Whilst all is quiet and the soft hum of a fan keeps me company, my thoughts race around the tracks of my mind. It is a long circuit: dips and curves, rises and straights that seem to go on forever. I’m not sure if I have ever passed the start/finish line. Its edges and verges are a blur of faces and images of my past. When I slow for the corners, things begin to sharpen, but only to quickly blur again as I accelerate down the next long straight.
Sometimes, I feel as though I might run out of fuel, but it never quite happens. Other times, a catastrophic accident spins me out of control and causes me to lose my direction. It happens so fast that there is no time to think; your body reacts instantly, putting you into safe mode and protecting what it can—these last ten days have been exactly that.
Sitting at my desk, tapping at my keyboard, my mind screeched and crunched against an unknown barrier. Immediately, I could feel my body react. I tensed, my head felt like it was about to explode, and I had absolutely no warning. When it happens, it scares me. It frightens me and drains every ounce of energy within. I begin to react. My mind implements its safety procedures, and I go into lockdown.
Here, ten days after the event, I am still in lockdown. I have left the house twice, both times for less than an hour before returning home to my safe place. And here I am; I have survived this far and my internal security measures have worked again, but at what cost? This is not a one-off—far from it. It doesn’t have a schedule, some timetable I can prepare for; it just happens. One minute you’re cruising down your track, and the next, something has been thrown in front of you. You swerve, skid, and screech. The steering wheel spins through your hands, the brakes fail as you push hard against the pedal, and then… silence.
For a few seconds—brief seconds—there is nothing. No noise, no movement, nothing. It is complete in its nothingness and makes you feel numb. Is it shock? I don’t know. My mind at this point doesn’t really think; it reacts. It warns me to be safe, stay alert, and withdraw while I can. It is advice I take seriously and without hesitation. I begin to ask what has happened. What has caused such mayhem and internal madness? The thoughts and questions speed up and take over; there are no answers and no apparent fixes. I am alone; around me is my burning speedster and no one can help—it is my problem.
Sometimes, the markers are clear to others who know me well. They are able, in their own way, to guide me and encourage me to be confident and assured in my abilities to read what lies ahead. These are good times, progressive and rewarding, but even they struggle to stop me when my foot is to the floor and I become blind to what lies ahead. When the collision happens, they are the ones who help me put the pieces back together. They are the real heroes, my trusty mechanics without whom I would have hung up my gloves and helmet long, long ago.
Over the years I have had many sitting on my pit wall, cheering me on as I zoom past, and there when I need to refuel and get new tyres for the long road ahead. They have all added something to the mix, some more than others. There were some because it was their job and others who really cared—who listened, showed me different routes, replaced worn parts, and patted me on the back when encouragement was needed. I use them still, though they might not know it. Their memories are my tools when I’m out there all alone, and so far my toolkit has proved to be more than adequate for the job. It doesn’t stop me from worrying, though. I sometimes think that the spares I carry will not be enough, and that the one thing I need has been forgotten, was never there, or was never offered in the first place—it is a risk.
In truth, there is never a single day where I don’t think about crashing. I hope that I can get out from my little racing car when the time comes, as I am sure it will. I haven’t failed yet. I am still here and have managed to walk away from many a crash, some more horrific than others. My safety cage is and has been strong; long may that last. But I will definitely have to check the welds a little more closely—I sense a few cracks appearing.