It’s Thursday morning. You, Mex Farsteps, arrive at the track, ready to kick some [Ferrari] and [Mercedes] butt. But first, you have to go through the mandatory hoops. First, you go to your pitbox where your mechanics are hard at work assembling the car. You shake hands, laugh and smile to everyone who comes to have a chat.
Suddenly, you are approached by Marko Helmuts. You quickly avert your gaze, trying not to stare at his glass eye.
“Sorry for last weekend,” he says with a thick Austro-German accent. “We know how much you wanted to finish zat time around, with all ze Dutch fans cheering you on. But remember, it is ALL [Renault]’s fault. Zey should really give us a better engine.”
You nod in agreement, still not fully having put the disappointment of last race behind you. You say the political correct thing, that sure, this will be our weekend. This time, everything will be okay. This time, you will not have an engine failure with a podium-finish in sight.
While you hear yourself talking, your mind wanders off. Not long after, your body follows.