It’s not like I don’t have anything to do this weekend, but my interest in it is slim. I’m in the new wind tunnel, looking at the data, and working with the incumbent drivers about how they feel the handling can be improved.

“You know what? This is the point this lady needs to get out on track,” I say. “There’s only so much you can do off the circuit. We need to see what this baby is really capable of.”

There are definitely some benefits to being the boss.

Within a few hours, the car has been hauled into the back of a truck, and we’ve shut down and taken over our local testing circuit. This is just what I need to blow away the cobwebs. I’m a born racer: being out of the car for so long is doing nothing to help my general demeanor. I crave that feeling of being alive again. Maybe this will help everything that is spiraling out of control.

And of course, being the boss, I get to take the car out first.

I’m no longer nervous after my first stint for the press, but my nerves still jangle. My senses tune into that old, familiar red alert status, prepared to be flooded with information to process at a lightning speed.

I’m all fire-suited up and waiting at the circuit. The data receptors that feed from all aspects of the car into the computers set up in the garage are connected, and I’m given the all clear to set off on my out lap.

The pit lane is the most frustrating part of racing since the automatic speed limiters are applied, taking me to no more than fifty miles an hour.

But when I’m clear, I jam my foot to the floor and take off down the first straight. The engine roars to life and I cling on to the steering wheel for dear life. I don’t have the strength I once had, and this is a stark reminder that Florian has a very real place in this business. For all he’s done or not done, there’s no reason to risk my financial stability. Fitness in a competition such as performance racing can make the distinction between a few hundredths of a second. And that’s the amount in which races are won.

The car does what I expected and what the wind tunnel suggested. It kicks out, the fragile steering complaining as I round it through the series of tight bends. There’s not enough down-force to hold the body steady, and I skid around corners sideways slowing my lap time.

After five test laps, I reluctantly head back to the pits and drag myself out of the tight cockpit. It’s down to our official drivers to do their stuff now, for each to run another five laps to gather comparison data.

When they’ve finished, I’m once again reminded that I have work to do before I hit my peak. The difference between what these adequate drivers can achieve and myself is minimal, and it shouldn’t be so. I should be shifting that car around this track with way more speed and agility than they can even dream of. I’m out of shape and if my plans are going to be realized, then I need to stop making excuses and start sweating at the gym.

We work like that for the rest of the afternoon, fluctuating engine settings and drivers to establish where this car needs to be adjusted to obtain maximum performance.

When we’ve finished at the track though, the combination of the drive and of being outside in the fresh air again has well and truly blown away cobwebs that have taken two and a half years to build up. My brain is light, my body buzzing, and my head is finally clear. I’m ready to speak with Kyle. No, I’m excited to speak with him, so I call him from the car on the way home.

He doesn’t answer, so I leave him a message.

“Hey, Kyle. I just spent the afternoon taking the car for a spin around the track. I’d had my fill of standing in that wind tunnel, impressive as it is. Anyway, I’m feeling great, more like the old me again. Give me a shout when you get a sec. I’m not sure what you said you were doing today. Love you.” I add the last sentence on as an afterthought. Not because it isn’t true, but for the first time since this whole doubt thing hit, I’ve had the confidence to fight for what is right.