I’m stretching, head back, jaw open till it pops, a reptile grin like my head unhinging, eyes still closed. The hum of the air conditioning washes white noise over the room: I can just barely hear a housefly battering itself to death against the window.
I feel, more than hear my buddy moving around in the room, the changes in air pressure. Then the ‘clack’ of the microwave door opening and the sound of tearing plastic packaging.
I’m not hungry, so I keep my eyes closed for just a few minutes longer while he struggles with the contents and tries to heat up a pair of sausage and biscuit sandwiches.
The sharp bark of a four tentatively starting up. Then the angry-cat howl of a two-stroke snarls into life and settles into a stuttering, faltering idle. And I’m awake, blood starting to flow again, the morning a bit like resurrection.
Greg and I are at our first track day of the summer, and I’ve slept all night in the cool, crashed out in the “suites” above pit lane at NJMP. The first time in weeks I’ve actually felt the right temperature, and it’s like my whole body settled into room temperature. Hibernating. Exothermic.
But it’s time to get up and stuff something into my maw. Fuel the machine.
Get through tech inspection.
It’s stiflingly hot: the past few weeks have been like this, the air so thick it’s like breathing in oil, beads of sweat appear across my skin of my forearms.
And I realize I forgot my sunblock.