Chasing The Last Lap

Fragile Wings And Distant Tracks

Lessons Over Dinner

The aroma of roasted garlic and simmering vegetables filled the small kitchen, clinging to the edges of the air like a comforting embrace. The table was simple linen placemats, mismatched chairs, a single candle flickering softly between plates but in that quiet domesticity, I felt something I hadn't experienced in weeks: stillness.

"Alex," my mother said, stirring the sauce with a practiced hand, "come sit. You're going to burn yourself out before you even touch a bite."

I hesitated at the doorway, still feeling the tension from the last race coiled inside me, muscle memory replaying the sharp angles, the wobble at turn seven, the seconds lost to Petrov and Danny, the humiliation of fourth place. But the sight of her—graceful, calm, eyes bright, hair pulled back in a ponytail—grounded me. She had a way of seeing through the noise, through my frustration, and finding the kernel of who I was beneath it.

I slid into the chair across from her, rubbing my hands together to still the residual tremor of adrenaline. "I... I don't know if I'm hungry," I admitted, voice tight.

Her eyes softened. 

"You will be. I've made your favorite roast chicken, rosemary, and those roasted potatoes you insist I overcook. And Alex... you need this. Not just the food. Time. Space to breathe. Even racers need it."

I allowed myself a small smile, the first genuine one in days. She had always been like that soft authority, unyielding love. She never drove a MotoGP, never felt the surge of speed and danger beneath her hands, but she understood the language of risk. She had once been a stunt pilot, aerobatics and skywriting her past life. Loops, rolls, dives from hundreds of feet, the wind ripping through her, engines shrieking in accompaniment. She knew danger, knew fear, knew exhilaration. And she knew what it meant to rise from failure.

"I don't know how to take fourth place," I admitted quietly, pushing the chair closer to the table. "It's... it feels like failure. Like I'm stuck. Like I'm never going to break free from being third or fourth."

She reached across the table, placing a hand over mine. Her fingers were strong, warm, steady. "Alex, sit back and breathe for a second. Let me tell you something." 

She paused, letting the words settle, letting me absorb the cadence of calm and authority in her voice. 

"You think fourth place is bad? You think third is some kind of shame? You don't understand... you're racing against some of the fastest, most disciplined, most ruthless people in the world. You're beating dozens, hundreds of others who would kill to be in your position. You are racing at the highest level. That alone is a triumph."

I swallowed, the tight knot of frustration loosening slightly. 

"I know that logically... but it doesn't feel like it."

She chuckled softly, a rich, melodic sound that reminded me of summers long ago, of me as a boy perched on a motorcycle in the driveway, pretending the asphalt was a track, and her airplane propellers slicing through clouds far above. 

"Alex... in the air, when I was looping and rolling, sometimes I failed. Sometimes I lost control, sometimes I misjudged. Every stunt taught me something. Every near-fall was a lesson. You need to lose sometimes to value your position, to understand what it really means to be on the podium."

I considered her words, feeling the familiar tension in my chest loosen just enough to inhale fully. Her voice carried authority not just because she had been fearless, but because she had survived the consequences of risk, had faced failure head-on, and had returned stronger.

"You're not just third or fourth, Alex. You're constantly in the top ranks against men who have decades of experience, who train relentlessly, who've built their careers from the ground up. You've carved a space for yourself amidst legends. You are extraordinary. Don't diminish that because the numbers aren't what you imagined today."