Recovery & Feedback Session (5:00 PM – 6:30 PM)
After the gruelling kart race, Sukhman felt the strain in his muscles as he walked toward the recovery section of the facility. The exhaustion was real, but so was the sense of accomplishment. Every lap, every turn, and every second spent on the track was sharpening his skills.
The first step in his recovery session was an ice bath. As he lowered himself into the freezing water, a sharp chill shot through his body, making him suck in a breath. The cold seeped into his muscles, numbing the soreness, but the shock never got easier.
Yudhvir sat on the edge of another ice bath, grinning. "Feels like a thousand needles stabbing you, doesn't it?"
Sukhman groaned. "Why does this feel worse than the actual race?"
"Because racing makes you feel alive. This makes you feel like you're dying," Yudhvir joked.
After ten agonizing minutes, they moved on to stretching exercises under the supervision of a physiotherapist. Sukhman followed the routine diligently, focusing on his hamstrings and shoulders—key areas for endurance racing.
Once done, he headed for his one-on-one discussion with Coach Mehta. The review room had a large screen displaying data from the race.
Coach Mehta didn't sugarcoat things. "Your turn-in at sector three was too late. You need to anticipate your braking point better."
Sukhman nodded. "I thought I had enough time, but I was a little off-line."
"You were. But on the flip side, your overtaking instincts are improving. You read the gaps well. Just be careful with aggressive moves."
They went over his performance, analyzing telemetry, discussing mistakes and improvements. Arne Schultz, the crew chief, chimed in occasionally with his no-nonsense advice.
"If you want to be a real racer, discipline on the track starts with discipline in the mind. Keep learning, kid."
Dinner (7:00 PM)
After the feedback session, Sukhman joined the team at the cafeteria. Dinner was simple—grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, and a side of rice. The diet was designed for high-energy performance, but at least it tasted decent.
As he ate, Yudhvir nudged him. "You're getting better, bro. Keep this up, and you'll give me a challenge soon."
"I'm coming for you," Sukhman smirked.
Yudhvir laughed. "Good. I like the competition."
Mental Training (8:00 PM – 9:30 PM)
The next session focused on mental training. Sukhman sat in a quiet room with a few other drivers, guided by a sports psychologist.
"Close your eyes. Picture yourself in a high-pressure situation," the psychologist instructed. "You're in a tight battle for position. The driver ahead is blocking aggressively. What do you do?"
Sukhman visualized the scene. His breathing slowed. His heart rate steadied. This was about composure—controlling the storm inside his mind.
Later, they discussed personal progress and set goals for improvement.
Yudhvir leaned over. "These sessions are important. A lot of racing is mental. Keep your head in the game, and the results will follow."
Sukhman nodded. He was beginning to understand that racing wasn't just about skill—it was about focus, discipline, and decision-making under pressure.
Lights Out (10:00 PM)
By 10 PM, the facility went dark. Sukhman lay in bed, scrolling through his phone. His friends, Harinder and Diljit, had sent messages, checking in on him.
Harinder: "Oi veere! How's life at the academy? Already driving like a pro or still struggling with the clutch?"
Diljit: "Don't forget us now that you're on your way to becoming an F1 legend. We're still waiting for you to send us some VIP tickets!"
Sukhman chuckled as he read their messages. Their playful teasing reminded him of home, of the carefree days when the three of them would gather at the local dhaba, dreaming about the future over cups of chai.
He quickly typed a reply.
Sukhman: "Paaji, I just started training. Haven't even touched an F1 car yet. Still figuring out how to control a kart without embarrassing myself!"
Harinder: "Hah! You? Embarrassed? Impossible!"
Diljit: "Just don't forget us when the media starts chasing you, samjhe?"
Sukhman smiled, feeling a mix of nostalgia and warmth.
Sukhman: "Paagal ho tussi. I'll never forget you guys. Just wait, one day I'll take you both to a real GP race."
Harinder: "We'll hold you to that! Anyway, take care and don't crash your kart into a wall, okay?"
Then, a message from his sister Manpreet popped up:
How are you, Veerji?
Sukhman smiled and typed back:
I am fine. How's Papaji and Mummiji?
Her response came quickly.
Mummiji and Papaji are both sad and equally mad at you. But I'm still managing them. That won't last long, though. I'm going to college tomorrow. I wish our last conversation was under better circumstances.
A pang of guilt hit Sukhman. He had left home suddenly, chasing his dream. He missed his family, especially Manpreet.
Don't worry. Just study hard. I'll send some money, okay? he replied.
After a few more messages, he switched off his phone and let sleep take over.
---
Next Morning – The Same Routine Begins
The next day started early, following the same routine—morning workouts, breakfast, and tactical learning.
At 11 AM, during his Racing Theory & Tactics session, his phone buzzed. It was Nandini.
"Sukhman, I've processed your advance salary," she said. "Since you had to let go of your job, we're compensating you. You'll also receive a regular salary as an official driver."
Sukhman checked his bank balance. ₹60,000 INR had been deposited. It was more than he had expected.
Through net banking, he sent ₹30,000 INR to his sister and ₹15,000 INR to his parents.
"I hope Mummiji and Papaji will forgive me," he thought.
---
Circuit Practice – The Accident (3:00 PM)
The sun was still high in the sky as the engines roared across the practice circuit. The scent of burning rubber mixed with the crisp afternoon air as Sukhman and the other trainees weaved through the track. It had been a grueling day of training, but this session—circuit practice—was something Sukhman always looked forward to.
Today's drill focused on overtaking strategies and defensive driving, with Arne Schultz, their no-nonsense coach, observing from the sidelines. He stood near the pit lane, arms crossed, his sharp eyes studying each driver's movement like a seasoned tactician.
Sukhman was pushing himself hard, trying to apply everything he had learned over the past few days. Each lap felt smoother, each turn more controlled. But just as he started gaining confidence, the session took a sudden, disastrous turn.
Yudhvir, a skilled but aggressive driver, had been leading most of the session. He had a natural flair for racing, often pushing the limits with his bold maneuvers. But sometimes, that aggressive style came with risks.
As the drivers entered a tight chicane section, Sukhman noticed Yudhvir was carrying too much speed. The way his kart twitched as he approached the turn sent a warning through Sukhman's gut—something was about to go wrong.
And it did.
Yudhvir misjudged the turn, his rear tires skimming the red-and-white curbs. The kart lost grip and snapped into a spin. Sukhman instinctively veered slightly to avoid the incoming chaos, his pulse spiking as he watched the inevitable unfold.
The kart spun out of control, sliding sideways before slamming hard into the track barriers. The impact was brutal, the sickening crunch of metal and plastic colliding echoing through the circuit. Yudhvir's body jerked from the force, his helmet bouncing against the padded seat before his kart came to a jarring stop.
For a second, everything was eerily silent.
Then—
"Red flag! Red flag!" Arne's voice boomed across the comms as the marshals rushed toward the scene.
Sukhman's heart pounded. Without thinking, he quickly pulled into the pit lane, yanking off his helmet as he sprinted toward the crash site.
"Yudhvir! Are you okay?!"
The marshals were already there, carefully unbuckling him from the seat. Yudhvir groaned, his face contorted in pain. He tried to move, but immediately winced, gripping his right leg.
"Damn it," he muttered through clenched teeth. "I think... I think something's wrong with my leg."
Sukhman swallowed hard as he saw Yudhvir struggling. One of the marshals did a quick assessment before speaking into his radio.
"Possible right leg injury. Calling for medical assistance."
Sukhman clenched his fists. Just moments ago, they had been racing, pushing themselves to their limits. Now, Yudhvir was sitting there, hurt. It was a harsh reminder of how dangerous motorsport could be.
Arne arrived at the scene, his face unreadable as he observed the situation. Despite his usual stern demeanor, there was a hint of concern in his eyes.
"That was reckless, Yudhvir," he said, his voice calm but firm. "You took that turn too aggressively."
Yudhvir let out a breath, frustrated. "I thought I could handle it."
"That's the problem," Arne replied. "You thought, but you didn't calculate. There's a fine line between confidence and overconfidence. You crossed it."
Yudhvir didn't argue. He knew Arne was right.
The medical team arrived, carefully helping him onto a stretcher. As they wheeled him away toward the infirmary, Sukhman exhaled, his mind still racing.
This could have been me.
He had seen crashes before, had even imagined worst-case scenarios in his nightmares, but seeing it happen in real life, to someone he trained with every day—it made everything feel more real.
Motorsport wasn't just about speed. It was about control, precision, and respect for the risks involved. Even the best racers can't defy that.
And today, he had learned that lesson the hard way.