Page 32 of Dirty Air
He shouldn’t have written Henry off so readily.
It’s just a routine masturbation session—the same motions he does every other day of the week—but it’s just not hitting the same without company.
Fritz types out “Can I call?” and sends it before he can think twice.
The phone rings in reply.
Every driver says they like the rain. It’s brutal conditions with low visibility and low grip. Announcing they like the rain makes drivers feel tough—makes them feel better than everyone else.
“Do you like the rain?” a reporter asks, clutching her jacket closer.
“No,” Fritz responds. He doesn’t need to feel tough.
“Why not?” she pushes. The wind whips around them, clawing at their clothing and hair. “Isn’t it the great equalizer? You might get a chance to make your first podium this weekend.”
“Because it is dangerous. People die in the rain.”
It’s a somber enough answer that he’s dismissed in favor of a peppier driver.
This weekend, the VFIBR drivers are paired up with Red Boar for the fan stage. Fritz’s branded rain jacket does its bestagainst the storm, but the overhang of the Silverstone stage is too high, and his face is soaked in seconds.
He looks out over the crowd with pity. Thousands of people in sheer plastic ponchos huddle together for a chance to see their favorite drivers. Little chance they’re able to see anything at all in the downpour.
The announcer asks the four drivers if they like wet races. It’s all anybody wants to know on a day like today.
“Love it,” William and Sam both reply, tripping over themselves to claim a weeping sky as their own personal birthright.
The British man grew up here, the Australian went to school here. They raced in the rain as children. This is what they were made for.
But it rains in other countries too.
“No,” the Germans say.
The other two have already padded the answer for long enough that they aren’t forced to elaborate, but Fritz catches Lucas’s eye and they nod in solidarity because they remember.
Fritz is the last to pass the line for another run before the clock runs out. He qualifies seventh.
On his cooldown lap he asks, “Where is Lucas?”
There’s a poignant pause before the answer. He’s never asked about anyone else before.
“P1, by two hundredths.”
The pit wall probably thinks Fritz is itching for Lucas’s seat. That he's hungry to overpower his fellow countryman and idol in the rain—when they’re the closest to racing in equal machinery.
Fritz does want that seat, just not today. Right now, on this date, in the wet, he’s patriotic.
“Good.”
Red Boar and VFIBR’s garages are the bookends of the entiregrid—one in first place, one in last—so Fritz is surprised to spot three-time world champion Lucas Bauer in his garage after his meeting.
“Good run today,” Lucas greets the younger driver in German.
They’ve never had an actual conversation face to face, and Fritz nearly turns to see if he’s speaking to some other German driver in the VFIBR garage.
No, it’s just him. “Yours was better. Pole position, congratulations.”
“I thought the rain would’ve slowed you down.”
