My day flies. I have a million and one things to finish, and a million more appointments that I need to keep. Thankfully, one of the press interviews Jessie has set up will break up the monotony perfectly. Butterflies bounce around my rib cage as I constantly check the time, counting down the minutes.

I'm due out on track in our freshly branded mint green car in three hours. It’s the first time I’ve stepped foot in a car since my accident and I’m thankful that I’m able to do it minus competitors, although I'd never admit that. While racing is in my blood and I'll never escape its pull, my nerves were shattered along with my legs two years ago.

I stand at the side of the car and my knees shake. I’ve been in this position more times than I can count; it’s second nature to hop over into the cockpit. I know the process as well as if it has been etched into the inside of my head with the tip of a sharp blade.

But today...

Today, my heart wants to beat out of my chest and run for the hills. Three hours later, it's hammering away like my ribs will crack and my senses which usually don’t tune into red alert status until I’m seated and focussed kick in early. The colors of the knobs are more vivid. The smell of fumes more intense.

And where is Kyle?

He’s at his old job, making a safe car for another driver.

My brain fogs, reporters are asking me questions, but my thoughts go nowhere. I want to be with Kyle. I need him to have checked this car. The last time I left my safety for someone else, my legs exploded into fragments of tiny bones.

“Have you driven this car before?” I hear behind the cloud which obliterates her from my clear vision.

I reply, my voice sounding normal, “No this is my first time. I’ve not driven since my accident.” I’m smiling; I can feel it stretched across my face. It’s my practiced PR facade, the one that screams of cool composure under pressure.

My heart continues to thunder in my chest and I see my car as I’ve watched it on the video footage, mangled wheels strung out from the mutilated wreckage. And me, lying on the ground, my legs in smithereens.

Time moves on, and the interview continues. Throughout, my brain is whirring with thoughts which plead with me not to race. I struggle to focus on the questions I’m being asked to answer while insisting to myself internally that I won’t be beaten. In my heart I want this. I want to get back out on the track again. I just wish I’d thought it through first. Doing it alone, without Kyle, and in front of the world’s media sounded like a great hook to get maximum coverage. Hell, it is. But, I needed to do it in private first.

My legs are stiff as I pass into the cockpit. My arms are too wide for the space built for another, smaller, and now more agile driver. Everything catches where it should be seamless.

I start the car. The rumble shakes my heart, frees the adrenaline which had been weighing me down, and feeds life into it.

My feet shake, but the feeling under my ribs now is cautious anticipation.

And then I’m released and set off down the pit lane. My speed is restricted, and it gives me the time to adjust to driving again.

Until I hit the circuit.

My leg, not as strong as it once was, forces down on the stiff pedal, but I don’t feel the tension in my muscles as my head bobs, straining to the left as I pass around a tight right bend. As I exit on the opposite side of the track, the straight opens up in front of me, and it’s time to boot it. Put on the performance these reporters are looking for, show them that Elliott Judd is back, that he had everything thrown at him and that nothing will beat him down.

The air whistles through my visor as I thunder past them, the engine rattling as I open it full throttle. I relax, back in my comfort zone as I weave through the rest of the circuit and in too short a time I’m back, cruising down the pit lane, ready not to get out as I must, but to begin a fresh lap.

Today truly is the start of the rest of our lives.