For once,
    we found the line.

Left the BNB exactly on time.

Walked directly
       to the _correct_ shuttle pickup spot.

No committee.

No improvising.

No heroic little route
   invented by confidence

   and punished by Montreal.

Just Mike and me,
     early again,
   but this time
   with the strange calm

   of men who had finally learned one useful thing.

We landed at the track
    right as it opened.

Flawless execution.

I almost didn’t recognize us.

A little coffee.
A little wandering.
A little shopping
  I had no business doing.

But the McLaren jacket
    was calling my name
    and I am, apparently,

    only so strong in the face of papaya.

Then seats.

Stakeout mode.

Holding the little patch
           of grandstand
     our crew would need
  when the day caught up.

Sharesa wandered in.

The BFFs wandered in.

And omg Mari,
    looking like heaven
    in a #12 Mercedes cap,

    which did absolutely nothing to improve track conditions.

Because the track was wet.

Grey sky overhead.

Asphalt shining.

Corners waiting.

The whole circuit glistening
                like it knew
exactly what kind of trouble
             it was inviting.

Wet track.

Clean line.

That’s the trick, apparently.

Find the grip where you can.

Don’t overdrive
      what the day is willing to give you.

Trust the route
      when someone smarter
      has already found it.

Keep the jacket zipped.

Keep the seats warm.

Try not to stare
    too obviously
    at the woman
    five feet away

    making weather look personal.

Race day is here.

Finally.

The track is daring the drivers
    to pretend confidence

    is the same thing as grip.

And us?

We’re here early.

We’re here together.

We’re here
      before the lights go out,
      with coffee,
      bad financial decisions,
      one impossible hat,
      and just enough rain

      to make the whole thing interesting.