“I don’t know,” he says flatly.
“What do you mean you don’t know? Isn’t that why I came here?”
“To get all the answers?” He shrugs again. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that.”
“You’re not even going to tell me what you think?”
“I think,” he says slowly, “that you don’t handle the role of the senior racer with enormous expectations on your shoulders, particularly well. That the pressure weighs you down. But I don’t know why that happens, and why it happens this season. I cannot say that after one session. I can only give you tools to find that out yourself.”
“You mean I should… meditate on it?” A smirk escapes me.
“Are you a little green alien with big, cute eyes and pointed ears?” he asks.
“Ehm, no?” I say confused.
“Then you don’t need to meditate on it,” he says flatly. “Master Yoda meditates; for humans, simple journaling is enough.”
“Journaling,” I repeat. “Like I open a little notebook and write ‘Dear diary’ every evening.”
“You just write down your ideas, your thoughts—not just about racing, but about everything around it—as they come,” he says. “Make a habit of it. And when the time comes, you’ll see the connection. It clicks.”
“Simple journaling…”
“Never heard of it?”
“I have,” I admit. “Luca used to do it, some guys do it. I just think it’s for the other kind of people, those who read and write like it’s their second nature. I’m more… going-for-a-run-to-clear-my-head kind of guy.”
“Then write it down, and then go clear your head in the gym,” he grins. “That is actually the best way to do that.”
“I’m still not convinced.”
“I can present you with some studies,” he says. “There’s science proving there is a special connection between writing things down and our neurons. But I think that since I am the expert here, you could take my word for it and give it a try.”
I look at the blank notepad between us, then at his unbothered face. Part of me wants to walk out and go do squats until my legs forget this conversation ever happened. Instead, I nod once.
“Fine, your journaling thing, try I will,” I say.
He’s not the only one here who can make Star Wars references.
“Good,” Julius says, standing up and handing me a simple notebook. “In case your excuse is that all stationery stores are closed for the weekend,” he adds, grinning.
I grab the notebook. “Thank you,” I mumble.
“When do we meet next time?” I ask.
“That, Fabio,” he smiles like a fox, “is entirely up to you.”
***
Entirely up to me. Great.
I only get to try the journaling thing the next afternoon after the physio session. I tell myself that it’s because I was so busy, but I do know the truth of it.
Great Fabio Baier, looking for excuses to skip the “dear diary” session.
I lie on my back and make myself stop the mindless scrolling I dove into just to put off the journaling thing even further. The little green notebook lies on my nightstand, the pages neat as if to ostensibly show me I have not touched it for 24 hours.
I sigh and pick it up, fishing a pen from my racebag, and carry both to the small table, slumping into the hard wooden chair.
