the art of racing in the rain | cs55
the unpredictability of rain is the beauty of it, no?
in which she decides "fuck it" and talks to him anyway
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do you know what's lethal to even the best driver?
rain.
there are exceptions. the masterclass taught by jim clark at spa in '63. senna dominated at monaco in '84 when you could barely see two feet. michael schumacher won by a massive margin in '96 in spain.
carlos sainz in '22 at silverstone.
victory.
you see, on july 3, 2022, she was at silverstone. her father - the wonderful man he was - had surprised her with tickets to silverstone. he was a good man; a good father. from the minute she came into the world, he had her in ferrari gear.
"the first race you were alive for was monaco, 1995," he would tell her every year near the end of may. "you were only a week old, but when michael schumacher crossed the line and stood on that step, I could swear you smiled. now, he was still at benetton yet, not ferrari, but no mind. schumachers are tifosi."
so began her life. a life measured in f1 races. kimi räikkönen defied odds in japan the day before her mother died. '05. hamilton's first victory - at home - was the day that she got her first puppy. '08. jenson button went from pit lane to victory in canada a month after her sixteenth birthday. '11. sainz's domination at silverstone in torrential downpour was the day her life changed forever. '22.
it was wet. so, so wet. the wet that seeps all the way through your clothes and into your bones. the wet that makes even the most devout fan question her commitment. but she was there. and she was with her father. and el matador took pole and il predestinato took p3. the wet was going to have to be worth it.
and it was. because as carlos sainz slowly made it obvious that he was going to take his first victory, a pride so fierce and so powerful came up inside her. she screamed and cheered more than she ever had because ferrari's boy won.
"oh dear lord above," whispered her dad. "he's done it. the spaniard's done it."
"in the wet," she replied, unsure whether the wet on her cheeks was tears or rain. "he's done it in the wet."
she gripped her father's hand tightly - just as she did when she was a little girl - and they walked out of the grandstands smiling larger than sainz himself.
she smiled all the way back to the hotel, through her hot shower and the makeup she applied, and all the way to the pub.
"two pints and two fish and chips," her father bade of the man behind the bar before turning to her. "i'm surprised that you sat through that cold."
"are you? really?" came the reply.
he thought about it for a second. then, out came the dimples. "no, i'm not. you've always been the girl that would tough it out for the fun of it. whether it be an f1 race or a premier league match. you're like your mother in that way."
"que en paz descanse," she said to her father as a bittersweet smile overtook her face. may she rest in peace
"¿hablas español?" came a voice behind her. a skinny man appeared. she could barely make out the lines of his face behind tortoise-shell glasses larger than her pint. "tengo una pregunta para ti." do you speak spanish? i have a question for you
the faint smell of beer floated off his breath, but she humored him anyway.
"sí, hablo. preguntame," she smiled ruefully. yes, i speak. ask me
"mi primo me dijo que él no quiere novia," he announced. my cousin told me that he doesn't want a girlfriend
"¿vale?" her smile was barely hidden behind the rim of her glass. "¿y tu pregunta es?" okay? and your question is
"yo pienso que él no quiere novia porque él no ha descubrido la persona correcta. ya ves, el tiene dinero. y piense que todas las chicas solamente quieren la moneda." he continued. "y quiero pedirte un favor." i think that he doesn't want a girlfriend because he hasn't found the right person. you see, he's rich. and he thinks that all the girls only want the money. and i want to ask you for a favor.
her father watched on with mild confusion. he only ever picked up on part of her mother's native language. it wasn't for lack of trying. he struggled with english grammar. trying to force him to conjugate the imperfect subjunctive would have been futile.
"estás hablando por mucho tiempo," she told him, watching her chip pile deplete. "dime lo que quieres." you are talking for a long time. tell me what you want.
"quiero que vayas a mi primo y le hables de algo que no tiene nada que ver con el dinero para que él sepa que no todas las chicas quieren el dinero," finished the man, rambling. "¿porfa?" i want you to go over to my cousin and talk to him about something that has nothing to do with money so that he can know that not all girls want money. please?
"voy a ser directa contigo," she bit her lip to try and contain the giggles threatening to come out. "eso era lo más estupido que he escuchado en toda mi vida." i'm going to be straight with you. that was the most stupid thing that i've heard in my entire life.
"te compraré una cerveza," he went on. "y una para tu padre también" i will buy you a beer. and one for your father too.
this, her father understood.
"free beer?" he perked up like a dog at the sight of a bone. "did he say he'd buy us both beer?"
"if i talk to his cousin," she added the information that was lost in translation.
her father laughed. "it's free beer. go."
"don't you think that sending your daughter to go speak with a man she doesn't know in a crowded pub is irresponsible?" the incredulity in her voice was undisguised. "what if he kidnaps me?"
her father just turned back to the news playing on the pub's television. "oh, look. more taxes."
"disculpa," the man continued. then in english: "we're not murderers, i promise." excuse me
"see?" said her father. "go talk to someone. lord knows you haven't in a while."
so she took the last swig of her beer, stood up, checked her lipstick in the reflection of the bar mirror and followed caco (as he introduced himself) over to a man in the corner.
a man with a large grin, brown eyes, and who smelled faintly of champagne.
they go back to that pub often. the small table in the corner, tucked below large posters of red bull junior drivers. order two pints and two fish and chips and laugh about how drunk caco must have been to walk over to a random girl who just happened to speak spanish and ask her to hit on his cousin. how crazy she must've been to do it. and how lucky they both were that she did. because that night in milton keynes was fate.
you see, the trick to driving in the wet is being light with the brakes and having full faith in your instincts. jumping in headfirst, saying "fuck it" and trusting that the car underneath you will never lead you astray.
and that the rain will continue.
"ay, mi chica. siempre estaré aquí."
mona speaks:
my first written work, a little mini carlos blurb! thank you all for all of the support and encouragement i have received. i hope that you like this. if you have any requests, suggestions, or even just want to chat, please feel free to drop me an ask. i look forward to seeing them every time! much love <3