I hope you’ve enjoyed having a quick peek around the brand new Formula Primo site, but now it’s time to get down to some fun.
I’m busy populating the site with content, and that simultaneously means populating the Formula Primo world as well! As you know, Mitch, Mason and Bruno are the stars of the FP story so far, but that means there are 17 more seats out there that need filling. Those drivers ready to race at the start of each FP event need a name, and that’s where you come in.
I have a few ideas, but there’s nothing like crowd sourcing names – particularly when it’s for a certain type of person. We can get away with the occasional driver like Scott Speed, but I’m interested in some great multi-national names.
Do let me know if you have any suggestions and we’ll get this Formula Primo entry list filled!
Before Mitch made his FP debut, BSN News’ Melissa managed to sit down with him for a chat. Here is her interview with him, republished with kind permission from the author.
It’s a fresh, bright morning in Melbourne, as I meet with Shuttleworth Racing’s newest driver John Mitchell. I join him for a brunch interview at his hotel, ordering coffee and a bacon roll for myself. Mitch, as he prefers to be called, sticks to tea and toast. Looking relaxed and happy, with a hint of nervous anticipation, Mitch is one of the keenest looking rookies that I’ve seen. With just two weeks of pre-season testing under his belt, Mitch has a steep learning curve ahead, but it’s fair to say that he’s looking forward to the challenge.
“I’ve been waiting to be a Formula Primo driver my entire life,” he says, leaning forward eagerly. “Sure, the junior series are fun, and each year that you start a new project you’re fully focused on being the best you can in that particular category. But there’s always an overriding aim, and for me, Formula Primo was it. I know this is my first year and I’ve got a lot to prove, but I really believe I can push away the expectations that usually fall on rookies.”
When I ask what he means by that, a frown rumples his face. “Everyone always talks about potential, whether you’ve got it, whether you’ve reached it, whether it is slipping away. I hate the idea of potential because it means you’re not achieving everything you can right now and it puts a limit on what you can achieve altogether. People look at rookies and write them off in their first year because it’s too big a step to move up to Formula Primo and be instantly good. I’d like to change that impression.”
Our breakfast arrives and we pause for a moment to take tentative sips at our drinks. The careful movements, as we test out the scalding hot beverages, mirror how a driver would usually approach this top series of motorsport, but for Mitch, it seems he intends to dive in feet first. I broach the subject of goals, what has he been tasked with?
“So far as I know, Mr Shuttleworth wants me to spend time fitting in with the team, learning the ropes, gelling with Bruno [Cannelli, Shuttleworth's number one driver]. I’d just like to mix things up a bit, get some unexpected results, put on a great show for the fans.” It’s something he has been known for, having outperformed the expectations of his teams in previous series’. Formula Primo is the next step, and Mitch is confident – perhaps overly so. Somehow, he manages to exude his belief in himself without coming across as arrogant. Every driver has the same passion, the same enduring surety that they are the best, and each manages to deal with it in a different way.
“I think I’m one of the best drivers in the world, you have to,” Mitch says, nodding sagely. “But I know that all the guys on that grid on Sunday have worked so hard to be there, no one is there by luck. It’s graft, with underlying skill, and it’s not to be waved away. I can learn a lot from each and every one of them, and by no means do I think I have it all sussed out. I just like to think I’m a step ahead of what’s expected of me.” A cheeky smile plays on his lips as he, once again, treads that fine line between confidence and arrogance.
I change the subject, curious to know what support systems he has in place for his first season in FP. “I’m here on my own,” Mitch says, simply. He doesn’t elaborate, until pushed. “My mum is supportive to a point, but ultimately she thinks racing is a form of madness. I guess she’s just worried about me, but it doesn’t always feel like that. It was my dad that was the passionate one. Without him, I would never have been able to keep going, or get where I am today.”
It’s the first mention of Mitch’s father, who passed away two years ago following a short and unexpected illness. The cloud that crosses John’s face as he mentions his family shows that no matter how well a driver’s career may be going, success can easily stop once the helmet comes off. He doesn’t want to talk about his father any more than I want to ask him, so we turn our attention to the first race.
“There’s talk of rain, but I think it will be dry,” Mitch says. “I never hold much stock in the weather forecasts, they always seem to be the exact opposite of what happens. Until you’re there in the car, it’s impossible to know what the conditions will be. But I reckon it’ll be dry, and it’ll be good.” He won’t make predictions on what position he could finish in, but hints at points. “The Shuttleworth car has improved over the last couple of years, I know the guys in the factory have been pushing hard to get back to a winning position. I think there’s a great possibility of getting our names on the scoreboard straight away, and the more headlines we can get, the better.”
With that, he sips the last of his tea with a flourish, and leans back satisfied. It’s clear that Mitch is hiding a mix of nerves, excitement, pure belief and mild desperation. He wants to do well straight out of the gate to prove to his teammate, his boss, his family, even the world, that he deserves his place in Formula Primo. From my all-too-brief chat with him, I believe that he does, but we’ll have to wait until Sunday to see if he can make the start to his FP career that he is craving.
Formula Primo Confidential has a revamped home, one full of news and updates, information about the FP world, and links to buy the books. With the new design comes added functionality, including the introduction of the new Formula Primo character biographies, team histories, and recent results pages.
Hopefully, the site can fill with information as the Formula Primo world grows, and even more hopefully, you will join me for the ride.
Welcome to the world of Formula Primo – a preeminent motorsport category where the best of the best fight it out on and off track. Ten teams, with two drivers apiece, battle for supremacy around challenging circuits across the globe, in a season that lasts nine months.
Established in the late 1960s to capitalise on the growing popularity of single-seater racing, Formula Primo began life in Italy, a country full of passionate motorsport fans. The races started small, but ambitious, and soon the series outgrew its national popularity. The great and the good of driver talent wanted to join, teams were entering the following season ballot, and more circuits wanted to be added to the calendar.
After just a few years, Formula Primo was one of the top sporting endeavours – a championship trophy that every driver wanted to win. Rivalries and alliances were made and broken. The intense storylines that formed each season were the foundation of headlines, books, and a relationship with the fans that differed from other sports.
Formula Primo was not without its controversies, though, and teams have been found and punished for cheating, for fixing races, and for manipulating results for their own gain. As a gentleman’s sport, motor racing organisations didn’t tolerate attempts to force a win, and it was never something to be taken lightly.
Through the 1970s and 80s, fans began to take the teams and drivers to heart, and through the 1990s, there were tragedies, triumphs, tears and tantrums, all as the hopes and dreams of those sitting behind the wheel of each car played out live to hundreds of millions of viewers.
As a global sport, viewed around the world, participants included a wealth of multinational teams and sponsors, plus drivers from every corner of the earth. Formula Primo found its history books growing and expanding, records and statistics being made and broken, and its viewership continuing to grow.
This blog intends to celebrate the fantastic world of Formula Primo, from interviews with the drivers, team profiles, race results, and regular updates. Stay tuned for some FP fun and games.
The motorsport world of Formula Primo is one of high speed and fast living, where relationships are made and broken on and off track, and trust is the fine line between a trophy finish and a long walk home. Rookie driver John Mitchell makes his Formula Primo debut, plunging into the tense rivalry between two racing teams.
Historical arguments seep into the present when Mitch starts his first race, and ends it in the gravel. What could give Mason Mortimer such a desire to ruin the career of a new driver he’s barely laid eyes on?
Although loyal to the boss that gave him his break, Mitch begins to realise things are not what they seem. The season progresses and luck is never on his side. Could the answer be held with the driver who caused him such early heartbreak?
Sincere apologies for the delay in getting this final part up, I wasn’t trying to drag out the ending in a reality show results style, honest. Here’s how the last voting of this series went:
Sometimes we like to play it safe, sometimes we like to take a risk.
Mitch watched as both the cars in front of him peeled off the racing line. In his mirrors, he saw Bruno leaving it late, but then the Shuttleworth also jinked right and was heading towards the pit lane.
“Just me then?” he asked Pierre, who replied in the affirmative.
Mitch closed up behind the safety car and slowed his pace. The silver Mercedes was at it’s limit but Mitch still felt it was going far too slowly. He weaved across the track, desperate to keep some heat in his tyres. He was the only front runner who had avoided the pitlane, but a few of the backmarkers closed up behind him.
They continued to lap until the debris was cleared and the Safety Car was called in. Mitch studied the lights on top of the Mercedes hard.
“Wait for the restart, wait for the restart,” Pierre chanted in his ear.
Before he knew it, the way ahead was clear, and Mitch jammed his foot down. The Mortimer jumped away from the slower cars behind him, and he was off down the home straight again.
“Keep your head,” Pierre advised, as Mitch took the first two corners gingerly. “Good,” the engineer continued. “You’re leading. But the hard work starts now. Build the gap. That’s all you can do.”
Although Pierre couldn’t see him, Mitch found himself nodding. He was ready for the challenge.
Lap after lap.
Everything in sequence. Shift here, brake, accelerate. Watch for the kerbing, mind the dip. Remember that lone piece of debris. Avoid it. Brake. Accelerate. Shift. Watch the barrier. Hit the earlier brake marker here. Brake. Shift. Accelerate. Pit board.
“In this lap.”
The instruction rang in his ear, and Mitch knew this was it. Make or break. Now they’d know if he had done enough. Pierre had been giving him updates as the lap count climbed, keeping tabs on where his nearest competitors were. All Mitch knew was that it was going to be close.
He eased across track to the pitlane entrance, slowed and hit the white line exactly on pace. He cruised through the pit lane, aware that most of the crews were tucked away in their garages, watching the action on big screens. Their part of the weekend was done and it was out of their hands.
For Mitch’s crew, the next thirty seconds were crucial.
Mitch pulled to a halt, felt himself hoisted up on the jacks, and around him became a blur of dark blue material. Lollipop down, old tyres off, fresh tyres on, lollipop over, up, and gone.
Having spent so long on the old rubber, Mitch found the cold tyres hard to manage, and as he pulled back out of the pit box, the car slid underneath him. He kept control, kept it pointing where it should go, and continued onwards.
Past the Shuttleworth garage and to the exit, Mitch crossed the white line, and put his foot down. Careful not to cross back too early, he rounded out onto the track and found himself side by side with Mason. They were down to the first corner together.
In his head, Mitch knew that Mason should have the advantage. Warmer tyres, the momentum was with him.
He wasn’t giving up though. He kept his foot down, he forced himself back into the zone that his final pit stop had jerked him out of.
They touched wheels. Mitch held his breath.
Mason was too wide. He couldn’t hold the corner, Mitch had it. He had it.
“I’ve got it!” Mitch yelled, and pulled away. He let out the breath, and glanced in his mirrors.
Mason had settled in behind him.
“YEAAAAAGHHHHH!” Mitch yelled, leaping from the seat, onto the nose of the car. The crowd around him exploded into cheers, flash bulbs went off, people were calling his name. Mitch jumped down, walking straight over to Mason’s car. His teammate was just climbing out, fixing his steering wheel back in place.
When Mason straightened up, he reached out and pulled Mitch into a hug. An official in a blue shirt tugged at their sleeves, ushering them through to the weighing room.
Mitch yanked off his helmet and gloves. “We did it!” he yelled to Pierre, grabbing the engineer into a hug.
Pierre extricated himself from his grasp. “Enough hugging,” he laughed. “You have a trophy to go get.”
Mitch’s beaming smile loomed into view. He was shaking the champagne vigorously, and then the image paused.
“Come on,” Mitch said, “do we have to see this again?”
“It’s the best bit!” Mason laughed snatching the remote from him. He pressed play, and the three of them watched as Mitch moved towards the railings to shower the crowd with celebratory champagne. Unfortunately, he stood too near the edge, and as he shook the bottle, it smashed onto the bar, sending the majority of the glass to the floor of the podium in pieces. Mitch was left clutching just a bottle top and neck, his hand dripping with champagne.
He smiled, sheepishly put down the jagged piece of glass, and waved.
“Classic!” Mason hit pause and rewind, tears falling from his eyes as he laughed.
“Okay, enough,” Melissa said, stifling her own giggles. She rescued the remote and hit the off button. “Sorry,” she said to Mitch.
“You can’t complain, boy,” Mason said, sobering up a little. “You won, didn’t you? Finally your luck has turned.”
“It wasn’t luck,” Mitch said, smiling. “I don’t believe in that stuff. It wasn’t luck, it was you guys, and your support.”
There was an appreciative pause, then Mason cracked up again. “That’s good,” he laughed, “because I dread to think what bad luck a broken champagne bottle is worth. Seven years?”
Can’t quite believe this is the penultimate part already. Time flies. As Ian mentioned in the comments, I am still chasing that second unanimous vote but it was not to be this time.
Here’s a bumper edition to see us into the final part nicely.
“Come on,” Pierre said, pushing Mitch back towards the car. “Do you want to give Mason more reason to consider Diaz?”
“Get back out there. Now.”
Mitch had never seen Pierre with such determination across his face, and he nodded. “Okay, but we’re not going to be any faster.”
A change of tyres and some tweaks on the front wing made little difference, and by the end of the session Mitch was proved right. The car just wasn’t working underneath him like it had in China.
He took his helmet off, jammed it down on the shelf in frustration, and left the garage.
The sun was beating down in the paddock as Mitch slipped in between two transporters. He rounded the cabs, jogged for a few feet, and then leaned against the outside wall of the medical centre. He took a few deep breaths and shut his eyes, allowing the warm air to wash over him.
“Uh oh,” a voice came from beside him. “Busted.”
Mitch opened his eyes to see Bob stubbing out a cigarette, and he raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Bob?”
“I’m meant to have quit,” Bob said. “Been a tough morning.”
“Tell me about it.”
Bob studied Mitch for a moment. “You know, I heard all about the superstition nonsense Mason has been feeding you.”
“Yea, it didn’t work,” Mitch sighed. “Things keep going wrong.”
“That’s because life isn’t about lucky charms and symbolic rituals. Getting ahead in motorsport isn’t about putting the right shoe on before the left, or patting the airbox before you climb in the car. It’s about making sure you’ve got your head in a sensible place, and you do that by surrounding yourself with the right people.”
“I still haven’t forgiven you for abandoning Shuttleworth,” Bob said, “But think about why you did it. You didn’t like the organisation. You didn’t like the structured way we approach things. You went to Mortimer because you suited the people there better. More supportive, maybe. More forgiving. More open. It was about the people, right? Not a lucky rabbit’s foot.”
“Then perhaps it’s time to get your people behind you again.” Bob patted Mitch on the shoulder. “Makes no odds to me if you don’t believe me,” he said. “Watching you self-destruct is no fun, but it gives us a chance at pole.”
“Let’s tell no one about this, eh?” Bob said, and took a few steps away. He lit up another cigarette, turning his back on Mitch.
Mitch caught hold of Melissa’s arm as she scurried into the motorhome, paperwork and folders clutched tightly in her arms. “Hey,” he said.
“I know you’re busy,” he quickly interrupted. “I just want to apologise for being… well, being a freak the last few days.”
Melissa narrowed her eyes. “A freak?”
“Moody, irrational, I know I’ve been a pain.”
“You’re always a pain,” she nudged him, freeing herself from his grasp, and hurrying away. “Doesn’t mean I don’t love ya,” she called over her shoulder.
He watched her go, then made his way back towards the garage. “One down, two to go,” he sighed.
“It’s fine, John,” Pierre shrugged. “Things get tense. But hey, we think we might have figured out some of the problems. Look,” he held out a clipboard with some equations scribbled on it.
Mitch looked at it closely, then laughed. “I have no idea what that says.”
“Basically, the weather is cooling off a bit, the mid-day sun is not so strong anymore, and we’re a few steps forward on the tyre issue.”
“That’s brilliant, and just in time for qualifying too.”
Pierre nodded, and turned back to his laptop. “We’ll be there or thereabouts,” he said.
Mitch took a few steps over to the other side of the garage, where Mason was chatting with Sandro. “Got a sec?” he asked.
Mason finished his conversation with Sandro and turned to Mitch. “What’s up?”
“Plans to replace me already?” Mitch nodded toward the test driver, who was walking away.
“You better believe it, kiddo,” Mason laughed. “Plucky young driver, ready to show the world how it’s done. Remind you of anyone?”
“Mm, I used to be like that, till I had the sense knocked out of me. Thing is,” Mitch continued. “I need to apologise for some of the things I’ve said.”
Mason held a hand up. “You’re not going to cry on me, are you?”
“I wasn’t planning on it, no.”
“Apology accepted anyway. Just in case.”
“What, just like that?”
Mason shrugged. “I wasn’t mad at you, Mitch. Seems to me you were just mad at yourself.” There was an awkward pause and Mason waved a hand. “This is getting far too deep. Go and do whatever it is you do before qualifying.”
Mitch qualified fifth. Considering how the car had been behaving, he was pleased with the position. Mason was on pole, whilst Bruno would start beside him on the front row.
Mitch talked to the gridwalk crew ahead of the race. It was a hot day, and he was concerned about the tyres, but he put that out of his mind to answer a few questions before climbing in the car. Even though he couldn’t see her, Mitch knew that Melissa would be beaming.
The formation lap flashed by, and Mitch found himself staring at the lights, the familiar rush of adrenaline keeping him on edge. Five lights on, and gone, they were off.
The fourth place car went nowhere, and off the line Mitch was already up one position. Into the first corner, Bruno ran wide, allowing a stream of cars past him. By the end of the first lap, Mitch was comfortably third.
“Safety Car,” Pierre informed him. “Sorpasso crashed and left bits of car everywhere. Careful on punctures at 5.”
Mitch slowed his pace. He had been in the zone, lap after lap being swallowed up as he hit each brake marker and followed the racing line perfectly. He’d made no headway on the cars in front, and Bruno had managed to catch him up behind, but Mitch had found it easy to keep him at bay. The Safety Car had snapped him back to reality.
His radio crackled again. “Mason is coming in. We can stack you, or you can stay out. Your call, Mitch.”
I was secretly hoping for a repeat of the unanimous vote achievement, but this one was not quite so straight forward.
A couple of people are concerned for Mitch’s welfare, but most want to see him back behind the wheel.
“I’m in!” Mitch yelled, bursting back into the motorhome with glee. He stopped abruptly, when he realised a group of fans were being shown around. Melissa hurried over to him, grabbed at his arm and pulled him out of the room.
“Nice work,” Melissa shook her head at him.
“Well, they’ve got a scoop,” Mitch offered. “You’re always telling me I should be more open with the fans.”
“You make me out to be such a nag,” Melissa sighed.
“Well…” he tailed off. “You’re not even pleased for me now!”
“Of course I am. I told you to come straight to me, didn’t I? I’m just busy.”
Melissa turned and went back through to rejoin the group. Mitch pulled a face as the door banged shut.
In the garage, Pierre stood with him, going over the notes from Sandro’s two sessions. “You’ve got to try the soft tyre,” he said. “It’s burning out too quickly, and we need to figure out why.”
“It’ll be great for qualifying though, a guaranteed pole,” Mitch laughed.
“Qualifying is just one bit,” Pierre said, pushing Mitch’s helmet towards him.
As Mitch prepared himself, he spotted Mason walking across the garage towards him.
“You’re driving then,” Mason said, an eyebrow raised.
“No thanks to you,” Mitch muttered.
“It’s nothing to do with me. It was your head that needed testing.” A small smile played on Mason’s lips. “From the amount of people you’ve aggravated today, it probably still does.”
“It’s not my fault that everyone is being so frustrating.”
“Indeed.” Mason eyed him carefully, then turned away and was soon climbing into his own car.
Mitch was fighting the wheel as the car continually tried to resist his control.
“This is madness,” Mitch yelled over the radio. “What has Diaz done to my car?”
“It’s not Sandro, it’s the tyres. It’s hotter than expected.”
“I’m coming in.”
Mitch slowed his pace, and relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. The car still slid around underneath him, but it was easier to keep it in a straight line at the slower speed. As he rounded a corner, Mitch ran wide to keep off the racing line, and he glanced in his mirrors.
To his right, he saw a flash of colour coming towards him, and he panicked, jerking the car further onto the dirty side of the track. Images of the previous race weekend came flooding back to him. He could almost feel the thud of impact as carbon fibre met carbon fibre at top speed. The helpless feeling as his car skidded unnaturally sideways, and the sensation of pressing at pedals that made no difference at all. Then it was a blank.
Mitch blinked back into reality, finding that barely a split second had passed. He watched as the blur of colour in his mirrors became a moving object at his side and then it was past. He sighed. It wasn’t even Leroy, but Chellirallo in the mid-pace Tanner-Track car. He watched as the car disappeared out of sight.
“Get a grip,” Mitch chastised himself, putting his foot to the floor again.
There was a pause, and then a crackle of the radio: “Better grip?” Pierre asked. “Please repeat?”
Mitch couldn’t help but chuckle.
“It’s just not working,” he banged a fist against the side of the car. He had climbed out to get a better look at the figures, but Pierre couldn’t tell him what he wanted to hear.
“Perhaps another run will be better,” the engineer offered.
“I doubt it,” Mitch said, “this car might as well be scrapped.”
“We’ll change the tyres and get back to the baseline,” Pierre said.
“There’s no point. Let’s finish early. Practice is going nowhere. Better to wait for qualifying and hope things improve.”
“There’s still half the session left. We can fix this. You can’t rely on hope.”
I thought I would throw this poll open as it was great fun when we did that last time. You guys didn’t disappoint.
Sandro was the top answer, the obvious choice really, I suppose. I do love the options, although I’m not sure Mr C has a super-licence at the moment.
Also, I’m quite intrigued by Mason’s cousin. Would that make him Uncle Mortimer’s son, and what kind of family dynamic would happen if he tried to move up to a new formula? Or is there another secret Mortimer brother, and does he bear any grudge to the sport? Interesting. All that is for another time, though.
Mitch stood to one side, arms folded, as Sandro lowered himself into the car. The test driver made some final adjustments to his helmet, then pulled his gloves on. As the mechanics leaned in to tighten his belts, Mitch strode out of the garage and straight towards the pit wall. He hopped up on a seat, pulled on some headphones, and settled back to watch the session go on without him.
It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. Pierre ran him through a lot of the data in realtime, which made it far more interesting than studying it during the post-session debriefs. Mitch listened in as Pierre gave Sandro instructions, and watched the results appear in front of him, both via the world feed cameras, and the telemetry printing out on screen.
The only irritant was the cameras approaching him to see his reaction throughout the 90 minute session. At first, he offered a half-smile, but after the third appearance from the crew, he visibly rolled his eyes, and pulled his baseball cap further over his eyes.
Mason yanked his helmet off, brushing at his hair to smooth it down. “Hot out there today,” he said, to no-one in particular. He placed his helmet and gloves on a nearby shelf, and made his way through the garage. Mitch was leaning against a partition, arms still folded, moodily.
“What’s it like, then?” Mason said. “Watching from afar?”
“Same as last year.”
“Did you miss it?”
“With every bone in my body,” Mitch sighed.
“Sandro is pretty good, and he’s really keen too.”
“I wonder what kind of a teammate he would make. He knows how we work already.”
Mitch rolled his eyes. “Look, Mason, I’m sorry I took it out on you.”
Mason shrugged. “We already established you’re just a sore loser.”
“I’m not a sore loser,” Mitch said, through gritted teeth. “I’m sore because I was robbed. And because I crashed. And because it hurt!”
“And you’re still not over it,” Mason shook his head. “Gotta move on Mitch. Too many highs and lows in this game to let them keep on affecting you.”
“Buck up,” Mason started to walk away, heading for the paddock and the motorhome. “Plenty of incidents ahead of you yet.”
“You’re gonna let me race, then?”
Mason turned, continuing to walk backwards. “Not up to me, is it?” he smiled. “But don’t worry, if you can’t, Sandro will take good care of your car for you.”
He laughed, then had to turn away as he’d bumped into a passing journalist.
“You need to try harder,” Melissa said, appearing out of nowhere and cuffing Mitch round the back of his head.
“Ow,” Mitch ducked. “That’s right, hit me there the day I’m expecting test results on my head injury!”
“You’re fine,” Melissa said, straightening up his hair as an apology.
“What have I done wrong this time, anyway?”
“Those camera crews could see how frustrated you were. A little thumbs up every now and then wouldn’t hurt.”
“Liss, I know you are in charge of making the team look good, but ever since we took you on, you’ve done nothing but gripe at me. I’m having a bit of a bad day as it is, can we have less of the lecturing?”
Melissa thought about it for a moment. “Maybe. You apologised to Mason though?”
“In a fashion.”
“And you’re seeing the doctor next?”
“And you’re going to come straight out and tell me what he says, right?”
“I’ll hit you again,” Melissa warned, but she gave Mitch a reassuring hug as he stood up.
Dr. Burdenski shook Mitch’s hand as he walked in. “Good to see you again, John,” he said, before gesturing for Mitch to take a seat. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. Good. Perfect,” Mitch couldn’t help but feel nervous. “Did the results arrive?”
“They did. I would like to apologise again for the delay in, well, everything. You know how it is.” Dr. Budenski offered a wry smile.
“I know exactly how it is. The results? Can I race?”
“Everything has come out clear, which is good news. I must say I am still slightly concerned about the possibility of a second accident…”
Mitch hastily interrupted, “Did you talk to Mason today?”
Dr. Budenski looked slightly startled. “I did.”
“What did he tell you?”
“The patient confidentiality thing still exists, even in a racing team, you know?”
“No, what did he say about me?”
“Whatever he said, I am fine to race. I haven’t had a headache for days, you said yourself the tests are clear, you can’t stop me from going out there.”
Dr. Budenski chuckled slightly at Mitch’s ardour. “Technically I can, John, but the question is, will I?”