Saturday, September 21 – Qualifying

The Widemeres have just left the pit box and meeting them has got me thinking. Is life just a great, big balancing act between good and bad? It's the only reason I can imagine why such a super-sweet couple who lost their kid to an awful disease would end up being not only able to go on, but also actively support research so others could be spared. It's usually a pain to have visitors around—they ask too many questions and end up being in the way when we're trying to get ready for a session—but spending time with George and Elspeth today (and even Tim from York, I suppose) was nice. So now I'm just waiting for something to go wrong because while I'm not a spiritual person, so far pretty much everything during my time in Spain has been a textbook case of yin and yang.

For each positive—the humbling hospital visit, a whole bunch of gracious fans, and goofing off with my increasingly likable teammate—there has been a negative—delayed flights, backstabbing bitches, and getting hit on by drunk colleagues. If this continues into the race weekend, I'm royally screwed. I need to be prepared for anything and can't leave anything up to chance—or fate—out on the track.

Unlike the course in Australia, the Circuit de Cataluña-Barcelona runs clockwise and has more right turns than left. It's practically the same length and just one less lap in total for my category, but the layout makes it almost ten miles per hour slower on average, adding nearly twenty minutes to the overall race time. The three free practice sessions have been warm, dry, and uneventful: a perfect trio of attributes for riding. But as always, only the results during this afternoon's qualifying period have any impact on the grid order for the main event.

Waiting in the garage for the session to start, I sip water as Dad organizes my gear. One of the perks of being a freelance defense contractor is that he has really flexible hours when he's not on a project deadline, so this lets him be my unofficial assistant and my biggest fan at the same time. He picks up one of the boxes he brought from California yesterday, but I stop him before he opens the lid. "Give me the old one, please. I want to save that for tomorrow's race."

He keeps the cardboard flap open and glances at the shelf with the black and purple helmet I've been using. "Are you sure?" he asks. "The session is televised, and every bit of exposure helps."

It's tempting. Josh's artwork is better than I could have ever expected, but that's why I was thinking of saving the big reveal for the actual race. But Dad's right. After refusing payment for his design and airbrushing, all the guy at Vortex had asked was for me to name-drop his company in a few interviews. The publicity will be worth ten times as much as the couple of grand he could have charged for the work, and I'm more than happy to give it.

"Okay," I say. "Hand it over."

Dad smirks as he unpacks the custom-painted Kevlar shell lined with polystyrene foam that's the only thing between me and head injury—and probably even death—if my skull ever hit the pavement during a high-speed crash.

"That is bloody gorgeous," Nicola says, appearing out of nowhere. "Is this your response to that 'Diva Down Under' article that came out after Melbourne? I've been thinking about how to address that, but you may be onto something here. I fancy we could create some marvelous branding around this. Let us have a proper look."

Without letting go, I slowly turn the imperfect sphere so all sides are eventually visible. The primary image is centered on the top of the helmet, and it can only be fully seen when I have my head down. It will look awesome on camera, captured from the front as I overtake the guys. Inspired by the calaveras makeup of the Mexican Día de los Muertos holiday's elaborately stylized sugar skulls, it's an homage to my home state, but also doesn't forget about the Dimas family heritage. Because while no two Day of the Dead designs ever seem to be the same, I—well, okay Josh—took mine several steps farther to creatively also include Greek iconography.

For starters, he layered a Corinthian helmet design over the base image of the skull. He also embellished the usual flower crown with a combination of ripe, red pomegranate fruit—some literally bursting and spilling their juices—and periwinkle, baby blue and white poppy anemones. We'd chosen this particular blossom because it's a hardy spring perennial also known as the windflower. The former reason went well with the Persephone myth, while I really found the latter to be a nice reference to how I often feel while racing: as if I'm riding on the wind itself. Single stalks of golden barley are mixed between the fruit and flowers, completing the fertile earth analogy associated with the goddess. It really is brilliant.

A classical meander motif makes the decorative border that twists and turns at right angles to frame the shading around the eye sockets and form a perpetual labyrinth. In the negative space, masterful airbrushing creates the illusion of folds in a wispy, off-white to mimic the flow of a toga.

"Knock yourself out," I say in response to the publicist's offer to use the images to promote me. I purposefully picked a design I'd be proud to wear, and Nicola would do whatever she and Nigel wanted anyway. I might as well officially agree to it. "Dad can give you the artist's card."

"Excellent," Nicola says, snapping a close-up picture of the artwork before typing on her smartphone. "We'll just shoot out a little teaser for now. There we go." She turns the device so I can see the screen and read the tweet she'd just posted from the @Cadmium3Prix account: Heading out for qualifying in #Barcelona #Dimas83 #PitLanePersephone

I barely finish reading before the app starts to ping.

"Well done, you! It's blowing up already." Nicola pulls the phone away. "I'm going to turn off the notifications right now, but I can almost guarantee you'll be trending regionally by the time you hit the track."

Qualifying. Shit. I need to get ready.

Glancing at the TV mounted on the wall, I see there's less than a minute to go until the session opens. I pull on the new helmet and tighten the strap, re-check my boots, tug my suit's zipper all the way up, and do some last second stretches. I get my gloves on just as the horn blasts through the announcement system.

Seb has gone back to being his usual distant self, sitting silently in his chair in the back ready to go for at least ten minutes. Because his pre-track routine typically has him zoned out to focus on finding his Zen or whatever it is that gets him in the perfect mindset to ride, I expect him to head straight for his bike. So I'm kind of left speechless when he goes out of his way to walk past me and give a thumbs-up.

Was that for my new helmet? I swear I can't figure this dude out. He either seems to go out of his way to avoid me, or he pulls something unexpectedly nice. I obviously don't mind getting on his good side, but I wish he'd make up his mind about me already.

Tomas calls me over to my machine, so I fist bump Dad and follow my teammate out. The Ducati's motor purrs and the shocks bounce as I get on. Putting the bike into gear, I release the clutch while giving gas, but the engine stalls. I squeeze the clutch again and look back, but a tech is already grabbing the starter roller and putting it under the rear tire. Best. Team. Ever. As the guy steps on the foot pedal, the tool spins the wheel to mimic a push-start without the effort. When I press a toggle switch with my thumb, the engine roars to life again and I tear out of the pits.

Merging left onto the track at the same time as a half dozen others, I don't even get out of second gear before leaning into the first right hander. I hold off on giving too much throttle to put some distance between me and the guys in front, but in spite of the hiccup with the start, the bike feels great. I'm actually grinning like a fool by the time the apex of turn five flies by in an alternating mix of white and burgundy just inches below my tucked-in left knee.

After having only about eight hours total track time so far on the Ducati, I'm kind of shocked by how easy it has been to get used to this new ride. At this rate, I'm sure to be faster in qualifying today than at least a couple of the others. My results each week have to get increasingly better. That's all I'm asking for this season.

By turn nine, I'm in third and going one hundred with a clear track directly ahead. Cutting the next corner narrow to allow for a wider entrance into the equally sharp right-hander, I ease up on the final turns and focus on starting my first flying lap. With my head down, I pass over the starting line at almost one-fifty and look for my orientation spots. Learned and perfected over the last two days, they help me properly time the crucial deceleration into the first corner.

Start too early and I lose precious seconds. Begin too late and I end up in the gravel.

As I reach the marshal's shed, I tap the brake and downshift, but did the digital speedometer just go dark for a split second? It's working fine now, so maybe it was just the sunlight hitting it the wrong way. The bike still feels the same and turn three is coming up fast. This corner puts a huge amount of pressure on the right edge of the rear wheel, but if done properly, I can gain a few tenths of a second.

The exit is smooth, so it may have worked, but only Nigel and the crew will know for now as they review my transponder's data in real-time. The second half of the track is uneventful—always a good thing—and I start what I hope to be an even better lap with the momentum.

Whatever my time was, I know I can do better. My best times always come three or four laps into the session, so I head into the first turn even more aggressively. Sitting up as I slow to tuck into a more than forty-five degree angle, the short grass of the run-off area whizzes by my helmet. My rear tire wobbles slightly as I accelerate out of the corner, but there's traffic ahead.

Damn it! I was on such a good pace, too.

Easing off the throttle to avoid ending up in the middle of the crowded race line, I join the back of the pack. Gridlock like this happens when someone messes up, and now everyone will have to space themselves out again, write off this lap, and start the next one fresh.

Hanging back a bit, I finally get into a decent rhythm when the engine cuts out.

"What the ...?" I mutter in the deafening silence, squeezing the clutch and pressing the starter. Nothing.

I try again, but the bike just continues to coast. Stopping at the edge of the nearest gravel trap, I put my feet down and hit the gas tank in frustration.

There it is. The last fucking yin.