Page 34 of Off the Grid

What we were left, my mum held on to tightly.

So we slept in our truck the night before a race to save money since hotels were so expensive. We played silly games to occupy ourselves while we lay in the bed of the truck under the camper shell and waited for the morning to come.

At the time it embarrassed me. A former F1 driver’s son trying to step into his father’s oversized shoes but not having the money to do it. The comparison I could never live up to.

I hold those times close like a badge of honor. Especially now. I made it without the money. With very few connections. With the grit of my mum and my own fierce goddamn determination.

Then she sucked up every ounce of fear she had when I progressed to cars. I know she was terrified for me to follow in my father’s footsteps, but she let me follow the passion that took her husband from her. She let me be who I am and didn’t try to cast her fear onto me. Her unwavering support has both kept me grounded but allowed me to soar. She has been a silent pillar of strength when I failed and questioned if all this work was worth it.

She’s been my rock—always, forever, and even when I didn’t deserve it.

Of course, she’d be the first person I’d call.

“Spence. I don’t even know what to say or who to tell or how to even celebrate.” She’s flustered, and it brings a smile to my face.

“I know. I feel the same way.” I pound my fist against my steering wheel because it’s the only thing I can think to do.

“So what’s next?” she asks and then I hear her muffled voice say to someone at her work, “My baby. He got the ride.” Then squealing.

I smile. I can’t help it. “I’m waiting for instructions. On where to go. When to be there.”

There is a pause. A deep breath. “Let me know where I need to be,” she says softly.

I know how hard it is for her to say those words. The sacrifice she is making in doing so.

She vowed to never step foot on an F1 track again after my father’s death. She saw me through my karting days but when I started racing cars, especially on circuits where my dad once raced, she couldn’t do it.

She tried. Time and again. It didn’t matter the track though, the result was still the same—a panic attack of epic proportions.

But still she showed up.

Still, she tried to be there for me as I struggled my way through the emotions of walking in my father’s footsteps. And then there was the panic attack that was so violent and powerful that we all thought she was having a heart attack.

That was the last time I allowed her to come to the track.

I’d already lost one parent to racing. I sure as shit wasn’t going to lose another.

I’m sure she felt a similar feeling. My dad was her one true love. She watched him die. I’m the only piece of him she has left.

So we came to an understanding. I’d race. She’d watch from home. It’s almost as if the notion of being able to change the channel should something bad happen was enough. There was a mutual understanding as to why she couldn’t be present during race weekend.

Hell, it’s hard enough as it is for me some days.

It must be brutal for her.

“We made a deal, Mum. You’re not allowed at the track,” I say even though I’d love for her to be there.

“But this is different.”

“No, it’s not. Let me get a few races under my belt first. That way I don’t have to worry about you and can focus on the track. On the car.”

“Spencer.”

“I’m serious. Why jinx it now? It obviously worked.”

She exhales. “I should be there. I want to be there.”

“Mum,” I say as she tells another person in the background who then whoops.