The Quiet Before 200 Kilometers Per Hour

People usually imagine motorsport as loud. Engines. Crowds. Radios. Cars flying past at speeds that are hard to comprehend. And to be fair, it is.

But one of my favorite parts of racing is actually the quiet that comes before any of that.

It's a strange kind of quiet. Not silent, because there are always people moving around the paddock, mechanics making last-minute adjustments, generators humming somewhere in the background, but internally, everything starts to slow down.

I think every driver has their own routine. Mine has changed over the years, but there are always little things that stay the same. Pulling on my race suit. Tightening the straps on my helmet. Climbing into the cockpit and settling into a seat that somehow feels both familiar and completely different every time. The belts get pulled tighter than seems possible. The steering wheel clicks into place. The visor comes down.

And then you wait. Sometimes it's only a minute. Sometimes it's longer. There isn't much to do except sit with your thoughts.

People often ask if I get nervous before a race, and the honest answer is yes—sometimes. I think if you care about something, it's natural to feel a little nervous. Over time, though, I've realized that nerves aren't really the enemy. Most of the time they're just a reminder that what you're about to do matters to you. What changes is what you do with them. As I'm sitting on the grid, I don't spend much time thinking about the finish line or where I want to end up. My mind usually goes somewhere much simpler. Did I prepare well? Know my braking points? How’s the weather? etc.

Once the lights go out, there's no point worrying about everything that could happen over the next twenty laps. Racing has a funny way of teaching you that. The more you think about things outside your control, the harder it becomes to focus on the things that are.

I've started to notice that this applies outside of motorsport, too. Whether it's a big exam, a presentation, or even meeting someone for the first time, there's always that moment beforehand where your mind wants to jump ahead. It's easy to imagine every possible outcome instead of paying attention to the present. Racing has taught me to do the opposite. Focus on the next corner… the next decision… the next lap. Eventually, those small moments become the bigger result.

A few seconds after the lights go out, all of the quiet disappears. The engine is screaming behind you. The car is vibrating. You're making decisions almost without realizing it, reacting to everything happening around you. The race has officially begun. But every time I climb out of the car afterward, I find myself thinking back to those quiet moments before it all started. Not because they're the most exciting part of racing. Because they're the part that reminds me why I love it.

It's one of the few moments where everything else fades away, and for just a little while, the only thing that matters is being completely present.

Then the lights go out.

And the quiet is gone.