First day

Martin gasped as the red and yellow car raced down the track. The noise was so loud it could cause a serious headache, but Martin refused to wear muffled headphones. He wanted to spend his first day on the track fully experiencing all its aspects with the smell of burnt rubber, used oil and fresh gasoline. He wanted to engrave every smell, sound and image in his heart for good. These must be memories that will stay with him forever - the first day in his dream job.

The momentum of the passing machine threw hair over his forehead. Martin brushed the sun-faded fringe away from his pretty face with maybe a little too delicate features and green eyes gleaming with excitement, and continued to follow the speeding car.

"Have you seen enough?"

Martin could hardly take his eyes off the speeding vehicle, but it would be rude to ignore the man who made it possible for him to be here at all. He turned to the chief mechanic. He saw his bearded, smiling face, his eyes sparkling with youth, which had taken away from a fifty-year-old man at least fifteen.

"Come on, you'll have all summer to check out our cars. You'll still get bored. Steve only has two laps left. You will be needed in the hangar."

Martin sighed softly, but he had to agree with Allen. After all, he came here to work not for fun. Anyway, seeing the six-time winner of all six races up close was no less exciting than watching him on the track. Feeling he had a stupid smile on his lips and knowing that he wouldn't be able to get rid of it that easily, Martin followed Allen.

The smell of grease and gasoline in the hangar was even more intense. The mechanics he had met before paid no attention to him. In these minutes the driver and his car were the most important. When Steve Paxton gets to pit, their main task will be to take care of his machine, take measurements, check the wear of the tires and get it back into service as quickly as possible.

The car drove up sharply and braked sharply. Martin did not join the mechanics who ran to the machine. He was too new, too fresh, and would just get in their way. He stood aside and watched as his experienced colleagues helped the driver out of the lanes and the jack.

The man in the red and yellow jumpsuit stood up heavily, jumped off the car and took off his helmet, revealing a tired, sweaty face so well known to Martin from TV.

It was him, without a doubt, the rising star of GP2 racing. Twenty-five-year-old Steve Paxton joined Fergus at the beginning of last season as a test driver. He entered the racing competition when one of the two main drivers crashed in a car and was recovering in the hospital. Paxton has won all the races he has participated in, astonishing not only the people of Fergus but the racing world as well. Steve Paxton was opening his way to Formula 1 by storm and there were voices that one of the smaller stables was already trying to buy him. Steve, however, preferred to win in GP2 than drag himself in the end with a car that had no chance of competing with the best in F1.

Ever since Martin saw him on the track for the first time, he was like the others completely under the control of his talent. Became his fan. Now, seeing him up close, felt genuinely happy about it.

Steve was tall and slim. His hair, wet with exertion and hot, stuck to his forehead, giving his pretty features an expression of ferocity. He took the given bottle of water, drank a few sips greedily and poured the rest vigorously on his hot head.

"On the tenth lap I started sticking to the track," he growled at the mechanics. His dark brown eyes were menacing as storm air. "I bet I started to lose two or three seconds on the wheel."

"We'll take care of it," Allen said calmly.

Steve grunted, hinting at how little he was making to the promises, picked up a towel someone had given him and disappeared down the tunnel.

'Nice guy,' Martin muttered to himself. What he saw a moment ago clashed with the image of always smiling and willing to seduce beautiful girls of the ace of the track.

Allen tapped him on the shoulder.

"He's not that bad," he explained gently. Martin has already confessed to him that he is a Paxton fan "Not even very celebrities. It's just that when we test cars, he is primarily focused on work. And about this mix, he's right. Come see."

Martin obediently walked over to the car and bent over the frayed tire.

"When a car has too much grip it sheds too much rubber. This slows the driver up to a few seconds per lap, which at these speeds could cost him a victory. In addition, the thickness of the tire is significantly reduced, which increases the risk of its chafing."

Martin remembered an incident from a few years ago in F1, when the tire of the leader of the race exploded literally several hundred meters before the finish line, costing the driver not only a victory, but also the possibility of scoring any points.

"This mix works well for about ten laps," Allen continued, "but then the driver loses all gained advantage." See? Allen touched the tire and tore a piece of rubber off it.

"I can see it," he admitted.

"Our job is to prepare the car to win the race. Even the best driver will not work miracles if his equipment fails."

"Is that why Paxton refused to sign to F1?"

Allen cleared his throat.

"Exactly. Now put on your gloves and get the key. The job won't do itself."

Although Martin's job was mainly to watch and assist, at the end of the day he was all soaked in sweat and grease. His coveralls clung to him unpleasantly and his hair smelled like gasoline. While he personally had absolutely nothing against these scents, he doubted they would be liked by Ami, the girl he had a second date with that evening.

Martin took a quick shower, carefully soaping every part of his body to get rid of the smell of a car box. Although he was tired as hell, this day was a really good one. He learned more today than he could ever imagine. If he gets the job done good and quickly, his racing adventure might not end in two months.

As a child, Martin dreamed of becoming a driver, but soon discovered that he lacked what is most important for this profession - talent. He did not drive badly and won amateur races, but when he had to face the professionals - he lost in the lead-ins. The experience broke his heart for only a few hours, as he quickly discovered that what he liked most was being around cars. During racing, he paid more attention to how the engine worked than to his competition. He loved cars more than driving them. He tweaked a few racers so that the drivers from the middle started winning races and then Allen showed up.

Abe Allen was an old friend of his father's. They both liked to rummage in engines, but Martin's father, unlike his friend, had very limited career ambitions, he married his school love and founded a car repair shop. When he died, the workshop spontaneously collapsed, because none of his sons were old enough to run it. Allen came over to visit them from time to time, and he infected then 13-year-old Martin with a love of racing. So when, years later, he saw that the boy had grown into a talented mechanic, he decided to get him a job in his stable. Martin didn't ask what he needed to pull the strings for - he was just sincere and devotedly grateful for the occasion.

Martin left the common bathroom with a towel wrapped around his hips. He checked once more to make sure he got rid of all the odors in the workshop and dressed quickly. He left his hair wet. It was warm outside, and he knew the afternoon wind would dry them quickly. He grabbed his sweatshirt and ran out of the building to catch the nearest bus.

Steve Paxton was standing in front of the building, his back against the wall. The man was smoking a cigarette and staring into space. Martin couldn't tell exactly what he was looking at. It could be one of the stages of the track or the forest behind the track. Martin paused. Steve had been an idol for him for some time - handsome, track successful, go-getting, with the most beautiful women around him was everything any young man would want to be. Martin saw him on TV dozens of times, envying him and cheering him on. He had him before his eyes now, as real as possible.

Steve had a dark complexion and dark brown hair that was ruffled unruly by a warm wind. His features were sharp, somewhat predatory, and his mouth was narrow. He was very masculine and seemed very strong although he was quite slim. Cigarette smoke surrounded him with a gray cloud, giving him a mysterious character.

That's exactly what an idol should be, Martin thought appreciatively.