Page 34 of The Fast Track

Dietrich smiles, his eyes tired. “You’re very sophisticated about business things. I wasn’t so smart when I was your age.”

I blink. How did Dietrich Lange, of all people, not knowabout all the schmoozing that inevitably comes with the territory? “But you practically grew up on the circuit.”

“I never thought much of it, honestly. I did what I was told, which was to go fast.”

I smile, remembering the issue ofMotor Sportthat featured an entire spread of Dietrich’s childhood pictures, including him as an adorable three-year-old in a kart. “That sounds amazing. I wish I could have just driven instead of trying to network with VIPs who can’t be bothered to give me the time of day.”

“I would hardly call my experience amazing.” He grimaces.

As far as I know, his entire career has been nothing but unicorns and roses: racing insider parents, oozing with talent from day one, more financial backers than he knows what to do with—everything that makes me salivate. Before I can ask him what he means, a middle-aged man with a slight beer belly approaches from the other side of the marble lobby.

Niels Lange, Dietrich’s father. “Dieter, there you are.”

Niels used to be an F1 driver himself and was the one responsible for putting Dietrich into a kart before Dietrich could walk, the story goes. These days, he comes to every single race and gives as many interviews as Dietrich does.

“Papa, this is Justine Kwong, from the F3 team.”

“The American wunderkind! Very nice to finally meet you.” Niels extends his hand and we shake. He looks remarkably like Dietrich, plus fifty pounds and minus a dazzling smile. “Dieter, you should not delay anymore.”

Dietrich glances at his fancy watch. “We still have time.”

“Dieter.”

Father and son stare at each other for a full beat. It feels like the kind of snippy back-and-forth Mom and I might have, except in a silent, stoic German way.

“Fine, then.” Dietrich sighs, breaking away from his father’s gaze.

I follow, making sure to trail a few feet behind to give them plenty of space in case they want to carry on whatever mute argument they’re having. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I know I don’t want to be in the middle of it.

We walk out beneath the porte cochere with modernist steel beams crisscrossing above. A black Mercedes S-Class, courtesy of Orbital Racing, is waiting. Like all things provided for the F1 drivers, it’s of the highest quality—leather seats, water in glass bottles, TV screens on the backs of the seats. Meanwhile, F3 drivers are left to their own devices for race weekends. Half the time Mom and I have to pray our Uber for the airport arrives when it’s supposed to.

Niels climbs in the front, answering a call and not bothering to fasten his seat belt. I hear a steady stream of German occasionally punctuated by English words likeSky TVandSilverstone.

“Sorry,” Dietrich mutters as we scoot into the back seat that’s been left for us. “My father can be intense.”

“Have you met my mom?” I snort. “Watch for her next time there’s an F3 race; you won’t miss it. She’s the Asian womantoting a gigantic camera around her neck in the paddock.”

“Oh, her. I thought she was a reporter, or someone’s hired photographer.”

I giggle at this very apt description. “She follows me around everywhere and controls my social media and my diet. Believe me, I know how intense parents can get.”

“If you think that’s terrible…,” he says, but then Niels gets off his call and Dietrich clams up.

“So, Justine, you are enjoying racing in Europe?” Niels turns in his seat.

“It’s been amazing,” I say. “I love getting to race on all these circuits I used to watch on TV.”

“It’s great for the sport, having a female driver on the grid.”

“Really?” Niels is known for making the occasional eyebrow-raising comment (of the non-PC variety) in his interviews. I’m pleasantly surprised he, of all people, is such a vocal advocate.

“It’s lovely to see a woman with so much love for motorsport. My wife was a karting champion too.” He gives Dietrich a pointed glance. “It is always better when your partner has the same interests, no?”

“Pa.” Dietrich frowns. They do that thing again where they have an argument with their eyes, and then Dietrich shakes his head and slumps against the window.

“There is nothing but a bad ending to have someone who does not share similar loves,” Niels says sagely. I get the feeling his words are meant more for Dietrich than me.

We spend the rest of the ride in stilted silence. Niels and Dietrich scrolling on their phones; me staring out the window, trying to enjoy the view of the near-picture-perfect British countryside while doing my best to ignore the father-and-son frostiness that’s way too awkward for the space we’re confined in.