AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ive been planning this story for a LOOONGG time and finally excited to share it with the world! This is my most ambitious work yet, and im trying to tackle a bunch of different themes and ideas. This began as a gateway to talk about two of my favourite interests but has now turned into something so much more. I dont know too much about how F1 works behind the scenes and even less about how it worked in the 90s, so if theres anything innaccurate, please forgive me. Im already taking lots of creative liberties by giving Sauber a winning car. I hope you all enjoy!

"I hereby announce my retirement from Formula 1, and motorsport in general."

The early days of March meant that the world was still new to 1995, and still adjusting to the dreaded story that came in the year of possibilities. The news hit television screens that renowned driver Kip Allagash would no longer be driving for Sauber— or anyone, for that matter. The upcoming season would be the man's last, marking the end of an era for millions of Allagash fans worldwide. It was bittersweet, to say the least. While many were happy for the newly married driver, they couldn't hide their grief. But one woman did not mourn the same way everyone else did.

"With Kip out of the picture, the spotlight's all on you." Monica tossed a water bottle to Chandler, who sat sweaty on the trail bench. Their bikes were parked against a large tree, moss growing over the carving they left years ago. It now only read Chdlr Bg Was Hre.

He took a large, exhausted swig. "Relax— his body's not even cold yet."

"Aren't you excited? You should be excited."

It was only Chandler's second year in the luxurious sport, but his name was already featuring in headlines. He glimmered on every track his wheels had the pleasure of driving on, and now that he was in the pinnacle of motorsport, he was only getting better. Fans saw shining potential in him, and public opinions aside, it was hard to deny his talent— but putting those public opinions aside proved harder than he hoped.

"Not much to be excited about." Chandler took off his sunglasses and wiped the sweat off his face. As much as he tried to be nonchalant, he was addicted to the media and every word of praise or criticism that came his way. "It'll all be the same as last year. News flash! Son of Bing gets in his big fancy car— fueled with green, green money— and ruins motorsport forever!"

His mock news-reporter voice was not enough to impress Monica. She rolled her eyes. "No one's going to say that."

"They already have."

"They won't if you apply yourself."

Coming from a wealthy background meant that Chandler was known as the child who bought his way to Formula 1— which he always saw as the least sensible insult to his talent. Who in Formula 1 didn't have money? It was the rich man's playground, there was no point in reprimanding the boy for playing in the sand. Even though he saw the claims as illogical, it didn't do wonders for his self-esteem.

"Ahh, my bad. In the nearly twenty years I've been racing, I must have forgotten to put in the effort. Whoops!" Chandler remarked sourly, before putting on a more genuine voice. "You act like I'm not trying."

"That's because you aren't."

He stood up from the bench, stretching his arms behind his back and mentally wishing he never got out of bed. "Remind me never to exercise with you again."

"Noted." Monica responded dryly. "I'm serious, Chandler. This next season is going to be the most important of your life."

As his manager, Monica was required to care more about the driver's career than the driver himself. She scheduled these awfully early training sessions because according to her, it becomes training for your mind. Chandler was eternally grateful to have someone as dedicated and bright as Monica as his manager, but there had to come a point where these sorts of routines were considered anti-humanitarian, and the throbbing burn in his legs was a sign that they were far beyond that hypothetical point. He was lucky they were only cycling today.

"No, really?" He snarked. Chandler had heard this speech a million times since Kip had even thought about retiring.

"Williams has their eye on you, and if you stopped letting all those meaningless reporters get to your head, then your chances of landing on the team will skyrocket!" Chandler could hear the words before they even came out of her mouth. "You want to prove you're not just some pay-driver?" She stuck her finger against his chest. "Do. Better."

She says it like it's the easiest thing in the world.

"You are the kindest woman I've ever met, you know that?"

Monica grinned. "You get kindness when we're off the clock."

"Which is when?"

"Right now."

And like magic, Monica's ruthless expression dissolved, and unearthed the friend he's known for years. They were a peculiar duo— there's not a single athlete in the world who employed their younger best friend as the person running their life, but there was also no other athlete that employed Monica, which only meant that Chandler had an advantage.

The two reached for their bikes and cycled back down the hill that Chandler had perfectly memorised— he saw these trees more than his own family. He was never a big nature-enthusiast, but trees put a lot less pressure on him than his mother did. Maybe he shouldn't be punishing them with juvenile carvings. They just passed the tree that said Chandler Bing: Future Champion!, clearly written by Monica.

"Kip and I have a carving around here somewhere, too. When we first became teammates. I think he crossed out my name and wrote Melissa's under it." Chandler reminisced, saying the woman's name with the kind of venom you would only hear from a cast-away mistress.

Monica scoffed at him. "God, you talk about him like he's your ex."

"Damn him and his stupid wife. Who said you can't be married and a driver?"

"A driver who wants to have a kid, or a kid who wants their dad to be alive."

Kip's priorities were ones that Chandler could never understand. He decided to quit Formula 1 to focus on starting a family, which to Chandler, sounded like nothing more than a wasted opportunity. Kip was the only thing that made this whole racing thing tolerable. It made Chandler feel special that someone so talented and respected like Kip would dote on him. They were good enough friends, but then Kip decided that love and marriage was the most important thing in the world, and he was suddenly better than everyone else because of it. At least he could go out on a high-note, though. Nobody wants to race miserably for years just because they can; the only person planning on doing that was Chandler. Out of all the kids playing with their toy cars during recess, fantasising about their hands on the wheel and the sparks lighting up against their helmets, it was only Chandler who grew up to do something about it. It was everybody else's dream that he was carrying in his gloves.

There was a time when Chandler did have an appreciation for motorsport. Boarding school was easier with the small sense of superiority that Chandler held. Who else could kart like him? Who else had more trophies than steps in a staircase? It was this excellence that comforted Chandler through lunches spent alone. Validation became his water, what he needed to survive. It didn't matter the reputation his family name held, as long as he could prove everyone wrong once he passed the chequered flag.

"So who's replacing Kip, anyway? Anybody I know?" Asked Chandler. It was a question with little significance, as Chandler didn't have many friends within Formula 1. He didn't have many friends at all.

"Do you know Joseph Tribbiani?"

The name was familiar— they've karted alongside each other, but their interactions were limited. Chandler wasn't one to congratulate others.

"I've heard the name."

"He was in Formula 3000, and now he's good enough for the real deal. He's really skilled from what I've seen." racing was Monica's oxygen. In another life, she would have been a racer, and a far better racer than Chandler. In this life, she decided to spare the whole grid and keep her talent behind the scenes.

"But he can't beat me, right?"

"That's up to you to decide."

Manhattan greeted them as they cycled back into the big city, the sun not yet risen from behind the starry curtain. The one single good thing about going out so early was that Chandler didn't need to hide from anyone. Public appearances became a nightmare ever since he came into the limelight, with cameras and microphones being shoved into his face every time he dared to step further on the sidewalks, but the periods of twilight were his and his alone— well, his and Monica's. He won't complain too much, though. Fame was nice. Attention was nice. Having everyone's eyes on him meant he was important to someone out there, and that was nice.

Could he do without it, though? Most definitely. Bing wasn't a name he was proud of; unfortunate onomatopoeia aside, Chandler was forever linked to one of New York's many infamous families. The name Bing was the very first gift given to him by his father, Charles, the same man who left his family in ruins and racing ribbons when Chandler was only nine. When his mother would yell words laced with the hatred they preached against, all Chandler could do was get on his knees and pray for it to end. His prayers must have gotten lost somewhere along the way.

Once Charles shut the door behind them forever, it meant that something needed to be done about the absence that filled the Bing mansion. Chandler noticed his mother lacked the grief a wife should have for her husband's permanent departure from their lives, but it probably had to do with the love she never had in the first place. The first thing she did was not explain to Chandler where his father had gone, or what it meant when the bedroom door was locked and the poolboy was nowhere to be found. She put a bright blue helmet on her son and made sure he'd become the greatest kid in karting the world could offer. It was one of Nora's many unorthodox qualities.

For Kip to have something so special, that he could leave Chandler the same way his father did, maybe Chandler should've been happier for him. He found it ironic that family was what took Kip out of racing, and what forced Chandler into it.

All of Chandler's greatest efforts and worst memories were immortalised in the trophy case he kept in his living room, the very first thing anyone would see once entering his condo. The golden and silver trophies filling the shelves reminded him of all the childhood days spent in the cars he never looked forward to driving. On the rare days Nora decided to visit him, her gaze phased through him as if he was never there. The trophy case was what called to her like a magnet. The victories were her true son.

His most important accomplishment stood in the centre of the case, where Chandler could stare at the winner in its gold reflection. The first place trophy from the 1994 Spanish grand prix, and Chandler's first and only race victory in his career. The expectations held for him were low after his mother poured all the money in the world to make sure he'd land in the Sauber car, but that was the day that the grandstands no longer felt cold. They looked at him with red faces and cheers coming from their mouths, fists in the air as he crossed the finish line to everyone's surprise. Everyone knew him. Everyone loved him. For a split second, he loved himself. That was the day Chandler Bing was no longer just Nora's son, but he was a racer— and a pretty good one, too.

Kip didn't reach the podium that day. Chandler thought for sure he'd be mad; upset that the new guy beat him to first place, that the crowd was chanting the wrong name. But in his garage, Kip came up to the young boy and slapped him on the back, giving his congratulations and what Chandler felt like was his seal of approval. Kip almost looked at him like an equal. This trophy symbolised the beginning of their friendship more than it did his victory, but that quickly became synonymous to him.

Chandler dreaded the day he'd walk by Kip's garage and find somebody else in there.

He fell back onto his sleek white couch that matched the rest of his soulless furniture. Bored out of his mind, he decided to give his only other friend a call. Ross Geller— brother of Monica, and a depressing reminder of how pathetic Chandler's social life was.

Ross was always quick to respond. "Hello?"

"Hey man, it's me. Do me a favour and talk to me about anything other than racing."

Monica was great, and undoubtedly the person he cared for the most, but Chandler easily grew tired of all the driving-talk. Ross' lack of involvement in the sport came to him as a much needed breath of fresh air.

Unfortunately, his friend ignored his request. "Monica told me about the guy that's joining your team next year. Dude, he's awesome."

"I'm a terminally ill child. I'm a terminally ill child and you just denied my Make-A-Wish."

Chandler could hear Ross' disapproval on the other line.

"Listen, I was looking into him just now— he's really great. Now, I don't really know much about this racing stuff like you or Monica do, but from what I know, he's going to be a great addition."

Couldn't be better than Kip, Chandler found himself thinking. He shook his head of the clinging thoughts.

"And maybe it'll be better for you to race with someone closer in experience. Didn't you always feel like you were in Kip's shadow?"

That wasn't too far off from the truth. When looking for nothing more than recognition, doing so alongside a well-loved and skilled veteran didn't make that any easier. Chandler leaned further back into the couch, surrounding himself in cool leather and pure privilege.

"I don't know. I don't get what's so special about this Joseph guy." He paused in his bitter speak. "Hey, do you think that's what the other villagers said when Mary got married to him?"

"Is that what they taught you in Catholic school?" asked Ross, void of the laughter Chandler expected. Unamusement must have run through Geller blood, or maybe his chuckle didn't make it through the telephone lines.

"It's what makes it all a little more interesting."

Along with passion, faith was another thing Chandler lacked growing up. The priests' great words didn't reach him as it did others, likely to do with the cardinal sins living beneath his old floorboards. Maybe that meant racing wasn't so bad, because he'd then spend his Sundays on tarmac tracks rather than the church walls he didn't believe in.

Ross coughed into the phone. "Anyway– I'm excited for this guy to join you, I think this could be a great opportunity."

"You sound just like Monica."

"Which means I'm right."

"Good day, Ross." Tired of everyone caring more than he did, Chandler hung up the phone.

With only a couple days until the first race week, Chandler knew he had to savour what was left of his freedom. He wanted to relax— close his eyes and let the white leather swallow him whole, leaving him deprived of all senses. But he couldn't, because His gaze was upon him. The wooden cross hung alone above all his trophies, a constant reminder that Chandler was never truly alone; truly free. No movement went unjudged, leaving Chandler to often sit still, afraid to anger He who already brought him so much misfortune. He wants to say he doesn't believe, that catholicism was just a far away memory to him now, but he ran on the creases of God's holy palms. The cross was a gift from Nora that he never had the courage to refuse, and now he lives with the presence. He shared a room with the Lord who he did not respect.

The nuns from his school always preached that everything happened for a reason; that every peculiar choice made by God was part of the master plan. His suffering was meant to come with a reward soon enough, but was Chandler a fool for still waiting all these years? After his parents divorced, after his father turned to sin, after being pushed into a life he loathed, how could God spin it all to be alright? The Lord may have had a plan, but so far, it seemed it was only going to bring Chandler to his demise. Maybe it was all punishment for every dinner he prayed with his eyes open.

As he stared at the cross, a chilling feeling coursed through his fingers, expecting to come together for prayer but staying still at Chandler's unfaithful sides. The Lord did not have a plan. The Lord did not have a reason for making Kip retire. The Lord wasn't in control of everything like his family believed, and Chandler knew this. He was ahead of every desperate believer plunged into church.

And though he was aware and ahead of every desperate believer he grew up with, he still joined his hands together, humbly requesting the Lord for a good 1995 season.