keep waiting for him to ask why I’m showing him this, but he doesn’t. Watching his face is like seeing a whole movie scroll across his features. Emotions pull at his features as he contemplates the numbers. He glares at them like they might come to life and kick him in the balls. Then he smiles and closes his eyes and sniffs suspiciously. I hope I haven’t done the wrong thing and upset him. I hope it’s pride, not sadness, that’s currently choking him up.
‘Johannes,’ I whisper softly, the paddock starting to fill up around us. ‘You did that.You.’ I know he needs to go and warm up, stretch, get into his suit and prepare himself to head out onto the track for the practice hour.
‘Thank you,’ he replies, sucking in a breath and releasing it slowly. ‘Thank you,’ he repeats, and then disappears back into the garage.
Well, that went…
Well?
I don’t think he spoke more than ten words to me, but I thought I was going to have to fight him more. I thought he might shrug it off. I’m not so naïve that I believe I’ve ‘fixed’ him. Nothing that causes a person the pain and anguish he’s obviously experiencing can be fixed so quickly or so easily. But maybe it’s a start? A baby step?
I don’t know.
Then we let him loose for the first free practice. Unfortunately, Ogum goes into the side of Johannes in minute three of track time and Johannes spends the rest of the session in the garage trying to school his frustrated face.
Thankfully, the issue is fixed quickly and he’s back on the track for the second practice. I watch for the full hour, unable to stand still, waiting, hoping…
He’s courteous and gives feedback on the mic when prompted, but he’s not his usual chatty, perky self. He performs better than he has in the last few weekends, but it’s nowhere near his usual standard, and he takes off so quickly to his room after the second practice that it’s like he’s a puff of smoke.
Even in the evening debrief with the rest of the team, he contributes nothing to the discussion. It’s like he doesn’t trust himself to speak and it makes me sad, because normally he has really useful feedback.
They cater dinner for us in the garage, but Johannes is long gone. Nils sticks around to eat with everyone and talks excitedly about the weekend. The buzz of consistent point weekends has filled him with so much more confidence. It’sgreat to see, but I’m still watching the door, hoping Jo might return.
‘Is Johannes okay?’ I ask Nils, catching him slightly off-guard.
‘Why?’ he asks, like I’m a head teacher about to get his friend in trouble.
‘I just… I’m worried about him. Don’t you think he’s a bit…’ I try to search for an appropriate, professional word, but Nils beats me to it.
‘All over the place? Fucked up? Man, I wish I knew. You should try living with him. It’s not a fun time in the villa right now. Lots of moping, no partying, no hook-ups, just him locked in his room.’
‘Has something happened?’ I ask, but Nils only shrugs and shakes his head, and unfortunately, that’s not enough for me to work with. ‘Look, I’m not asking you to break a confidence. I’m trying to prevent another Spielberg and Silverstone. He’s not himself. He’s not performing. He’s not… happy. I just want to help him. Please?’
‘I don’t actually know anything, man. We’re friends but he doesn’t tell me anything. And I don’t think Harper knows either.’
It has to be bad if even Harper doesn’t know.
‘I’m close to shaking him, too,’ Nils continues. ‘He earned us both a talking-to from Nathan yesterday after he was rude to one of the social-media girls.’
