Friday, September 6 – Free Practice

Bending at the waist, I scoot forward in the seat and pull the zipper up on my boot. I stomp my foot several times to adjust the fit, then fold over the Velcro closure for maximum tightness around my calf. Using the tabletop for leverage, I stand and do a few knee squats. It helps loosen up my suit, but it has also become somewhat of a ritual over the years before taking to the track. After grabbing my helmet and gloves, I head for the door.

I used to share the Cadmium paddock trailer with Austin, but Nigel has arranged for a separate place for Lauren. As I bound down the steps and walk between other mobile units parked in neat rows opposite the garages, I wonder if this exception is for my benefit or hers.

If she's always so particular about stuff like she was yesterday over a few pictures, it's probably the latter.

An air horn signals the start of the first session as I enter the pit box. Our engineers are warming up the bikes on the other side, while my new teammate paces back and forth a few meters away. Fully suited up in her own custom-made gear, she looks to be just as anxious to get on her ride as I feel. This I can respect. I actually may have confused her with Austin if it wasn't for the slight purple accents on her logo-covered black leathers. The color is also featured in the design—bird or butterfly wings, maybe—of the helmet on her head.

Picking up a pack of disposable, orange earplugs, I don't stop until I reach Lauren.

"You follow me," I yell above the engines, making eye contact to be sure she can also read my lips. "I will show you the race line, okay?"

This offer wasn't my idea. The unusual directive to devote the first full session to helping her had come from Nigel. Delivered over breakfast at the hotel this morning, it was the least surprising out of the three things the boss had said while chowing down on a giant serving of sausage and eggs. The second—not making any more public comments about Lauren without checking with the press officer first—was somewhat more shocking, since I'm usually guarded anyway. I've never revealed anything I shouldn't have, not even about Austin's panic attack in Assen that nearly made him miss the race or how he could go from being totally wound-up to practically non-responsive in a matter of hours on even the best of days.

How was I supposed to know that simply mentioning Lauren's refusal to show her back and 'upending the photographer's artistic vision'—Tommy Miranda's words, not mine—to a couple of guys over dinner would spread the story to pretty much every other team in just hours?

After all that, it was the last thing my team manager had said, which almost made me spit out my caffè latte. I'm not stupid, so I know to keep things professional with the rest of the Cadmium crew or when I'm publicly representing the team. But no one has tried to say what I can and can't do in private. Not until this morning, anyway.

Okay, so he wasn't exactly specific, nor threatening. Nigel's actual words were more like, "I can't legally stop you, but remember that it's not advisable to shit where you eat."

Given his harsh stare, I didn't need to look up the unfamiliar idiom to understand what he meant: hands off Lauren Dimas.

Not like I wanted anything. I've been burned before thinking that a relationship that started in the paddock could last. And my new teammate is already turning into more of a nuisance than anything else. I couldn't even properly enjoy my win in Sepang because she was all anyone had wanted to talk about. Plus, I can't extend that momentum preparing for this upcoming race because now I'm basically losing one-third of my practice time to familiarize her.

The less I have to do with her both on and off track, the better. But since no one ever says no to Nigel Clark, first I have to play glorified track-day instructor.

When Lauren nods at my offer to teach her the course, I pull on my helmet and lace the chinstrap. She's already in the saddle of her bike by the time I put on my gloves. Swinging my right leg over the seat, I balance my own seventy-five kilo machine on one leg while putting it into gear with a kick of my left toe. Releasing the clutch and giving it gas, I pull forward before glancing over my shoulder to join the other riders leaving their own garages.

It's the first chance for us to use our bikes after the last race, so there's plenty of traffic. Everyone wants to get as much use out of the morning's forty-minute 3Prix session as they can. Passing the green light at the end of pit lane, I merge onto the track. I don't look back to check whether Lauren is still there. It's her problem is she can't keep up. Not that it matters right now, anyway. The first lap is a throwaway in terms of speed, used mostly to warm up the bike and carve out a nice spot for the rest of the time out. Riders come in at the end of the nearly one kilometer straightaway, so our lap timers also aren't activated until we cross the start/finish line.

The faster the lap the better, but free practice isn't about outdoing the others. That's for race day. Right now, I—and by extension Lauren—have to focus on having everything just right to get the best out of ourselves. Practice the track layout so I can ride it with my eyes closed. Anticipate every corner to time each brake application and gearshift perfectly. Know where to overtake to set the right pace.

I deliberately take a wide angle into the second corner to put more distance between me and local rider Reid Butler up ahead, but I flinch when a bike overtakes me on the inside. "Cazzo," I curse as Lauren's yellow and black Ducati speeds past, throwing its rear as it accelerates out of the hairpin. What part of 'follow me' does she not understand?

Releasing the throttle, I squeeze the clutch and shift down at the same time before giving gas again. The girl isn't easing up, but I catch up with her by the next turn. I can overtake her at any time, but I let her go ahead to observe her style. A few corners are enough to confirm Nigel is right: she badly needs my help.

Braking late into turns, she comes out of corners too wide and loses whatever advantage she may have gained earlier. Her drifting is more excessive than mine, but every rider has their own technique. It's the almost unnoticeable jiggle of her rear wheel after the slide across the tarmac every time she changes direction that catches my attention. She's either riding the brakes or—more likely, since that's an amateur mistake—has over-tightened shocks. At this pace, she has a good chance of suddenly losing then regaining traction, ending in a nasty high-side crash.

I don't want to be a witness to that nor become its collateral damage. Anticipating Lauren's next mistake, I easily get ahead of her coming out of turn ten. The sharp right is immediately followed by a wider left turn. There's one corner left before we can start a proper flying lap.

I put everything else out of my mind, becoming one with the bike as I lean into the unusually long left-hander. Drawing my knee in just enough to prevent the protective puck from scraping the asphalt while staying balanced on the tires' edge, I keep an even hold on the throttle for about three-quarters of the way. Before I can even see the start of the straightaway, I give it full gas and change gears to fourth and then fifth. As I approach the starting grid, I let the RPM gauge border on red before shifting to sixth gear, getting everything I can out of the engine.

The speedometer's digital numbers race up, topping out at two hundred forty kilometers per hour as I reach the end of the Gardner Straight. I ease up on the throttle and lean right into the turn before flipping it to the other side for corner two, shifting down to fourth in anticipation of the hairpin's apex. Gently stepping on the brake pedal to aid with deceleration, I'm thrown off rhythm when the handlebars begin to vibrate. As I continue to put pressure on the machine to slow, the whole steering column starts to bounce up and down.

Fuck. I ease up on the brakes and let the bike drift out of the ideal line while bringing it up to a fully vertical position. Three riders including Lauren pass by in quick succession, but my lap is already shot. The damper settings in the front forks are too soft; I have to return to the pits to get them adjusted.

Taking it easy for the rest of the lap, I exit the track after corner eleven and pull into the open garage. After explaining the problem to my chief engineer Enzo, I hand off the bike and grab some water while waiting for the relatively quick adjustment.

According to the closed circuit television screen mounted on the wall, there are only thirty-one more minutes left in the session. That's nine minutes wasted, and I haven't done shit.

Nigel joins me just as the feed replays an earlier shot of Lauren.

"How do you think she's doin' out there?" he asks.

I point to the screen as my teammate leans into turn six. The left-hander is relatively slow going in, but allows for rapid acceleration once the bike is out of it. "See this?" The shot shows her from behind, the same view I had of her earlier. And just like before, Lauren's rear wheel wobbles ever so slightly as she rights the motorcycle.

Nigel places his hands on his hips and clears his throat. I don't think he sees it. "It's a damned good powerslide. What of it?"

"No, there is a little shake." I show him with a small movement of my gloved hand. "The back is too hard."

"Are you sure?" Nigel scratches his chin in a way that appears to be more out of contemplation than in satisfying an itch. "I've watched hours of her races and set the bike up to her specifications."

"Same rider, yes. But different manufacturer, different racetrack." I turn as Lauren pulls into the garage, drowning out further conversation until she cuts the engine.

Steadying the machine between her legs and flipping up her visor, she looks at me. "What's up?"

Nigel answers instead. "We're just making a few quick adjustments," he says, walking over. Gesturing for her to get off, he forcefully pushes the seat down a few times to test the bounce. "Seb says you may need some help, as well. That your rear suspension looks too firm and the tire was jiggling coming out of the corners?"

"No. Everything's perfect." She sounds genuinely satisfied. With a smile, she takes the water bottle a technician brings over. "Thanks."

There's no way she can be this confident on a new ride so fast. This girl's stubbornness at accepting advice is going to get us all in trouble. "I know what I see," I say. "You will have problems if you do not loosen the rear shock preload."

"My Honda was set up the exact same way," she says to me before turning to Nigel. "Come on. I had an awesome lap. Nothing needs tinkering, I promise."

"Tomas, c'me here a minute," Nigel calls to one of the mechanics standing by the wall, waiting for such instructions. "What's the difference between their rear suspension setups, accounting for the weight differential, of course?"

"This one is harder, for sure," Tomas says, nodding to Lauren's bike.

"Do you think it could cause problems?" Nigel presses on.

The tech shrugs. "It is within acceptable limits and if it works for the rider—"

"Thank you!" Lauren interrupts the overly diplomatic answer, but Nigel turns to me.

"Well?" He gives me one more chance to make my argument, but my adjusted bike is waiting. I'm done with this.

"I can only show her the proper race line if she stays on the track," I say, heading to my machine. I throw my leg over the seat and check my gear before a technician powers up the auto-starter.

I just catch Nigel give the instructions that seal Lauren's fate. "Adjust the rear by half a turn," he says.

In the background, Lauren throws up her hands in defeat, but there's no satisfaction in it for me. It wasn't my intent to overrule her, but everything I know about the Ducati tells me it shouldn't be ridden the way she had done it. This is my arena, and the girl is wrong.

With twenty-six minutes remaining, I take to the track again. Lauren joins me on the next lap and for three more passes around the circuit, she trails me closely. The fourth time I cross the start/finish line and glance back, she's gone. I don't think much of it. She'd probably gotten held up in the gaggle on the final corners. When about a minute later I approach turn nine, there's a newly formed dust cloud still hanging above the gravel trap. Orange safety-vest wearing corner workers are also pushing Lauren's beat-up, number eighty-three bike onto the service road.

I don't know what made her lose control, but she'll probably be out for the rest of the session. Well, at least Nigel can't say I didn't try. Now I can focus on what I need to improve for Sunday. Back-to-back podium finishes would go a long way in helping me get that second championship. I may have screwed up the first half of this season, but I'm done with distractions.