“So, will you talk to me or are we going to spend the rest of evening sitting in silence?”

You speak for the first time, tilting your head backwards to face me, a warm half smile on your lips though soulful eyes betray a deep concern. I don’t really hear the words, just the anxious if jesting tone of your soft voice trying to lift my spirits from this trapped melancholy. I know you mean well, you always do. More so, you’re tolerating my mood swings surprisingly well; my often distant behaviour when we’ve been alone one minute and then a childlike refusal to let you leave me the next.

And I also know that this hurts you, the fact that I’m shutting you out like this, how I refuse to talk openly about these last few months even though I know it would probably help to get this weight of my shoulders. I hope you know that it is in no way a reflection on you, that I somehow don’t want to involve you in something that is clearly eating away at me because I don’t value you or your advice.

But for the most part, you leave me to it. Leave me to my own devices because this doesn’t concern you, it is nothing to do with you and you can’t help unless I give you the opportunity. This is to do with me and it’s something I have to figure out myself before I can put into words an explanation of what I’m going through for you. After all, you can’t help me if you don’t understand what I’m thinking and if I told you I don’t think you would, so what does the silence matter? I’m happy not to tell you, and you’re happy not to know so long as it’s what I want. 

And it is. I don’t want to tell you, not because I don’t trust you. Not because there are other people I’d rather lay this burden on. Not even because I feel faintly embarrassed and vulnerable at the thought of mentioning it. Just because.

Just because you wouldn’t understand and you would be the first to admit it to me. I mean, we are completely different people. You are so sure of yourself, of your life, of where you’re going, what you want to achieve. And also what you are capable of.

Myself? Well, who am I really? What will I be remembered for? I’d say that I feel somewhat inadequate in your shadow and you would retort back that two world championships don’t come easy. I would say I had the better car, you would say that you do now. Swings and roundabouts, but I guess I’m starting to feel dizzy and thinking how easy it would be to take the choice and jump off now before I lose my balance and fall.

I wish I could tell you all of this; tell you that I’m anxious and even confused. This past year has been a … nightmare. I got used to winning, loving our on the track battles, delighting in gaining the upper hand then having to struggle back against you as you would show me just why you’re almost now a fourth time champion. And when you lost you would lose to me and when I lost, I would lose to you. And I didn’t mind losing as much to you because the fights made it worth it. Made me feel alive, burning with adrenaline and exhilaration, though only you saw how much I loved it, how much I needed the kick it, and you, could give me.

Now where am I? One victory this year. Once I’ve tasted sweet victory on the top step of that rostrum, revelling in the stream of champagne flowing. Once I’ve stood in front of the crowds and been engulfed by that wave of delight, experiencing that ever familiar feeling on invincibility and wonder.

I miss it, I feel empty. Not just the wins, not just the glory but the fight. The fight I miss more than anything and it’s as if I don’t think I can recapture that feeling again. This season has made me question myself in a way I haven’t done for years. I don’t even know if I feel that hunger any more, the hunger that got me through barren years until that Japanese afternoon where everything came right. Taking the chequered flag for the first time with a sensation of pure elation.

And then I think again and the ugly comparisons rear their heads when I think about what you have achieved, beleaguering my own meagre achievements.

I can’t tell you any of these things, even if you didn’t take it the wrong way and realise that I’m not blaming you. I’m not in the slightest, I respect what you’ve done so much. I know you better than most and what I’ve discovered I’ve loved and if not loved then tolerated because you do have your faults whether you’ll admit them or not.

Still, I think about it. I wanted to achieve so much and I have. I’ve won my accolades but some might say they appear cheap in comparison to yours and it’s difficult to deny it when it’s so often repeated to you, slung like an insult set to scorch my ego and soil my track record. I’m the first to admit that some of my success was gifted. I was lucky in so many respects, with a better car and wins presented to me by my team mate when perhaps I didn’t deserve them. You won yours the hard way, I didn’t necessarily. Though even you have had help in the past. Then again, you could have so easily won much, much more. Had your pick of the top teams, won everything in sight and left us to hunt for the scraps. But you didn’t, did you? You wanted to make your mark in this sport, wanted to leave a legacy with your prancing horse.

I’ll be lucky if I’m remembered in ten years time.

I guess what I’m saying is that I wish I could create the legend you are unself-consciously moulding. And then despite all of this, I know I can beat you. I worked hard to get where I am, I’ve put in some inspiring performances in my time and regardless of what people whisper or what the press writes, I am deserving, I know I achieved my titles with more than derogatory luck. I am perhaps the only one out their save your precocious sibling that has the confidence to play you at your own game, out-calculate and out-drive if I have a bit of your luck on my side.

I’m the best rival you’ve had in a long time perhaps because I love you more than anyone else. Because I understand you, know what makes you tick, know how to push you, how to play you at this game we call Formula One. And all the while a part of it is irrelevant. Whichever one of us wins, it’s still the same when we are together like this, passing the hours in a blissful naivete, well-earned and cherished.

So, why am I worrying like this? I really don’t know. Maybe we all go through this at some point. Maybe as you rest a tired head against my leg, my hand idly stroking your shoulder, you know the sort of crisis I’m going through because you’ve been through it to. If my lips could move to voice the words I would ask you if you’ve ever had those doubts, about your ability, your drive, your motivation - the word I’m starting to dread in every interview I give. Perhaps it would raise my spirits just that much needed inch to know that even you have your apprehensions, that I’m not the only one seemingly going crazy here.

I don’t think it matters though. It’s never been in my agenda to quit now. Let the press believe what they want to, let them ask me about retirement, about whether I still have the need to win. It’s all academic. It’s not a question of quitting, that’s never been an option. The hunger to race, to win is stronger than ever and a simple dip in form isn’t enough to quell that fire. It’s whether I can prove myself where I am or do I need that new challenge, something to prove to myself that I am as good as you tell me I am, as good as I want to be. As good as those two titles imply. Then I can be happy knowing I’ve done my best.

I smile down to you and knowingly you don’t press me for an answer, just content yourself to lean back against the sofa I’m sitting on while my hand ruffles your hair playfully. Strangely, we haven’t mentioned tomorrow and what it might bring for you. You know I’m wishing you good luck though without me having to give you the lame words to convey it. I also know that you will do it and I want you to despite where my loyalty contractually lies. Tomorrow seems so far away and why unsettle you while you seem finally so tranquil, all that nervous energy dispelled in the comforting silence of this room.

So, we just both sit together like this for however long it takes before one of us makes that decisive move to end this serenity. The first to crack and shatter the stillness with his lips on his lover’s and we both know where that will lead. And then I’ll wonder why on earth I’ve been moping in the first place, contemplating the futility of my thoughts and concerns and knowing with ultimate conviction what it is I want.

But while I’m thinking my thoughts, I guess you have your own to contend with, your own demons to exorcise, and I can wait for your kiss with unshakeable patience.

I don’t mean to shut you out like this. It will just take time and you know that better than most.

~The End.