Page 62 of Off the Grid

Be careful of the first turn. Accident probability is high.

I can hear his voice even now that I’m battling off the line for position and use it as a means to calm me if that’s possible. Adrenaline surges through my veins like never before.

You got this, son. You’ll settle in. Get the first lap under your belt and you’ll settle in.

And I do.

It takes longer than one lap though. In fact, it feels like I’m holding my breath through the first four. Because four laps are farther than I’ve ever gotten in an F1 race before. Now it’s only more firsts from here on out. And at ten laps in, when I overtake my first car, another charge is added to my confidence.

“Well done, Riggs,” Hank says in my ear.

I push more now. Drive a little harder. With more certainty.

I fight hard but clean. Perhaps more timid than usual, but this is the big leagues and crossing the start/finish line after sixty-six laps is more important than anything to me. Proving I can handle the car and place in the middle to top of the pack is the goal the team has set.

Proving that a Riggs can once again sit in the seat of an F1 car and not kill himself is what I need.

I fight the ghosts of my past at the same time I fight the competition around me. Lap after lap. Turn after turn. Battle after battle for the next position.

Endurance is the key. You drive to survive. You drive with the hope that when you unfold yourself from the car when the race is finished, you’ll be in a position better than you started in.

Preferably one in the points.

It’s over in a heartbeat.

The checkered flag waves.

“That’s P7. P7, Riggs,” Hank says in the steady voice he’s directed me with all day. “Excellent job for your first race. Goal accomplished. You finished in the points.”

You finished in the points.

That is what Carlo Moretti asked of me today. To finish in the points in my first ever F1 race with Moretti.

Or as he said, in my first ever F1 race, because to him, this is my first.

And I did it.

For the first time in two hours my heart dislodges from my throat and lands back in my chest where it belongs.

But that doesn’t mean my head doesn’t stop spinning or lips don’t stop smiling.

Holy shit.

Holy fucking shit.

“Well done, guys. Thank you for all the hard work,” I say to the crew listening over the radio as I pull down pit lane and up to my garage. “Great job. Really great job.”

What a goddamn rush that was.

Every single second of it.

Every kilometer of every lap.

I cut the engine and climb out of the car with the help of my crew. Hooting and hollering meets me, and I look up to above the pits to the box where all my friends are hanging over the edge cheering me on, traveling all this way to support me even with the knowledge that I won’t be able to spend much time with them due to my whirlwind schedule.

I give them a mock salute then a fist pump before drawing in a deep, fortifying breath.

I finished in the points.