Will Montreal heal the wounds?

As the sun rose over Monte Carlo, Hamilton stepped out onto the balcony of his spacious apartment and stared out to sea. It had been an entertaining couple of weeks since losing the Monaco Grand Prix to that manipulative Finnish/German arsehole, Rosberg. To cleanse his mind of the incident, to put himself back into F1 champion-mode, Hamilton had been partying like a champion. He had enjoyed the thrilling company of so many jaw-droppingly beautiful women in that time that he was having a little trouble keeping track of their names. Nevertheless, he was struck by a terrible feeling of lassitude. Was this what dictionary-swallowing writers called ennui?

 

“Lewis, darling,” said a female voice behind him.

 

He turned to see the latest example standing in the middle of the room with a sheet hanging off her shoulder in the style of Frederic, Lord Leighton’s stirring portrait Crenaia, the nymph of the Dargle.

 

 

The girl, whatever her name was, looked stunning, but Hamilton wanted her gone.

“You look gorgeous, my sweet, absolutely spellbinding,” he said as he stepped towards her and kissed her lightly on her exposed shoulder.

“I am terribly sorry, my precious, but my trainer gets a bit twitchy in the days leading up to a race. He says I have to go for a run now and then meet him in the gym. Why don’t I meet you this evening in the bar at the Hermitage?”

“All right,” smiled the girl.

 

Hamilton had actually felt like running and, as he ran, he tried to fix his mind on the race ahead in Montreal. He was a three-times winner in Canada, a record beaten only by two other drivers in history. Among the current crop of drivers, nobody even came close to saying they "owned" any circuit. Well, he owned Canada now. Hamilton fancied his chances in Canada enormously. He was quicker than Rosberg, that was clear, so what he had to be in addition was clever. The trick Rosberg had pulled on him during qualifying in Monaco had hurt badly [Rosberg mysteriously locked-up in his final qualifying lap, which meant that Hamilton, on a quicker lap, was forced to abandon his lap because of waved yellow flags. Pole position being crucial at Monaco, Rosberg went on to win the race and resume his previous lead in the world championship standings].

 

Hamilton knew what the trouble was: the thing which was preventing him from getting mentally into “the zone”. His mind kept wandering. He knew what the trouble was, the sole reason for this lack of vitality, this inability to enjoy enjoyable delights, this inability to concentrate, this ennui. He knew, because he had been troubled by this thing more than once in the past: it was all down to his latest split from Nicole.

 

Every time he broke up with Nicole, his life followed the same pattern: first he was filled with exhilaration at his freedom to do as he pleased; then something fundamental seemed to escape from him; worst of all, his racing suffered. He was like the absinthe drinker miserably depicted in the painting by Edgar Degas: washed up and useless.

 

 

Getting the racing back on track mattered more than anything. He had to get his mind together, sorted. He had to be able to think about nothing but the race.

 

There was only one thing for it: he had to get Nicole back. He stopped running and reached for his phone. To his amazement, there were two text messages waiting for him.

 

The first was from his pilot: “wheels up at 16.30”. That was reassuring.

 

The second was from Nicole:

 

“Listen you chicken-shit. I am the best fucking thing you ever had. You’re not getting rid of me! I’ll see you in Montreal on Thursday evening at the usual place.”

 

Hamilton felt his spirits lift instantly. He retraced his steps and ran back to his apartment. There was just enough time to throw some things into a suitcase before dashing into town and buying the most expensive pearl necklace he could find.

 

Just over two weeks previously, Nicole had left the Miro Foundation in Barcelona and headed straight for the airport. She had reclined her first class seat on the flight across the Atlantic and cried herself to sleep. By the time the plane began its descent into Los Angeles airport, her despondency had cleared. She was no shrinking violet. Mr Chicken-Shit wasn’t getting away so easily.

 

Meanwhile, in Montreal, Niki Lauda, non-executive chairman of Mercedes F1 was having an open session with his team ahead of the arrival of their two drivers. There was a lot of planning and strategy and technical stuff to discuss ahead of the race, but Lauda, the wily old fox, knew from looking closely at the eyes of all the men, that the elephant in the room was the Hamilton/Rosberg feud. Monaco had poisoned the atmosphere at Mercedes and there was a real danger that no antidote could be found before the championship was lost.

 

 

 

Lauda’s concern was that the drivers’ rivalry now transcended their loyalty to the team. Before Monaco, Hamilton had gone as far as saying that he preferred not to have Rosberg on the podium but wanted himself at the top step, Fernando Alonso on the second step and Sebastian Vettel on the third step. In other words “Listen Rosberg, arsehole, you are out of my league. The only chaps with whom I can deign to race are fellow world champions, not whippersnappers like you!” Tinderbox stuff! Something had to be done about the situation before it was too late.

 

 

Lauda decided to clear the air. “Gentlemen, what are we going to do about our two hot-blooded boys?” he asked.

A senior engineer used this as his opportunity to air the views which were shared consistently across the room. “The risk is that they take each other out at the first corner. That means two wrecked cars and no points for the team. This could end up costing us dearly. It’s too great a risk to run. I suggest we stop them racing. If one qualifies ahead of the other, the other holds station for the race.”

 

Lauda sat and considered this for a minute. “Remember James Hunt?," he asked rhetorically. "James and I were not in the same team, but we were the best of friends. And yet. And yet. We had a bitter rivalry going in 1976 which rose above our friendship higher than any cloud in the sky. Neither of us was ready to give in. I swear to you, James and I and were equally capable of taking the other guy out at that time, whatever the risks.”

 

 

 

 

“You have to try and put yourself in the mind of a racer if you are going to make sense of what is going on between these two guys. Outside, they can be the best of friends, but in the car they hate each other. Nothing matters more to Lewis now than beating Nico. Exactly the same applies to Nico. You know what, at this stage, if we try to stop them racing, they won’t  listen to us, believe me. Leave them be." He bit his lip. “Let’s hope for the best on Sunday.”

 

 

 

 

In Los Angeles, Nicole had sought a mental release and gone out for some retail therapy. Several shops and fifteen shopping parcels later, she felt energised. In her flat, while carefully laying her new purchases in tastefully selected suitcases, Nicole began to smile again.

 

 

 

 

 

The Montreal Grand Prix was going to be magical with her in attendance and Lewis was going to win it, after he had won her back.

 

Gitau

 

5 June 2014