Page 70 of Dirty Air
“Not close enough for a Form 1 driver,” Dieter shoots back.
Tell that to the victory screen that pops up at the end of each round. A hand appears on his left side, and Fritz yelps, grumbling when the accelerator sound dips again.
“Yeah, that could be a problem.” Henry perches on the bed and digs his laptop out of his side bag.
Fritz huffs. “It is more realistic now, with your disappointed voice in my ear.”
“I thought the problem was strictly with the right-hand side, but clearly, stimuli in either peripheral invokes the same response.”
Dieter perks up, “Yeah, he lets up with either side.”
“I would like to remind you both that Form 1 cars have mirrors. This surprise hand waving thing is not actually helping.”
“It’s not that we expect someone to wave at you during a race,” Henry explains in his best parenting voice. He’s so infuriating sometimes. “Letting off the gas when you see someone is the problem. If you let everyone pass just because they’re next to you, you won’t last very long in Formation 1.”
It’s a frustratingly good point.
Fritz finishes the last lap of the round and successfully keepshis foot down when Dieter waves an arm next to him. Unfortunately it’s still not enough to bring up the average, which means another round.
“Come here.” Henry pats the space next to him, inviting Fritz up to his own bed.
Fritz unfolds his legs from the machine and perches on the mattress with caution. What a time to remember they’ve never been on a bed together.
“Have you seen your point of view from the crash?” Henry asks.
“No, just some clips from the side.” It was hard to avoid them, with Formation 1 posting about it a million times like it was the most exciting event of the season. “But I lived it, so?—”
“Well, let's watch it together. I have the video feed from your helmet—it might be enlightening.”
The three men crowd around his laptop as Henry presses play. Helmet footage is Fritz’s least favorite footage, the video’s always choppy and—fuck, he’s in the air.
“Jesus,” Dieter breathes. “I didn’t even see the other car.”
Fritz didn’t either.
“Here it is.” Henry backs up the video and pauses, circling a dark shape with his finger. He plays through the footage frame by frame, but the other car barely exists, even in the breakdown.
“Do you recognize this?” Henry asks Fritz directly.
“I remember the jolt, a little of the spin, and then the marshals. Oh, and the radio, but I don’t know how much of that I might have missed.”
“Your brain is trying to protect yourself. That’s why you’re lifting even when your conscious mind wants to win.” Henry plays the video again at full speed. “Pattern recognition in your mind wants to connect any sudden movement with the accident, so it can stop it from happening again.”
Fritz watches the screen as it loops again. Then again.
“We’re not going to heal your brain in one night—that would be impractical—but exercises like this will help you relearn how to race, even if your subconscious doesn’t want you to.” Henry nods to the waiting screen as it counts down the final seconds. “You should try it again.”
They do try it again. And again. Fritz can actually feel the improvement by the seventh or eighth round, but they call it quits at one a.m., citing his need to sleep before the race.
Before Henry leaves, he squeezes Fritz’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you. You’re working so hard to get back out there—it’s commendable. World Champion behavior if I’ve ever seen it.”
The Greatest Driver in the World, but Fritz shakes the thought away. “Thanks,” he says, lamely. “Thank you for always pushing me to be better.”
“Anytime.” Henry waves goodbye to Dieter and lets the hotel door fall closed behind him.
Dieter’s face is stern when Fritz turns back around. “Did you two fuck?”
“No!” Fritz sputters out. “Wh-why would you even ask that??”
