Like the Wind
A Promptoberfest story
© 2024 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by  tegerio

Prompt: pole


Speed, his mother told him once, was in his blood.

Jean believed her. Throughout his boyhood, the fennec had always seemed to want to run while others walked. His father ascribed it to Jean’s grandfather, who had been a Harki during the Algerian War, but both of his parents fretted that his desire to go faster would eventually get him trouble.

So they actually seemed relieved when young Jean started racing professionally. Better to be speeding around a racecourse than running from les flics.

He’d been immensely proud when he’d risen through the ranks of one of the world’s premier F1 racing organizations, and his parents were proud of him as well.

They’d come across the border from their home in northern France, and he knew they were in the stands right now, watching him live instead of over the television or streaming services as he prepared for the Belgian Grand Prix. The fennec felt his tail swish in its confining Nomex sleeve as he resolutely cleared his mind. He had to focus; focus on the car, focus on the course, focus on speed.

Jean swept his ears back and pulled on his balaclava, and then his helmet. Fennec ears were almost as big as a rabbit’s, and his helmet was custom-made just like the immortal Senna’s.

The pit crew helped him get into his car, strapped him in and gave him the steering wheel. He plugged it into the steering column and noted that it connected properly. Heating blankets were removed from the tires and he was pushed out of the garage for his third qualifying heat.

The fennec had barely managed to squeak past the first heat because he’d let up on the accelerator coming out of Raidillon. Jean had barely resisted the spate of angry profanity that had threatened to erupt from his mouth, but the crew knew he was furious at himself. The difference was only a few tenths of a second.

But he knew he was better than that.

Jean took the Eau Rouge and Raidillon at full speed in the second qualifier, never letting up as the curve reached the summit of the hill and became a long straightaway. He’d completed the lap in a far better position, advancing to fifth in the overall standings.

“Jean,” the crew boss’ voice whispered in his ears, “can you hear me?”

“I hear you, Robert.”

“This is the last heat. Pay attention to your tires and the course. You’ve got twelve minutes, make them count, eh?”

The fennec’s muzzle contorted in a feral grin. “I will.” The race official signaled, and the car’s engine roared to life, the turbocharger whining as it spooled up to speed.

Jean watched as the lights stepped down and he released the brake and stamped hard on the accelerator as the lamps went out.

The first curve was a hairpin and he entered it with the barest touch of brake before speeding up through the apex and into the straight that led to the Eau Rouge. Everything with the car was as perfect as engineering and the mechanics could make it; that left him.

There is a wind called a sirocco, that blows across the Sahara and northward across the Mediterranean to lash at southern France. The fennec had to be the sirocco today.

His car plunged down into the Eau Rouge’s leftward turn before jinking right and left again, the compression of the car’s downforce making him momentarily queasy. He ignored it, concentrating on getting every ounce of power from the car.

Jean couldn’t see the summit of the Raidillon, but he knew where he would be when he entered the Kemmel Straight, tucked in on the left side of the course. He’d never let up on the car’s speed, intent on making sure he couldn’t be overtaken as he entered the series of five curves at the southeast end of the course.

The next curves were easier, but Jean didn’t let up, watching the road ahead and glancing hectically at his instrument cluster. “Tires are good,” he said into his microphone.

“Telemetry’s good,” the crew boss said.

“Bon,” the fennec said. He felt like he was the car, an extension of his own body, as he drove through Curve 18 and into the final hairpin.

He didn’t let up on the gas until he passed the checkered flag and he slowed before braking to a stop. Jean was panting in exhaustion. “Jean? Jean, are you all right?”

He nodded before realizing that they couldn’t see him. “I’m here. Okay.”

“That was your fastest lap.”

It was? He glanced at his instruments. “How’s the car?”

“It took it like a champ.”

He drew a deep breath. “Okay. How did I do?”

There was a pause, and the crew chief’s voice quavered with suppressed emotion. “One fifty-eight point one seventy-five. You’ll be in the number one spot on the grid tomorrow morning.”

The fennec pumped one fist in the air, exultant, before recalling that this was just qualifying.

The true test would be to be the first off the grid when the lights went out, and stay ahead of everyone else for the forty-four separate lifetimes the next day held for him.

But Jean was confident, feeling a whisper of the sirocco blowing through his soul.



end