The coffee burned on the way down. An acidic, bitter taste that made him grimace. His shaking right hand causing the murky liquid to slosh against the sides of his Styrofoam cup. His chair faced out into the murky fog of the racetrack, low gray clouds rolling across the dark green tree line in the distance.
He sighed, Brands Hatch was by no means a new course for him to race; though judging by the way his stomach was rolling and pitching his nerves would speak otherwise.
He heard a door open behind him, the conference room lights spilling out into the graying lobby.
"Mr. Michaels, we are ready to see you now."
He stood, placed his unsatisfying coffee on a nearby table and straightened his suit (something which he almost never wore).
He broke a smile, "Great." His slightly lilting accent making the word short and tightened. He walked through the door, the lights shined down.
"Mr. Michaels, the problem we have is that we are concerned about another accident." The men and women around the table, six in all, stared at him. His hands were in his lap, sheepishly hidden like a child's. His blue eyes connected with those of the speaker, an older man with graying hair, a round face and a large nose.
He glanced down at this nameplate in front of the chair, "Mr. Chistworth, I assure you, I am good to go, 100%."
The air around him was still, a sense of watchfulness pervading the atmosphere, as if the group was holding their breath for the inevitable 'but'.
But I can't control my hands any longer.
But I'm frightened of what may happen.
But I'm afraid of losing control once again.
"Ronald," this time a kindlier voice, younger woman, mid-30's with light brown hair and a seemingly understanding voice. "We know how much it means to you to race, but this seems so risky, way too dangerous; you are not supposed to do this again."
He prepared to speak, inhaling sharply, a deeper voice from the right chimed in, "We could maybe have him do a charity drive before the race, a nice way to show the crowds he's OK?" Some 'hmm' and 'maybe' echoed around the table.
"I need to race," he interjected, his voice rising slightly. "That is all I have, it is all I can do."
He looked around the table, his eyes pleading with those around him, begging for the chance to do what he loves to do most.
"Mr. Michaels, if we let you do this; there is a grave risk of another accident occurring; it is racing, and if that happens we would be considered liable for further...issues." Chitsworth once again.
"Sir, should you not let me race again I'm already done, finished. Please it's all I have." The room was silent, his beseeching eyes seeing no understanding or acceptance in those around him.
He heard the heavy wooden door behind him open, "Sir, if you'll please follow me."
He stood up quickly, put his hands into his pockets once more, and ventured out into the lobby, the previously incoming fog now a very present rainstorm battering the windows. His cold coffee sitting on the table.
He sighed and looked out the glass, the rain-slick track glowing under the lights as dusk began to fall.
"Ron?" A voice from the room.
He turned, "We'll let you race…but this is it…from us at least, this is it." The door closed, and he turned back to the window, a smile flitting across his face; he had at least one more race in him, and that was worth something.
The headlights shined in his face, his eyes burning and his hands gripping the wheel violently, pulling hard to the right to avoid the spin-out in front of him. His blue Lotus Exige clipping the fender of the red doppelganger, causing him to spin.
His harness tightened and his hands lost purchase as the car behind him slammed into his side, he flipped, long ways, down the tarmac. The whine of engines blasting past him as his radio chirped at him to see if he was OK and awake. He tried to speak, but couldn't.
The blood was rushing to his head, his harness cutting off circulation. He unbuckled the clip, his shoulder slamming into the underside of his roof, his hands gripping the roll-bars for purchase. He could hear sirens, smell oil and gasoline in the air.
The scent kicked him into action, he scrambled to the passenger window, kicking it out as he came out onto the road, the clear night air charging him, motivating him. He began to walk away, the glow of sirens further down the stretch as the stands of onlookers further away held binoculars up to look at the wreck.
Dazed, he stumbled to the grass, and kneeled, his helmet coming off and resting on his knee.
That's when the explosion occurred. A violent thrust of air and a reverberating echo threw him to the ground; a wave of heat washing over him like he was in a furnace. He turned to see the charred remains of his car, the wheels upright, quickly blackening. The screams could also be heard from the other driver, in the red Exige.
He ran to the other car, fighting the flames as firetrucks and responders crowded in, he could see the driver; locked into his harness and pinned by the steering wheel, burning…dying.
"Ron, get away from there!" A member from his crew came running up, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him away; the flames dancing higher, the screams echoing louder as water was quickly poured onto the gasoline fueled torch.
He sat, his hands shaking, tears running down his face; as the scene unfolded around him.
The nightmare ended as his alarm blared, he hands quickly working to shut it off as the shaking subsided into a gentle tremor, as his fingers began to relax and his breathing became normal. He breathed deep and exhaled slowly, the nightmares were gone.
Today was a race day.