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For Charles, losing was something fast, intense, painful. To lose was to feel the wheels skid on the track, the breath escape your lungs from the dull impact of the crash - to hear the engine noise die down and feel yourself stop. When you were moving and then you are no longer moving.
Charles did everything he could to not stop - to keep moving. And indeed he kept moving. From karts to single-seaters, from F2 to F1, from Sauber to Ferrari.
Charles Leclerc never stopped - so the realization that he had lost came very belatedly.
As a child, Charles looked down from the balcony of his relative's house during the Monaco Grand Prix, imagining himself in those cars, knowing that it could all just end as a dream. As he went to sleep, he thought about how painful it would be if he never won a single Grand Prix, if he never stepped on the podium. When he imagined defeat, Charles was always the furthest from victory. He was so wary of the most extreme forms of failure that it didn’t occur to him that failure can take many forms, that the road to defeat could still smell like champagne with scattered confetti.
The announcement of Max Verstappen’s retirement chose to come on a morning when everything seemed so mundane - even the weather.
Rumors that he might retire had been circulating for some time. The announcement of his new contract had been delayed for months. A journalist wrote an article about why he thought this was a sign that Max might quit. Half of the comments under the link to the article were fans hating on it. The other half were skeptical. Barely any of them had actually read the article. (Charles was not one of them. Thinking the journalist got it wrong, Charles still clicked the link and read the entire thing - then closed the article thinking the journalist got it wrong.)
People talked about the retirement rumor, without actually thinking that Verstappen would retire. Is he already at that age? They said. Time flies. Then they debated on which team he should move on to, arguing that it must be more of a salary negotiation problem or him looking at other teams than a retirement plan. Others chimed in, shooting down others’ suggestions, and it wasn’t long until it all became a noise. Charles watched on. This was all that there was to it - just a speculation, a noise.
Charles didn’t read the article on Verstappen’s retirement announcement. He turned off Twitter, went to his bedroom, and threw his phone on the bed. It bounced off the mattress and landed on the other side of the bed, clattering. Charles didn’t check to see if it had broke.
All such bullshit, he thought.
Back was another race weekend. Naturally, Max was the target of every media outlet on the circuit. For anyone who wanted a quiet conversation with him, this race was the worst place to be. Of course, Charles was not one of them, so it didn’t matter. Max’s name could be heard on every corner of the paddock - and Charles stubbornly ignored it. Until the moment he no longer could.
This is worse than that press conference right after I lost the championship, Charles thought as he sat next to Max, keeping his eyes firmly on the reporters.
The most hopeful picture he had drawn was that the reporters, so focused on Max and his sudden retirement, would forget that Charles was sitting there. He had never more wanted to be a nobody than that day. But there was never an unintentional put-together of a Thursday press conference lineup.
“-A question for Charles. Max, your long-time rival since your karting days, is retiring at the end of this year. Any thoughts on it?”
Long-time rival. It was a phrase that he was tired of.
Charles remembered how they had been tied together not long after their - no, after his debut. They had always been in each other’s lives. Similar in age and talent, they repeatedly ran into each other at karting tracks - and it was not long until they were in other’s mind. Charles often thought of Max in the middle of his everyday life that had nothing to do with racing. Though he never said it out loud, he imagined them racing each other in Formula 1 like they raced each other in karting. That imagery became reality when Charles made his debut.
He didn’t hate the word rival so much back then.
He had to produce an answer decent enough. Charles wet his lips.
"Max was... a good driver, and an enjoyable opponent to race against. His retirement is a big loss for this sport. You could say it's too early, but... such choice must have reasons. I don't know what he plans to do after retirement, but,"
As he told the reporters, Charles half-instinctively looked towards Max. It was awkward for both of them, to talk about the person sitting right next to him without looking at him at all. He saw Max, sitting in the same position he always sat in, watching Charles talk about his retirement. Their eyes met. Max's expression was indifferent. Like he wasn’t the one retiring. Like he didn't know what all the fuss was about.
Like he wasn't really listening to what Charles was saying.
Charles quickly faced towards the reporters again. His pulse was pounding in his ears. He could feel his blood running through his veins.
“I hope there he finds success. He... this sport will miss him.”
Is that good enough? He turned his gaze to the reporter who had asked him the question. He tried to convince himself that he didn’t want to know what kind of expression Max was wearing right then.
There was not much time left, and fortunately the reporters did not spend it on Charles. Charles simply waited for the press conference to end and then stood up.
Without exchanging a single word with Max, he left.
After that weekend, the rest of the season as if nothing had happened. If he thought about it, a driver’s retirement was something that happened all the time. There was no reason to make a fuss.
Would the reaction have been different if there had been a championship title under the name of Max Verstappen? Charles thought of the drivers who returned to the paddock after retirement. Those who were no longer active were tagged with their highest achievements. In Max Verstappen’s case… he would be a multiple Grand Prix winner.
Charles fought with the idea that it would be the same for him, when the time eventually came.
The year Charles had come closest to the title, he gave his all - but couldn’t overcome the fundamental differences in the car performance. Last race of the season, even as he became the first to receive the chequered flag, Charles knew that he had lost again. What made him more miserable than the moment he got out of the car to dutifully congratulate the newly crowned champion, was the look in Max’s eyes gazing at him on the podium - who had finished third that day. It was the last of Max’s few podiums that year. He looked at Charles without any pity or mocking, but with eyes that recognized a familiar sight. The fastest driver of the second-fastest team - it was a position that Max had been in numerous times.
At some point, Charles began to look at Max trying to recall what it had felt like to hate him. In his early twenties, when Charles held on to the belief that winning races will eventually added up to a championship title, Max was one of the things that represented the obstacles Charles had to overcome. Charles despised every millisecond he could not shave off from Max’s lap time, and habitually brought Max up in his mind as a reference whenever he thought about what kind of driver he was. Max was a window that Charles saw himself through. Charles knew, without any proof, that Max did the same with him.
In a way, that hadn’t changed. Charles still saw himself in Max. Only now he was more reminded of what he had in common with him than of how he was different from him. They no longer hated or were wary of each other. Instead, they pretended the other didn’t exist unless absolutely necessary.
The sporadic messages between them reflected the fact. With a single scroll, Charles could see messages between them from years ago. Without looking at them, Charles typed.
- Where are you?
He knew that there was talk going around about what he had said at the press conference that Thursday. Thanks to Charles’ choice of words that left room for interpretation - when it was well known that they weren’t so close. It was a minor controversy that Charles normally would have let pass by, but there was no reason to leave a bad taste in one’s mouth when one of them was retiring. At least that was what Charles thought.
Charles sent the message on Sunday after the race. The reply came the following race weekend.
- Why?
Took you over a week and this is what you came up with? Charles wanted to curse Max’s unchanging character, but he didn’t have any energy to spend on something so pointless. Instead, he answered coolly, as if he was willing to let Max’s rudeness by.
- When are you free? We need to talk.
- Do we really have to do it in person?
Charles replied with his teeth slightly clenched. Since Max asked, he wasn’t going to yield.
- Yes.
Max replied a few minutes later, like he had taken a moment to think about it.
- See you after the race.
Charles didn’t ask exactly when that would be. Even after another seemingly meaningless race was over, when all the meetings were over and the team was starting to prepare to leave for the next circuit, he didn't ask. It was getting dark, and there was still no word from Max. Charles had initially planned to wait as long as it took. But soon he decided he didn’t want to prolong this til the next race weekend.
- I’m at my hotel room. Leaving for the airport soon so can’t talk much. Come if you don’t mind.
The only consolation for Charles was that they were staying in the same hotel. As he went up to Max’s floor he dreamed about how great it would feel to just punch Max in the face, conversing be damned.
Max opened the door and headed back into the room without even asking to come in. Charles looked around the room as he closed the door - and realized how pointless it was a moment later. This was just one of the countless hotel rooms, unrecognizable from one another. What little had been there, the remaining traces of the guest, Max was now stuffing into his suitcase.
As he watched on Charles felt something strange - he was standing in Max’s hotel room for the first and last time.
“What did you mean to talk about?”
Charles thought about what he was going to say. He thought it trivial from the beginning, but it seemed even more so now that he was actually trying to word it out loud, almost ridiculous. He resisted the urge to shake his head, and spoke.
"I didn't want you to misunderstand what I said about your retirement."
"Misunderstand what?"
Max's face as he looked back at him suggested that he really had no idea what Charles was talking about.
"You know... at the press conference. On Thursday." Max still looked like he didn't have a clue, so Charles had to elaborate. "Some people interpreted that as me saying your career is over and you know it, and that's why you're retiring. I hope you don't take it that way, that's not what I meant. I wasn't trying to imply anything."
Max was quiet for a moment before he smirked.
"You really do refuse to change."
"What?"
"Always trying so hard, pretending to be innocent."
Charles closed up. Max turned around to face him completely. A sneer was plastered on his face.
"Don't you ever get tired of it? Pretending to be perfect? Just say what you really wanted to say. I won't tell anyone, promise."
"What are you talking about?"
"You really expect me to believe that you came all this way to tell me that?"
Angry at this groundless accusation, Charles opened his mouth. He could have sworn that he didn't come here for any other purpose than what he had already said. But when he opened his mouth, to refute, there was a question that came to his tongue in an instant, poised like it had always been there. It was a question that had been sitting there coiled up in Charles' stomach ever since he first read the news that morning, that run-of-the-mill morning at his home.
He asked without meaning to, without realizing it. "Why are you retiring?"
The corner of Max's mouth twitched.
Charles got the impression that he had not expected this question. Max, who had sounded so triumphant a moment ago, was now glowering at him. Charles, gaining momentum from Max's silence, came at him again. After all, what's done was done.
"You told me to say it. What made you decide? I'm not asking you just to hear you repeat what you said to the media."
To experience something different, was the reason Max officially gave. When reporters pressed on Max vaguely talked about possibility of life elsewhere, mentioning the fact that his career in F1 was already almost 15 years in length. Charles didn't believe him, at all.
"And when you retire? Where are you gonna go? Endurance? You really think you'll be satisfied, if you win there? Someone like you? You can't be that stupid."
What's making me so angry? Why am I lashing out, to him? Charles thought as he met Max's glare and his stony silence, staring back at him.
"I was being too generous. You're just running away. To finish it with your own hands, before something else does."
"You're the one who's stupid."
Max spat the words out. Charles could feel the air between them heating up. Blood rushed to his head, his vision narrowing down to Max standing before him. It was something that he hadn't felt in a truly long time - a familiar feeling that had been buried deep in the past.
Charles longed for the days when they used to hate each other.
"You're the one who can't face reality. You're just a stubborn child, who doesn't know how to admit that it's over."
They used to be unable to stand each other's presence. Even as they wanted the other to disappear, they also wanted the other to stay there forever, just to one day bring defeat to him - and hear him admit it. But now they had nothing left to hate each other with. All the fragments of sentiment that felt like hatred were nothing more than a projection of self-loathing that knew no end.
They were bound together under the same curse. Triumph was always just a reach away, until it wasn't. The two constantly crossed swords on track for more than a decade - but their battles always broke on the insignificant shore of the field, where the outcome of the battle had no gravity on the outcome of the war. Soon Charles realized that this was a sign - that they were drowning in the same pit. Where they could neither step on each other to freedom nor pull each other down. Slowly. Thoroughly.
Together.
"Be a fool on your own. Whatever false hope you're clinging to - there's no reason for me to share it."
Max said as he pushed Charles' shoulders with both hands. Charles staggered back - he couldn't figure out when he had become so close to Max. Max didn't watch him do so, turning his back on him. His touch was undeniably rough as he packed up his stuff.
Charles wished to know where this gut-wrenching feeling of betrayal came from. He had no reason to feel betrayed by Max. Max wasn't someone in a position that could betray him.
Yet, still, Charles couldn't shake the feeling that Max was abandoning him - that he was abandoning them.
As he had nothing else that he could do, Charles left. If I could go down on my knees and beg, would I have done so? Standing blankly in the elevator, Charles tried to picture the next year's grid, the grid without Max - then realized that he had never once stood on the grid where there was no Max Verstappen.
We could have become something together. Something bigger than the two of us combined.
No tears came.