Learning The Racing line

Turn 1.

With the curtains closed and the outside world kept at bay, it feels as if the morning hasn't arrived yet—at least not in the shaded corner of the room where, wrapped in the pleasant confines of my bed, I've been tempted to drift into another dream. Having to attend classes on an early Wednesday sucks, and it's a shame I can't skip them even if I had the chance—I've already missed too many. All the more annoying is the buzzing of my phone, and half-buried under the covers, I don't even register it as anything important; probably just the alarm going off, so I slap around the nightstand, trying to shut it off.

I manage to press the right button, and silence finally prevails over the room. Maybe I can squeeze in another ten or fifteen minutes before I inevitably have to force myself awake. The corgi nestled between my legs stirs in agreement, letting out a dramatic huff worthy of an elderly man offended by unnecessary commotion. But the moment of calm is short-lived—my phone suddenly starts buzzing again, louder and more insistent than before.

This isn't my alarm—definitely not the pattern I use every day—and my brain eventually switches on enough for me to grab the device, eyes squinting so I don't get blinded by the screen, where my uncle's name is flashing along with the photo.

"Milo? Are you alright? I messaged you half an hour ago" he asks immediately, a hint of concern threading through his voice.

"Yep... All good. Why? Wh–What's up?" I reply nonchalantly, and I can't help yawning directly into the speaker, even though it comes out embarrassingly loud.

There's a short pause. I hear movement on the other end—fabric rustling, the boot of his car shutting, someone chatting in the background. Perhaps he's already out and about, sorting through his affairs ahead of our flight later today. However, the next thing I know, he requests a video call— confused, I accept it—and the accusing arch of his eyebrow only leaves me more dumbfounded.

He keeps staring at me with that same unchanging expression, like he's waiting for an answer to a question he hasn't put into words yet. The only problem is, I have absolutely no idea what he's expecting to hear from me—my social battery is still very much in low-power mode.

"What?" I croak.

"Have you seen the time? Why are you still in bed, mate?"

"Chill out, it's only—" I reply groggily, whilst my unfocused vision drifts to the corner of the bright screen where the time is set—"Fuck!"

"Exactly!"

It's 8:15 AM. I bolt upright, practically launching myself off the bed—coffee is no longer needed—and my dog follows suit, startled as if our house has just been invaded. Phone in hand, I rush to the bathroom so fast my uncle could develop motion sickness if he's still watching, and promptly stumble over something on the floor.

Another curse slips out as I realise I've tripped over some exercise tools; my room is barely distinguishable from a bachelor's den. I can hear my uncle warning me to be careful and saying he'll call me once I'm ready, but I ignore it, silently thanking myself for having ironed my clothes last night.

I set a personal record for how little time I spend in the shower and in front of the mirror—just enough to get my hair somewhat in order, at the cost of cutting the rest of my usual routine short. Flash forward: I'm downstairs in the kitchen, on my feet with an avocado toast, competing against my four-legged friend, who's happily feasting on his own breakfast.