Anna shook her head and smiled, forcing herself to forget about her problem with the uniform. It was kind of the other woman to check-in. She would have liked to talk more, but it was close to departure time. Anna wiped her palms as she finished eating and glanced around. Several riders and crew bosses had left the room, which seemed to be a signal for everyone. Time to work.
“First days are tough, but you’ll be fine. Angel will be good to work for. He’s a kind man that Isaac looks up to. Sit with me tonight at dinner,” said Catarina in a quiet voice as she got up to follow Vince to her shuttle—headed for the track. “I’ll want to hear about your day.” She left with a smile and a confident stride.
Anna didn’t feel that way herself, but she attempted to give her own walk a similar confidence. She passed the Australian rider with his off-putting smirk and ignored his rude stare.
“Hey, America. What’s your name?” He called after her. She pretended not to hear and climbed onto Isaac’s shuttle with the rest of their team.
Once she arrived at the track, the full Honda group separated into four distinct garages, one for each rider. Instead of calling them garages, she learned they called each section a box. All the interior panels matched the team and manufacturer colors and looked to be portable and fastened into place. They must be set up again at each venue. Looking down the long row, she counted at least twelve other non-Honda teams. If each had two riders, that meant twenty-eight competing in each race. Counting was calming and easier to focus on than all the unknowns.
Isaac disappeared out the back of the box, and when he returned, he’d changed into tight-fitting cobalt blue, bright green, and white riding leathers covered with logos and writing across the top half—including down the sleeves.
While Isaac had been gone, the crew had uncovered two identical-looking motorcycles that matched the colors Isaac now wore. Up close, the bikes seemed huge and more powerful looking than any motorbikes she’d seen. She looked around, unsure where to stand. Everyone seemed busy, bustling through the garage with familiar jobs. The scent reminded her of the parts department of a car dealership: rubber, oil, and gas.
She jumped at a repetitive staccato noise and turned. Two men in team shirts were inflating tires on a compressor of some kind. Another screech of a power tool added one of the new tires to the back of a motorbike. The burst of sound was over quickly. Calming her racing heart, she glanced at Isaac.
After meeting her gaze, Isaac called her over and patted the blue and green tank of the closest of the two motorcycles. “These are my beauties,” he said when she’d joined him.
“Why are there two bikes? They look the same.” She bit her lip, hoping it wasn’t a stupid question.
“Mostly to save time.” He didn’t quite look at her as he spoke. “The guys can have two bikes ready with different settings or tires.” He crouched down to look at something lower on the bike. He glanced upward and met her eyes. “We use different tires for rain or for different temperatures. The harder tires are for the hottest or roughest tracks.” He seemed about to say more but stopped short.
Was there something he wasn’t saying? She ran through what she’d learned last night. Ah. She sucked in a breath. He also had a second bike in case he crashed the first one in practice or qualifying, making it unrideable for the race. That’s what he was avoiding mentioning. She flushed. He must not want to think about the risk, even if it was always present. Either that, or it didn’t even cross his mind. After all, as a motorcycle racer, he must be an adrenaline junkie.
“How do you like the bikes?” There was pride in his voice as he raised his eyebrow.
She bit her lip. She didn’t want to ask too many questions all at once. Adam said that was annoying. “They look fast.” Now that she’d seen them, she believed they could reach the insane speed of three hundred and fifty kilometers per hour. What would that feel like? Would she ever get to feel the speed?
As if reading her mind, Isaac grinned in a slightly crooked, daredevil way, so different from his usual composed expression. “They are really fast. Maybe one day when you’re more comfortable, I can take you for a slow lap.” He checked over his shoulder for Angel, who had joined them and said, “A very slow, cautious lap.”
Angel laughed and handed her a thick folder with a wink. “This should get you started for this morning. Today is for observation. Tomorrow, we’ll use you at the autograph sessions and on race day we’ll keep you busy with all three races. I need Isaac now, but if you have questions, feel free to ask any of the crew.” He turned to Isaac, saying, “I think this will be your best year yet. This bike is what your brother won the championship with. It’s the best bike we’ve ever had.” The two switched to Spanish as they moved across the room.
Anna wasn’t sure where to start, so she sat at the back of the garage on the first seat in a row of half a dozen chairs. She read the information packet, making notes about Isaac’s team sponsors. While she had time, she looked them up online. Though some of them were familiar, many were not. Most of these were European beer and motor oil brands, others were tires, the usual energy drinks, or well-known tech companies such as Lenovo and HP. From a marketing perspective, wearing sponsorship logos and painting them on bikes, helmets, and grandstands seemed gaudy but efficient. Everywhere the fans looked, or the riders went, they advertised their brand.
She settled in to read more about her duties. She would help at autograph sessions with the stacks of pictures and her umbrella if Isaac needed shade. Every time the media interviewed Isaac, she was responsible for the prep work, making sure he arrived at the right place at the correct time for cameras from Britain, Spain, and Italy, the three most common feeds. MotoGP had a world-wide following. She hadn’texpected televised practices and fans in the grandstands today or tomorrow, but from the noise outside, the crowd seemed substantial.
On race day, she seemed to have several assistant or publicity duties besides umbrella work, which suited her fine—organizing lines, markers, and fan photos for signing. All that sounded easy. They would pay her for six to eight hours of work for four days each race week, plus all food, lodging, and travel expenses. She wouldn’t get rich on her wage, but it should be enough to live on if she was careful.
Product placement for pre and post-race interviews included helmets, hats for after the race, and water bottles. Extra important if a rider placed in the top three or was the top independent racer for a race. They’d assigned someone to show her tomorrow so she could do it for qualifying and subsequent events. Getting things ready would make her feel useful. Everything listed about regular racing operations seemed very particular, which she didn’t mind—at least the expectations were clear.
She would help at other weekend autograph sessions, like the one after the qualifying sessions on Saturday, and provide shade at other events for riders, Honda dignitaries, and MotoGP alumni. Sometimes, like this Sunday, she’d be asked to hold a grid sign to mark the starting rows for the Moto2 and Moto3 races. She licked her dry lips. With her concern about what she was supposed to wear, it seemed too soon.
Anna watched Isaac with her peripheral vision while he spoke with Angel and his crew, that fluttery feeling in her stomach returning whenever her eyes met Isaac’s—which happened too often to be accidental. Once, Angel back-handed Isaac’s shoulder to regain his attention, and she ducked her head with a smile. Still, she didn’t want to be too much of a distractionand studied the information packet while listening to the voices in the garage and the sounds of unfamiliar machinery.
Spanish, with odd bits of technical language in English, made for a strange conversation around her but she soon blocked it by keeping her head down and concentrating on learning her new job.
The section just beyond the temporary garage was called the pit lane, and the riders couldn’t exceed 60 km/h. Anyone working in pit lane during the race needed to wear a safety helmet. That didn’t include her as she’d return to the box after the race was underway. Startled, she looked up when an announcement came through a ceiling speaker.
“Pit lane will open in ten minutes. Ten minutes until FP1.”
A timer started counting down, the bright red numbers easy to read in the dim evening light since massive overhead lights lit the track and its surroundings like bright sunlight. Anna walked to the front of the garage to check out what was happening outside. At the entrance, a faint breeze of warm air scuttled swirls of pale sand across the edge of the pit lane.
Beyond a dividing fence lay the Lusail International Circuit starting grid, where she would stand before the race on Sunday. Staggered diagonal rows of three start lines per row filled the area. Beyond the starting area, a ring of emerald-green turf surrounded the track, making the desert appear lush and inviting and, in the distance, the city lights sparkled like jewels against the growing darkness.
While she stood there, the pit crew rolled one of Isaac’s bikes outside to prepare for the first practice session. Much smaller bikes had been whizzing around the track earlier, but she had paid little attention to their buzzing. When the timer ran down to the last minute, the crew started his bike with a separate device. Isaac tugged on his helmet, fastened the chinstrap, andtightened his gloves with Velcro strips. With his full outfit on, he looked serious and ready for business.
“What’s the funny lump on the back of his suit?” She asked one of the young men who was adjusting something on the second bike. She couldn’t remember his name yet, either Manuel or Miguel.
“That’s his airbag. In case he crashes.” The young man with the ponytail winked. “I’m Miguel. Welcome to the team.”
