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- JohnsonCapote
Okay guys, I dont know if this is the right place to post it (if it isn't then if a moderator could please move it to where its appropriate) but IVe been thinking of doing it for ages, and now Im finally working on it - Gran Turismo, the novel.
Subsequent chapters to follow, here's Chapter 1.
3rd August 2007, 3:46pm
The crowd slowly filters into the grounds of the race circuit. Grandstands start filling up, as do watchpoints in trees and near crash barriers at the side of the track. I am here as a spectator, soaking up the incredible atmosphere. I am here at the Le Mans 24 hours.
But not the one you may know. Not the one which occurs every June, with professional race drivers, factory teams and usually an Audi winning. For this race is not organised by the ACO, but by the Gran Turismo Organisation.
It would be impossible for me to explain the entire Gran Turismo series to you, but in a nutshell, the Gran Turismo organisation is a world racing series founded about 12 years ago by a pair of Japanese billionaires which gives ordinary everyday drivers and wannabe racers the chance to race in competitive, fully professional environments. The events cater for everything from Kei cars through classic sports cars and the latest Japanese performance cars right through to exotic supercars and even full racing cars. Anybody, from any background or any financial situation, could compete and earn prize money in the series. It is a massive series, with millions of racers competing all over the globe, and I myself had been part of it since I was about 19, 7 years ago.
Except, I don't really feel a part of it anymore.
For many months now, in fact maybe years, I have been questioning my commitment to the series. I have built and raced many great cars, but no longer do I get a great buzz out of racing. The adrenaline I used to feel when racing right on the edge has all but disappeared, and even the GT media are beginning to critisice me as some sort of journeyman driver, an 'overkiller' - the kind of racer who cannot win events unless his car is more powerful and supreme in every way than the other cars in that event. This criticism hurts - to be called an overkiller is the ultimate humiliation in the GT world. It says that you cannot drive, and that you have no skill behind the wheel, and you rely on your machine to waft you home. Right now in my life, as I arrive at the Circuit de la Sarthe, I am lonely, frustrated, and ultimately at a dead end as to where to go next.
Right now though, that isn't on my mind as I wander up the pit stretch. I am intent on spending a good weekend here, soaking up the atmosphere. The pits are alive with activity - all the crews intent on making last-minute changes and setup modifications to their cars. All the cars are regulars here - there's Takeshi Fujiwaji with his team's Mazda 787B, and over there is the favourite for the race, Werner Von Spengler, in the phenomenal Sauber C9. There is a small crowd around one of the pitboxes, however, and out of curiosity I go over to check it out.
Sticking out of the garage is a Toyota GT-One, a beautiful curvy sports car which competed in the full Le Mans 24hours in 1998 and 1999. However, this one is different - instead of the traditional red and white livery these cars are seen in whenever they race in the GT series, this one is matte black, with just a few small sponsor decals on it. This is clearly no ordinary car.
"So what's the big deal with this car?" I fire this question at no-one in particular, and the first to answer is a short, stocky photographer to my right. "It's a used one!" he shouts excitedly in a French accent, before getting back to snapping away. A guy to my left with a stony face and a tall figure, probably a journalist, is more helpful; "This? It's an ex-testing model. They’re very rare, and you don't see them being raced much because they have such a high mileage on them due to so much testing." He says this in a callous American accent, as if it's nothing special.
"So why's he running it here?" I respond. By this point I am very curious.
"No idea. People say he's trying for 200 A-spec points. I say he's nuts. Apparently he hasn't even changed the oil since he took delivery of it."
"200 A-spec points?" I ask. I'd heard of these - they were a new addition to the series around 3 years ago. Something to do with, rewarding drivers who win races in underpowered or outclassed machinery. That's all I knew of it.
"Yeah. He's been doing it throughout the GT world. If ya ask me, he's on a suicide mission here though. That old jalopy will be lucky to last 2.4 hours, let alone 24." he drawls with an acid tongue. I glance back up the pitlane, and I have to agree with him - 4 of the other 5 cars competing are top-level ex-Group C machinery, shining in the sun and with a lot of money spent on bringing them back to almost-new condition. But still, this black GT-One has interested me. The buzzer sounds warning people to get out of the pits. I make my way down to my vantage point, the Michelin Bridge. From here I can see the cars coming down the start/finish straight, heading through the Dunlop Curve and down towards Terte Rouge before heading off down Mulsanne.
The clock ticks down to 4pm. The cars come rumbling round the final chicane in the distance. The race begins, and the crescendo of noise from the cars is incredible. As they roar underneath the bridge, my eardrums rattle and shake as each car blats by in a vicious wall-of-sound. The black GT-One is hounding Fujiwaji, and as they roar away the 787B's banshee rotary engine and the GT-One's howl create a weirdly discordant symphony of noise which is as painful as it is gloriously uplifting. I can feel it in my gut - this will be a race to remember.
Sunday 4th August 2007, 1:06am
By now I have taken a walk round to just past the La Florendiere chicane, the 2nd one on the Mulsanne straight, and right now I stand watching the cars roar by at the exact point on the track where the straight kinks to the right. In the daytime it is fantastic to watch the cars, shaking and shuddering at 240mph, twitch slightly as they take the bend, but right now all that can be really seen of the cars as they flash by are beams of light, slashing through the gloom. The sun fully went down about two hours ago, and the track is now bathed completely in darkness. My sympathy currently rests with the mysterious GT-one driver - unlike the other drivers, who are all racing in pairs and taking turns at driving whilst the other gets some rest, the lone GT-one racer is running completely on his own. He is sacrificing rest and respite from the endless concentration simply to save time on pitstops. It is beyond belief. And what makes it worse is that he is only just hanging on to the race here - Werner von Spengler is leading the way and Mr. X (as he will now be known) is struggling to keep pace. But at the same time, I’m beginning to think that the longer that Mr. X remains on von Spengler's tail, the more chance he has of sneaking the win. With pitstops coming up around every 9-10 lap for Mr. X and every 7 for von Spengler, Mr. X is able to stay in contention purely by not pitting as often. Also, von Spengler is of course running with a co-driver, Rudi de Villiers, a South African sportscar racer, which means that once every 2 hours or so, the Sauber is held up a little longer in the pits due to the driver change. Speak of the devil; the Sauber blats by as I speak. I take a sip of one of the many cans of Relentless energy drink I have sitting in my cooler box - I have no intentions of sleeping in the middle of this race. A shade under 30 seconds later, Mr. X howls by, the bright Xenon headlamps of his GT-one making it feel like a shooting star has just sped by rather than a car. That sip of Relentless becomes a large gulp. I am beginning to feel genuine emotion, something which I haven't felt in a long time in racing. With every lap that goes by, my hopes and fears for Mr. X increase. At the beginning of the race nobody gave him a prayer, and yet here he is, still in it, still with a chance. And if he has lasted 9 hours and is still in contention, I am ready to bet my home that he would last another 15 and still be there in contention in the final hour. I know, deep in my gut, that no matter what this race throws up, Mr. X will still be there, and maybe, just maybe, would be able to snatch victory.
And it is that thought which is keeping me on the Relentless and out of the sleeping bag.
5:13am
Time is passing quickly now. In what feels like a blink of an eye, it's 5am, and the sun is rising. Damn, must've dozed off for a few hours. I shake myself awake and walk down the track, taking up a new position just on the kink on the Arnage straight. The beams of sunlight arc and sweep low across the horizon, and stab the gloomy track with just the tiniest bit of visibility. The vague smell of breakfast cooking wafted over from the campsite a small distance away, and yet the cars are still roaring by with the same intensity that they have done for the last 15 hours. They are recognizable again now. The Sauber still leads - I'm guessing it's Rudi behind the wheel - although Mr. X is still hanging with him. Save for a few tiny errors, Mr. X has driven a perfect race so far. Early on in the race, the Australians Richard Deans and Terry Herbert were in contention in their red-white-and-blue Nissan R92CP, but from about seven hours in their sleek machine has not really been a factor. It may have been lapped, actually. Whatever, the contest was now between the Sauber team and the car that the American bloke with the rigid hair had described yesterday as the 'old jalopy'. The race is hanging on a delicate thread - a major mistake by either car could have serious repercussions, and although Mr. X is still seemingly struggling to keep up, in fact, it could go either way here. The tension, which had left me during my sleep, now returns, and is now coursing through me. It is near unbearable. At any moment the race could swing one way or another. In the end I tear myself away from the race for ten minutes to find a hot-dog stand, or at least something to quench my hunger pangs.
3:15pm
45 minutes left to go in the race, and did I say it was close at 13 hours in? It’s on a knife edge now. About 20 minutes ago, when Mr. X made a pass on von Spengler for the lead, the crowd reaction was incredible - suffice to say Mr. X has won over nearly everybody here now. Airhorns, cheering, applause, yelling, the works. He certainly has me hooked. I've not been to or been involved in such an enthralling race. This is incredible. I am sweating, and not because of the heat. My heart is pumping, and it hasn't stopped since about a couple of hours ago, when the realisation that the race was within Mr. X's reach first hit me. My gut is churning. Any nerves I'd felt before, perhaps asking girls out, pale into insignificance now. With every lap that goes by, the balance swings ever so slightly further in Mr. X's direction. The minutes tick by like seconds. Every time I see the dull, filthy, black GT-one roar by, a shiver goes up my spine, as I realise he is that much closer to taking the victory. By this late stage I have made my way round the track and am now located at the Ford chicanes, right on the start-finish line. The intensity of the crowd is slowly ratcheting up - the finale is coming closer and closer, and the tension has reached unbearable levels.
And then it happens.
Roughly 10 minutes remain on the clock. Mr. X is leading by around 30 seconds, and based on talk filtering through the crowd, he has to make one more fuel stop. This is expected to be a lightening-quick, splash-and-dash affair. But as he roars into view, there is an enormous bang. Black pieces of material go spiralling out of the side of his car. The car skews sideways, and slides from one side of the track to the other. As he slithers into the pits, it becomes clear - the right-rear tyre has burst.
An icy chill grips my chest. Nobody is sitting down. Everybody, none more so than I, are praying that the lead can be retained. But it's no good. They will have to change the tyre, which will double the length of the pit stop. As Von Spengler's Sauber roars by triumphantly to re-take the lead for the last time, I feel physically sick. Tears spring in my eyes. There's no way this is happening. Not now. Not after everything Mr. X has come through. The grandstand has gone silent. Nobody can believe what is happening.
Three laps later, Von Spengler takes the chequered flag. Mr. X follows him home, 14 heart-wrenching seconds behind. I slam my foot into a fence post in sheer anger, before going down on my knees. I'm blinded by tears. The grandstand remains, bar a small pocket of hardcore Von Spengler fans, silent and desolate. I get the feeling that I am not the only one feeling how I am right now.
After what feels like a small eternity, I shake myself out of the reverie. And then it strikes me what I have to do. I get back to my feet and head in the direction of the pits. I have to find out who was driving that car. I cannot go away from this circuit today without knowing who was responsible for such an amazing, heroic, tragic yet defiantly unbelievable race. Once I get to the pits I push past the crowd forming around the victory rostrum and head towards the garage on the very end of the pit lane. Several pit crew members are pushing the battered and bruised GT-one into the garage. It shows the scars of battle - dents, marks, the battered bodywork where the fatal puncture had smashed the wheel well - and just standing near it, I am feeling hot. Heat is rising off of the engine bay. The right side door opens, and Mr X steps out. I skip a heartbeat. There he was, this almost God-like character whom had captured the imagination of everybody here, not least me. I had to know who he was.
I follow him into the garage, nervously. I am well aware that he is probably in no mood to talk. He has just come so close to winning the biggest race on the calender, but in the space of ten seconds, lost it. But I know that I have to talk to him. I have to know what makes him tick.
He turns to me. "Who are you?" he mutters, still from under his helmet.
I go to answer, and pause. He is understandably emotionally fragile.
"Your biggest fan." I respond.
He laughs. "For real?"
"For real." I reply, with a note of deadly seriousness in my voice.
"...okay. What do you want, an autograph?" he mumbles sarcastically, as he moves towards the back of the garage, and removes his helmet. I am left speechless with shock.
After his superhuman performance, I was expecting some sort of racing Samson, but he is like everybody else here - a completly normal person. He looks like an accountant, or a salesman, or a quiet family man. Not a man who had just run 24hours non-stop, hitting over 200mph every single lap. However, what is instantly recognisable is the dissappointment - it is etched all over his face like those enourmous graffiti artworks you find underneath railway bridges. He looks like he has shed a few tears himself.
I shake my head quickly as I realise he is still waiting for an answer.
"No. I need to talk to you."
"...look, right now is not a good time..." he responds wearily.
"I understand that. Can I call you sometime?"
He looks at me with a look of interest. "...alright. What's your number?"
"Whats MY number?" I am slightly confused now.
"Yeah."
"Erm...07912417832."
He nods, grabs a biro and writes it down on a scrap piece of paper. "Okay. I'll call you sometime."
I feel a strange lightness, as if one of my childhood heroes or a celebrity were talking to me. I nod slowly. "Thank you." A brown-haired girl, I presume his girlfriend, comes over, and takes his hand and leads him away into a backroom. She smiles at me in a friendly way. Suddenly, I am back in reality. And I am walking out of the garage, out of the pits, out of the circuit, and heading for the airport.
Subsequent chapters to follow, here's Chapter 1.
3rd August 2007, 3:46pm
The crowd slowly filters into the grounds of the race circuit. Grandstands start filling up, as do watchpoints in trees and near crash barriers at the side of the track. I am here as a spectator, soaking up the incredible atmosphere. I am here at the Le Mans 24 hours.
But not the one you may know. Not the one which occurs every June, with professional race drivers, factory teams and usually an Audi winning. For this race is not organised by the ACO, but by the Gran Turismo Organisation.
It would be impossible for me to explain the entire Gran Turismo series to you, but in a nutshell, the Gran Turismo organisation is a world racing series founded about 12 years ago by a pair of Japanese billionaires which gives ordinary everyday drivers and wannabe racers the chance to race in competitive, fully professional environments. The events cater for everything from Kei cars through classic sports cars and the latest Japanese performance cars right through to exotic supercars and even full racing cars. Anybody, from any background or any financial situation, could compete and earn prize money in the series. It is a massive series, with millions of racers competing all over the globe, and I myself had been part of it since I was about 19, 7 years ago.
Except, I don't really feel a part of it anymore.
For many months now, in fact maybe years, I have been questioning my commitment to the series. I have built and raced many great cars, but no longer do I get a great buzz out of racing. The adrenaline I used to feel when racing right on the edge has all but disappeared, and even the GT media are beginning to critisice me as some sort of journeyman driver, an 'overkiller' - the kind of racer who cannot win events unless his car is more powerful and supreme in every way than the other cars in that event. This criticism hurts - to be called an overkiller is the ultimate humiliation in the GT world. It says that you cannot drive, and that you have no skill behind the wheel, and you rely on your machine to waft you home. Right now in my life, as I arrive at the Circuit de la Sarthe, I am lonely, frustrated, and ultimately at a dead end as to where to go next.
Right now though, that isn't on my mind as I wander up the pit stretch. I am intent on spending a good weekend here, soaking up the atmosphere. The pits are alive with activity - all the crews intent on making last-minute changes and setup modifications to their cars. All the cars are regulars here - there's Takeshi Fujiwaji with his team's Mazda 787B, and over there is the favourite for the race, Werner Von Spengler, in the phenomenal Sauber C9. There is a small crowd around one of the pitboxes, however, and out of curiosity I go over to check it out.
Sticking out of the garage is a Toyota GT-One, a beautiful curvy sports car which competed in the full Le Mans 24hours in 1998 and 1999. However, this one is different - instead of the traditional red and white livery these cars are seen in whenever they race in the GT series, this one is matte black, with just a few small sponsor decals on it. This is clearly no ordinary car.
"So what's the big deal with this car?" I fire this question at no-one in particular, and the first to answer is a short, stocky photographer to my right. "It's a used one!" he shouts excitedly in a French accent, before getting back to snapping away. A guy to my left with a stony face and a tall figure, probably a journalist, is more helpful; "This? It's an ex-testing model. They’re very rare, and you don't see them being raced much because they have such a high mileage on them due to so much testing." He says this in a callous American accent, as if it's nothing special.
"So why's he running it here?" I respond. By this point I am very curious.
"No idea. People say he's trying for 200 A-spec points. I say he's nuts. Apparently he hasn't even changed the oil since he took delivery of it."
"200 A-spec points?" I ask. I'd heard of these - they were a new addition to the series around 3 years ago. Something to do with, rewarding drivers who win races in underpowered or outclassed machinery. That's all I knew of it.
"Yeah. He's been doing it throughout the GT world. If ya ask me, he's on a suicide mission here though. That old jalopy will be lucky to last 2.4 hours, let alone 24." he drawls with an acid tongue. I glance back up the pitlane, and I have to agree with him - 4 of the other 5 cars competing are top-level ex-Group C machinery, shining in the sun and with a lot of money spent on bringing them back to almost-new condition. But still, this black GT-One has interested me. The buzzer sounds warning people to get out of the pits. I make my way down to my vantage point, the Michelin Bridge. From here I can see the cars coming down the start/finish straight, heading through the Dunlop Curve and down towards Terte Rouge before heading off down Mulsanne.
The clock ticks down to 4pm. The cars come rumbling round the final chicane in the distance. The race begins, and the crescendo of noise from the cars is incredible. As they roar underneath the bridge, my eardrums rattle and shake as each car blats by in a vicious wall-of-sound. The black GT-One is hounding Fujiwaji, and as they roar away the 787B's banshee rotary engine and the GT-One's howl create a weirdly discordant symphony of noise which is as painful as it is gloriously uplifting. I can feel it in my gut - this will be a race to remember.
Sunday 4th August 2007, 1:06am
By now I have taken a walk round to just past the La Florendiere chicane, the 2nd one on the Mulsanne straight, and right now I stand watching the cars roar by at the exact point on the track where the straight kinks to the right. In the daytime it is fantastic to watch the cars, shaking and shuddering at 240mph, twitch slightly as they take the bend, but right now all that can be really seen of the cars as they flash by are beams of light, slashing through the gloom. The sun fully went down about two hours ago, and the track is now bathed completely in darkness. My sympathy currently rests with the mysterious GT-one driver - unlike the other drivers, who are all racing in pairs and taking turns at driving whilst the other gets some rest, the lone GT-one racer is running completely on his own. He is sacrificing rest and respite from the endless concentration simply to save time on pitstops. It is beyond belief. And what makes it worse is that he is only just hanging on to the race here - Werner von Spengler is leading the way and Mr. X (as he will now be known) is struggling to keep pace. But at the same time, I’m beginning to think that the longer that Mr. X remains on von Spengler's tail, the more chance he has of sneaking the win. With pitstops coming up around every 9-10 lap for Mr. X and every 7 for von Spengler, Mr. X is able to stay in contention purely by not pitting as often. Also, von Spengler is of course running with a co-driver, Rudi de Villiers, a South African sportscar racer, which means that once every 2 hours or so, the Sauber is held up a little longer in the pits due to the driver change. Speak of the devil; the Sauber blats by as I speak. I take a sip of one of the many cans of Relentless energy drink I have sitting in my cooler box - I have no intentions of sleeping in the middle of this race. A shade under 30 seconds later, Mr. X howls by, the bright Xenon headlamps of his GT-one making it feel like a shooting star has just sped by rather than a car. That sip of Relentless becomes a large gulp. I am beginning to feel genuine emotion, something which I haven't felt in a long time in racing. With every lap that goes by, my hopes and fears for Mr. X increase. At the beginning of the race nobody gave him a prayer, and yet here he is, still in it, still with a chance. And if he has lasted 9 hours and is still in contention, I am ready to bet my home that he would last another 15 and still be there in contention in the final hour. I know, deep in my gut, that no matter what this race throws up, Mr. X will still be there, and maybe, just maybe, would be able to snatch victory.
And it is that thought which is keeping me on the Relentless and out of the sleeping bag.
5:13am
Time is passing quickly now. In what feels like a blink of an eye, it's 5am, and the sun is rising. Damn, must've dozed off for a few hours. I shake myself awake and walk down the track, taking up a new position just on the kink on the Arnage straight. The beams of sunlight arc and sweep low across the horizon, and stab the gloomy track with just the tiniest bit of visibility. The vague smell of breakfast cooking wafted over from the campsite a small distance away, and yet the cars are still roaring by with the same intensity that they have done for the last 15 hours. They are recognizable again now. The Sauber still leads - I'm guessing it's Rudi behind the wheel - although Mr. X is still hanging with him. Save for a few tiny errors, Mr. X has driven a perfect race so far. Early on in the race, the Australians Richard Deans and Terry Herbert were in contention in their red-white-and-blue Nissan R92CP, but from about seven hours in their sleek machine has not really been a factor. It may have been lapped, actually. Whatever, the contest was now between the Sauber team and the car that the American bloke with the rigid hair had described yesterday as the 'old jalopy'. The race is hanging on a delicate thread - a major mistake by either car could have serious repercussions, and although Mr. X is still seemingly struggling to keep up, in fact, it could go either way here. The tension, which had left me during my sleep, now returns, and is now coursing through me. It is near unbearable. At any moment the race could swing one way or another. In the end I tear myself away from the race for ten minutes to find a hot-dog stand, or at least something to quench my hunger pangs.
3:15pm
45 minutes left to go in the race, and did I say it was close at 13 hours in? It’s on a knife edge now. About 20 minutes ago, when Mr. X made a pass on von Spengler for the lead, the crowd reaction was incredible - suffice to say Mr. X has won over nearly everybody here now. Airhorns, cheering, applause, yelling, the works. He certainly has me hooked. I've not been to or been involved in such an enthralling race. This is incredible. I am sweating, and not because of the heat. My heart is pumping, and it hasn't stopped since about a couple of hours ago, when the realisation that the race was within Mr. X's reach first hit me. My gut is churning. Any nerves I'd felt before, perhaps asking girls out, pale into insignificance now. With every lap that goes by, the balance swings ever so slightly further in Mr. X's direction. The minutes tick by like seconds. Every time I see the dull, filthy, black GT-one roar by, a shiver goes up my spine, as I realise he is that much closer to taking the victory. By this late stage I have made my way round the track and am now located at the Ford chicanes, right on the start-finish line. The intensity of the crowd is slowly ratcheting up - the finale is coming closer and closer, and the tension has reached unbearable levels.
And then it happens.
Roughly 10 minutes remain on the clock. Mr. X is leading by around 30 seconds, and based on talk filtering through the crowd, he has to make one more fuel stop. This is expected to be a lightening-quick, splash-and-dash affair. But as he roars into view, there is an enormous bang. Black pieces of material go spiralling out of the side of his car. The car skews sideways, and slides from one side of the track to the other. As he slithers into the pits, it becomes clear - the right-rear tyre has burst.
An icy chill grips my chest. Nobody is sitting down. Everybody, none more so than I, are praying that the lead can be retained. But it's no good. They will have to change the tyre, which will double the length of the pit stop. As Von Spengler's Sauber roars by triumphantly to re-take the lead for the last time, I feel physically sick. Tears spring in my eyes. There's no way this is happening. Not now. Not after everything Mr. X has come through. The grandstand has gone silent. Nobody can believe what is happening.
Three laps later, Von Spengler takes the chequered flag. Mr. X follows him home, 14 heart-wrenching seconds behind. I slam my foot into a fence post in sheer anger, before going down on my knees. I'm blinded by tears. The grandstand remains, bar a small pocket of hardcore Von Spengler fans, silent and desolate. I get the feeling that I am not the only one feeling how I am right now.
After what feels like a small eternity, I shake myself out of the reverie. And then it strikes me what I have to do. I get back to my feet and head in the direction of the pits. I have to find out who was driving that car. I cannot go away from this circuit today without knowing who was responsible for such an amazing, heroic, tragic yet defiantly unbelievable race. Once I get to the pits I push past the crowd forming around the victory rostrum and head towards the garage on the very end of the pit lane. Several pit crew members are pushing the battered and bruised GT-one into the garage. It shows the scars of battle - dents, marks, the battered bodywork where the fatal puncture had smashed the wheel well - and just standing near it, I am feeling hot. Heat is rising off of the engine bay. The right side door opens, and Mr X steps out. I skip a heartbeat. There he was, this almost God-like character whom had captured the imagination of everybody here, not least me. I had to know who he was.
I follow him into the garage, nervously. I am well aware that he is probably in no mood to talk. He has just come so close to winning the biggest race on the calender, but in the space of ten seconds, lost it. But I know that I have to talk to him. I have to know what makes him tick.
He turns to me. "Who are you?" he mutters, still from under his helmet.
I go to answer, and pause. He is understandably emotionally fragile.
"Your biggest fan." I respond.
He laughs. "For real?"
"For real." I reply, with a note of deadly seriousness in my voice.
"...okay. What do you want, an autograph?" he mumbles sarcastically, as he moves towards the back of the garage, and removes his helmet. I am left speechless with shock.
After his superhuman performance, I was expecting some sort of racing Samson, but he is like everybody else here - a completly normal person. He looks like an accountant, or a salesman, or a quiet family man. Not a man who had just run 24hours non-stop, hitting over 200mph every single lap. However, what is instantly recognisable is the dissappointment - it is etched all over his face like those enourmous graffiti artworks you find underneath railway bridges. He looks like he has shed a few tears himself.
I shake my head quickly as I realise he is still waiting for an answer.
"No. I need to talk to you."
"...look, right now is not a good time..." he responds wearily.
"I understand that. Can I call you sometime?"
He looks at me with a look of interest. "...alright. What's your number?"
"Whats MY number?" I am slightly confused now.
"Yeah."
"Erm...07912417832."
He nods, grabs a biro and writes it down on a scrap piece of paper. "Okay. I'll call you sometime."
I feel a strange lightness, as if one of my childhood heroes or a celebrity were talking to me. I nod slowly. "Thank you." A brown-haired girl, I presume his girlfriend, comes over, and takes his hand and leads him away into a backroom. She smiles at me in a friendly way. Suddenly, I am back in reality. And I am walking out of the garage, out of the pits, out of the circuit, and heading for the airport.
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It looks great, and I like the A-spec points idea. But, I found it hard to read after a while, due to the continuous text. Maybe you could have some screenshots to break up the text a bit? That was an enjoyable read, and I hope you get around to another chapter soon, because I think it's got potential! 👍
. Great job with the story!
