The Milwaukee airport was quieter than Jaxon expected — no buzz, no chaos, just the slow hum of baggage claim and fluorescent lights that made everyone look vaguely sick. He stepped through the automatic doors, dragging a scuffed duffel bag behind him, his race boots clipped to the side. The Midwest heat hit him like a wet pillow.
A silver pickup idled at the curb. Ian leaned against the passenger door, arms crossed over a McLaren-branded polo that looked like it hadn't been ironed since Bahrain.
Jaxon raised a hand, deadpan. "Wow. You clean up terrible."
Ian smirked, pushing off the truck. "Still got that sweet-talking charm, huh?"
"Yeah, well. Works on airport security and emotionally distant adults, so. Two-for-two."
They loaded his bag into the back. Ian climbed in and started the engine while Jaxon settled into the passenger seat, glancing at the familiar clutter in the cab — protein bar wrappers, laminated pit passes, a faded photo of a much younger Ian standing next to a Legends car, framed in a cracked dashboard clip.
"Been a while," Ian said, easing into traffic.
"Yeah," Jaxon said. "I figured you either ghosted or joined a monastery."
"I figured you were too busy becoming a McLaren asset."
Jaxon gave him a look. "Asset? Man, they gave me a car shell and a dream. You're the one bolting it together."
Ian laughed. "Fair. I tweaked the chassis a bit. Suspension should suit you better than what they originally specced out. Nothing crazy. Just didn't want you taking a corner and discovering what a hospital ceiling looks like."
Jaxon nodded. "Appreciate it. Still can't believe they actually said yes."
Ian glanced at him. "I can. You made them an offer no team wants to hear someone else accept."
"Yeah, well, I thought it was a Hail Mary," Jaxon said, leaning his head back against the seat. "Worst-case, I end up racing lawnmowers in Elkhart next season."
"You still might," Ian said.
"I'd win."
Ian grinned. "I don't doubt that."
They rode in silence for a few beats. The highway rolled past — flat fields, rusted signage, the occasional billboard for cheese curds or personal injury attorneys. Jaxon cracked the window.
"So," he said finally. "You nervous?"
Ian raised an eyebrow. "About what?"
"Strapping the most wanted junior driver in the world into a frankenstein McLaren project car that might explode on turn three."
Ian laughed again, this time louder. "Kid, if I didn't think you could handle it, I wouldn't have bothered picking you up."
Jaxon glanced at him, the faintest curve at the edge of his mouth.
"Yeah," he said. "Well. Let's hope the car doesn't catch fire. My suit's dry clean only."
The pickup rolled on, the sun dipping low behind endless cornfields.
Ian glanced over, smirking. "So, what's it like having half the F1 paddock sniffing around your karting trophies?"
Jaxon shrugged, voice flat but laced with dry humor. "Honestly? It's like being the last kid picked in dodgeball, but everyone's too polite to say it."
Ian laughed. "Yeah, well, that's a McLaren problem. We're all just trying not to trip over ourselves."
Jaxon tilted his head, a sardonic smirk tugging at his lips. "You think they've got a secret meeting somewhere, just swapping notes on how to annoy me?"
Ian raised his hands. "I wouldn't put it past them. But hey, that means you're doing something right."
Jaxon glanced out the window, deadpan. "Or they just like watching me panic."
Ian shook his head, grinning. "Nah, you're their favorite reality show."
They rode on in comfortable silence, the radio murmuring some old rock tune.
"So," Ian said, breaking the quiet, "how you feeling about this Road America thing? Pressure's gotta be a hell of a buzz."
Jaxon exhaled slowly. "Pressure's like that annoying song that gets stuck in your head. You hate it, but after a while, you kind of start humming along."
Ian smiled. "That's the spirit. Just don't sing out loud on race day."
Jaxon snorted. "No promises."
The pickup rolled to a slow stop just outside Elkhart Lake, the familiar outline of the town settling into view like a faded photograph. Four years had passed since Jaxon last set foot here, but as he looked around, nothing seemed to have changed much.
The same cracked sidewalks stretched along the quiet streets. The small diners and shops still wore their faded paint, signs creaking in the lazy breeze. Even the rusted gas station by the highway sat stubbornly where it had always been, like a relic refusing to move on.
Jaxon stared out the window, a mix of nostalgia and something heavier twisting in his gut. It was like time had hit pause — the town waiting for something that never quite arrived.
Ian caught his glance. "Still the same old place, huh?"
Jaxon nodded slowly. "Yeah. Feels like I just stepped back into a photograph."
The pickup rumbled down a narrow gravel road that branched off from the main track entrance. The distant roar of engines drifted through the towering pines, growing louder with each turn.
Jaxon's eyes followed the familiar contours of Road America's legendary twists and long straights — unchanged, like the track had been waiting for him all these years.
Ian glanced over, a grin tugging at his lips. "Feels good to be back on home turf, huh?"
Jaxon shrugged, voice low. "Yeah. But it's weird. Like the place never moved on, but I did."
As they crested a rise, the sleek glass-and-steel McLaren development facility came into view, tucked discreetly among the forest at the back of the circuit. It was a sharp contrast to the rustic charm of Elkhart Lake town just beyond.
Ian pulled the truck up alongside a row of McLaren trailers and trucks parked near the paddock. "This is where the magic happens," he said, tapping the dashboard affectionately. "Simulator runs, data analysis, training — you'll be spending a lot of time here."
Jaxon took it all in, the quiet hum of the place humming in his chest. "Feels like stepping into a whole new world compared to the old kart track."
Ian chuckled. "Welcome to the big leagues, kid."
Jaxon climbed out, stretching his legs after the long ride. The crisp air smelled faintly of gasoline and pine, a strangely comforting mix.
Ian grabbed Jaxon's duffel, slinging it over his shoulder. "Come on, I'll show you around. The crew's all here prepping for the weekend."
They walked toward the sleek building, sunlight catching the bright orange McLaren logos dotting the walls.
"Simulators are just inside," Ian said, pushing open the door. "You'll spend hours there, learning the lines, refining braking points, working through setups without ever leaving the seat."
Jaxon nodded, already imagining the hours ahead.
Ian smiled. "Don't worry, though. We know how to balance hard work with keeping you sharp mentally. You'll have your breaks — plus, it's not all dry data and lap times."
Jaxon let out a short laugh. "That's good. I'm not exactly built for sitting still."
Ian smirked. "Yeah, you're more of a 'move fast, talk slow' kind of guy."
They stepped into the buzzing hub of activity — engineers, mechanics, and drivers all moving with purpose, the heartbeat of McLaren's racing program.
"Ready to get started?" Ian asked.
Jaxon cracked a grin. "Born ready."
Ian guided Jaxon along a freshly paved access road cutting through the tall pines, leading to a compact but high-tech development facility nestled just inside the Road America grounds. The building was sleek, all glass and steel — a sharp contrast to the classic circuit's rustic charm.
"This place was set up just for this race," Ian said, glancing at Jaxon with a grin. "McLaren wanted a base nearby — not just to support you, but to run simulator sessions, analyze data, and prep the car with local engineers."
Jaxon took it all in, the hum of activity buzzing through the air. "A whole setup just for one race?"
Ian nodded. "Yeah, all hands on deck for the weekend. The McLaren folks brought over the chassis and tech team, but the local Road America crew is handling the logistics and setup."
At the entrance, they were greeted by Rachel, the event manager, and Sanjay, the lead engineer.
Rachel smiled warmly. "Jaxon, glad you made it. This place is your home base for the weekend — simulate, prep, relax, repeat."
Sanjay held up a tablet. "We've tuned the car with what info we have, but we'll be adjusting on the fly. You just focus on getting comfortable and driving fast."
Jaxon smirked. "Not bad for a one-shot deal."
Rachel laughed. "No pressure. Just make it count."
Jaxon woke to the faint hum of the morning — not the usual blaring alarm or Curtis's gruff shouting, just the low, steady pulse of the Road America circuit beyond his hotel window. The sky was still a soft gray, the kind that promised heat by noon but kept the world patient for now.
He lay still for a moment, eyes open but unmoving, letting the silence settle into his bones. No distractions. No noise. Just the thrum of his own heartbeat syncing with the distant engines waking up.
This was different from home. No Curtis yelling about wasted potential. No gritted teeth over every mistake. Just space. Quiet. The kind of stillness that stretched a second longer than it needed to.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the cold hotel floor. The room smelled faintly of worn carpet and cheap detergent. Nothing fancy. Nothing that pulled at memory's strings. He liked it that way.
Jaxon didn't reach for a phone or a screen. No messages. No social media noise. Just a blank space to focus.
He sat on the edge of the bed, breathing measured, counting. In for four seconds, hold two, out six. The rhythm was a tether, holding him steady in a world that demanded speed and chaos.
There was no need to be anywhere yet. The track was hours away. Two weeks of training stretched ahead like an unbroken road — simulator sessions, data debriefs, physical conditioning. But right now, the day was still his.
He stood and moved to the window, drawing the curtain back just enough to see the first light touching the tops of the pines. The sprawling track was quiet but alive, waiting.
Jaxon's fingers traced the thin line of his racing suit hanging neatly on the chair. The fabric was still stiff, new, but smelled faintly of oil and rubber. He hadn't touched it yet.
His gaze dropped to the gear bag packed meticulously the night before. Helmet, gloves, boots — every piece laid out with precision.
No coffee. No breakfast. No distractions.
He dressed slowly in the soft light — underlayers first, then the suit. Each zip pulled up deliberately, every piece clicked into place like a machine assembling itself.
His gloves slid on last, fingertips flexing, the material tight but familiar. The suit clung to his skin, a second skin molded for speed and protection.
The room shrank around him until only the suit, the gloves, and the pulse in his temples existed.
He was ready but still silent, waiting for the moment to step into the storm.
The two weeks ahead would be relentless — hours in the simulator, testing limits, breaking down every millisecond. Data sheets with tiny margins of error would be his scripture.
But for now, quiet.
Jaxon took a final breath, locked the hotel door behind him, and headed out to the track.
The real race was about to begin.
Jaxon woke to the faint hum of the morning — not the usual blaring alarm or Curtis's gruff shouting, just the low, steady pulse of the Road America circuit beyond his hotel window. The sky was still a soft gray, the kind that promised heat by noon but kept the world patient for now.
He lay still for a moment, eyes open but unmoving, letting the silence settle into his bones. No distractions. No noise. Just the thrum of his own heartbeat syncing with the distant engines waking up.
This was different from home. No Curtis yelling about wasted potential. No gritted teeth over every mistake. Just space. Quiet. The kind of stillness that stretched a second longer than it needed to.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the cold hotel floor. The room smelled faintly of worn carpet and cheap detergent. Nothing fancy. Nothing that pulled at memory's strings. He liked it that way.
Jaxon didn't reach for a phone or a screen. No messages. No social media noise. Just a blank space to focus.
He sat on the edge of the bed, breathing measured, counting. In for four seconds, hold two, out six. The rhythm was a tether, holding him steady in a world that demanded speed and chaos.
There was no need to be anywhere yet. The track was hours away. Two weeks of training stretched ahead like an unbroken road — simulator sessions, data debriefs, physical conditioning. But right now, the day was still his.
He stood and moved to the window, drawing the curtain back just enough to see the first light touching the tops of the pines. The sprawling track was quiet but alive, waiting.
—
The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead in the McLaren workshop, casting a clinical glow over the cavernous space filled with gleaming chassis, racks of tires, and rows of tools lined up with precise order. But all of that paled in comparison to the car resting on its wheeled stand in the center of the floor. It was a living memory, a conversation between past and present — the McLaren Artura GT4, freshly wrapped in the "Elkhart Legacy" livery, every detail painstakingly crafted to honor a place Jaxon knew better than anyone.
Jaxon stepped forward slowly, his eyes tracing the satin-finished blue that covered the bodywork, deeper and more muted than the usual high-gloss corporate sheen. The subtle metallic shimmer caught the light in a way that reminded him of early mornings on the lake — quiet, cold, untouched. The cream-white pinstripes curved along the beltline like the gentle arcs of a timeworn race poster, and he spotted the faint, almost hidden tracing of the 1951 Elkhart Lake road course running above the rear fender.
"It's beautiful," he said, voice low, almost reverent.
Liam, the lead engineer on the project, nodded with a proud smile. "We wanted something that told a story, not just looked fast. McLaren's all about cutting-edge tech, but this — this is heritage. The 'Kettle Moraine Special' badge on the front fender? That's a nod to the local geography, and we dug up some SCCA badges from the archives to get that vintage feel just right."
Jaxon crouched briefly to look closer at the tire sidewalls. The slicks bore white lettering in a retro script: 'Elkhart Compound'. He smirked. "That's a nice touch."
"It's all about details," Liam said. "Even the roll cage is brushed aluminum with a sky-blue crossbeam, echoing the lake's waters. And inside the cockpit — we laser-engraved a plaque honoring the street races back in the '50s. Pretty rare to get a car with so much personality these days."
Jaxon ran a hand lightly over the hood, feeling the textured eagle etched across the vents in faded gold foil — the subtle American tribute. "This feels like more than just a car for one race. It's like carrying a legacy."
"Exactly," Liam said. "And it's yours, at least for this weekend."
Before Jaxon could say more, a nearby cart rolled forward, carrying a matte off-white helmet that matched the car's understated elegance. The driver's helmet — dubbed the "Elkhart Ghost" — looked almost ethereal resting there, its pale blue undertones shifting in the light like fog on the lake at dawn.
Jaxon reached out, lifting the helmet carefully. The central stripe down the middle wasn't just a color — it was the ghost map of the original 1951 Elkhart Lake circuit, winding across the top like a secret blueprint. On the sides, the faint outlines of local icons — a church steeple, a rusted barn with a weathervane, even a Cunningham roadster in mid-slide.
He turned the helmet slowly, admiring the stained-wood effect graphic burned into the back, the words "Four Miles of Fury — Est. 1955" etched like an old paddock sign. The visor's polished brass trim caught the light, a dull gleam like a trophy that had seen decades of glory.
Jaxon smiled faintly. "It's quiet, but it says everything."
Liam grinned. "And we snuck in a little tribute inside the chin strap, too — a red-stitched message just for you."
Curious, Jaxon peeled back the strap and saw the delicate embroidery: In memory of Curtis Rose
A quiet moment passed. The weight of that simple phrase pressed down, but it wasn't bitter. It was a reminder, a tether to where he came from, even if the road hadn't been easy.
Then came the race suit, hanging neatly nearby on a padded hanger. The suit was a deep navy blue, closely matching the car's weathered racing blue but with the cream pinstripes subtly stitched along the seams. The McLaren orange accents were minimal — a small patch on the collar and the iconic papaya swoosh down the right shoulder — respectful, not flashy.
Jaxon ran his fingers over the fabric. It felt light but durable, engineered for protection and performance, but also carrying a history in its design. The cuffs bore the same "Elkhart Compound" script as the tires, and the inner lining had a patch embroidered with the Road America logo.
Liam noticed the way Jaxon studied the suit. "It's built for you. All custom fit. And the gloves and boots are done to match."
Jaxon nodded, a quiet pride settling over him. "I've seen a lot of suits, but this one feels… right. Like it belongs to the place."
Liam smiled. "That's the point. It's just for this race, but we wanted you to feel connected — not just to McLaren, but to where you're from."
Jaxon looked back at the car, then the helmet, then the suit. "Feels like I'm carrying a piece of home out there."
Liam clapped him on the shoulder. "Exactly. Now, you ready to suit up?"
Jaxon took a breath, a calm settling over him that had little to do with nerves and everything to do with focus. "Yeah. Let's get to it."
He pulled on the race suit, feeling the fabric hug him tight, a second skin engineered for every twist and turn ahead. The gloves fit snug, the boots secure, and finally the helmet — light but solid — locked in place.
Standing tall, Jaxon looked in the mirror at the reflection staring back — a young driver carrying the weight of history, expectation, and a quiet fire that refused to be extinguished.
He was ready.
—
Jaxon swung open the door and slid into the cockpit, the seat swallowing him in its molded embrace. His hands settled on the steering wheel, fingers tracing the finely tuned buttons and dials. The cockpit was tight, familiar yet foreign — like stepping into a new skin. The smell of fresh carbon fiber mixed with a faint hint of rubber and oil.
He pulled the balaclava down a little to breathe easier as the crew readied the car for the short roll out.
Ian was at the door, nodding. "Ready when you are."
With a steady hand, Jaxon released the brake and began to wheel the car slowly out of the garage bay, the tires rolling over the concrete with a quiet hum. The paddock bustled with activity — crews hustling, cameras clicking, curious eyes following.
They steered the McLaren Artura GT4 toward the designated display area — a polished section of pit lane roped off with banners reading "McLaren x Road America – Elkhart Legacy Reveal."
Local fans filtered in, some wearing vintage racing caps, others clutching phones, eager to capture every angle. Journalists and race interviewers lined up, notebooks ready, mics poised.
Jaxon eased the car into position under a soft canopy of sunlight. The satin blue paint shimmered in the light, the vintage pinstripes gleaming sharply. It wasn't just a car; it was a story told in metal and color.
The team gathered around — Ian and the lead engineer, Mara — exchanging last-minute details. The crowd's murmur shifted to hushed anticipation.
Inside the cockpit, Jaxon sat still, his gloved hands resting lightly on the steering wheel. From his seat, the view was strange — faces stacked behind barriers, phones up, eyes wide. Locals, mostly. Some wore old Road America tees, others had bright orange McLaren merch that looked freshly bought. A few younger kids were pressed against the front rope line, barely tall enough to see over the rail.
Jaxon's visor reflected the sky, but behind it, his eyes scanned the crowd. Calm. Observant. Detached, but not ungrateful.
He reached up, unclicked the chin strap, and pulled the helmet off in one smooth motion. The balaclava followed. His hair was matted slightly, and sweat lined the edge of his brow, but he looked composed.
Wordlessly, he placed the helmet on the roof of the car — visor facing forward, so the ghosted road map caught the sun. A few gasps popped from the front rows as fans caught sight of it. Ian gave a small, satisfied nod behind the barrier.
Then came the questions — not shouted, but offered one at a time by credentialed reporters and a few local outlets.
The reporter followed up, "Are you planning on signing with a driver academy anytime soon?"
Jaxon's voice stayed calm. "I'm weighing my options. Right now, it's about racing and proving what I can do. The rest comes later."
The next question came from a reporter with a notepad thicker than her patience. "Ian, what's it been like bringing a project like this together in such a short timeframe?"
Ian leaned casually. "Honestly? It's a sprint more than a marathon. We had to piece together the car, the setup, even the support crew in what felt like five minutes. But that's racing—adapt or get left behind. Jaxon's talent makes it easier; he drives like he's been doing this for years."
Liam, standing nearby with a tablet loaded with telemetry data, looked up with a faint grin. "From the engineering side, the biggest challenge was blending heritage with performance. That 'Elkhart Legacy' livery isn't just paint—it's a mindset. We wanted to respect the past without compromising what the car needs to do now."
Rachel, clipboard in hand, stepped forward as the cameras shifted toward her. "Logistics can be a nightmare. Setting up a mobile base for a weekend race in the middle of nowhere means planning for every eventuality. If the coffee runs out, that's on me."
Sanjay, head engineer, gave a wry smile, adjusting his glasses. "And then there's the fine-tuning. The car looks beautiful, sure, but it has to perform flawlessly. We're tracking every sensor, every lap time, every tiny adjustment Jaxon makes to dial in the perfect balance."
Another reporter raised a hand. "Jaxon, how does it feel knowing the whole team's racing around you to make this work?"
Jaxon smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's a hell of a responsibility but also a hell of a privilege. I'm not just racing for myself out here—I'm carrying the weight of a whole crew's work, and that pushes me harder."
Ian clapped him on the shoulder. "Yeah, kid's got the right attitude. He knows this isn't just a show; it's the real deal."
The reporters circled the McLaren Artura GT4, the afternoon sun catching the satin blue paint, their voices rising in a steady murmur of curiosity and challenge.
A young motorsport reporter started, voice eager but professional. "Jaxon, coming from karting, how challenging is adapting to the GT4 car's weight and handling dynamics? Is it like driving a completely different machine?"
Jaxon's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Yeah, it's a different beast. The weight, the braking distances, the downforce — everything demands you think ahead. In karting, it's twitchy, razor-sharp. This one's more about rhythm and patience, but the margin for error's just as small."
Another reporter leaned forward. "Ian, what were the biggest hurdles in tweaking the suspension for Road America's long straights and sweeping corners?"
Ian rubbed his chin. "Finding the sweet spot between stability on the straights and responsiveness in the corners. Too stiff, and the car loses grip in the twisty bits. Too soft, and it gets unsettled under heavy braking. We went with a slightly softer rear setup to help rotation, but that meant working harder on front-end grip."
"Liam," a tech journalist asked, "the paint scheme is unique — how much engineering went into preserving the livery while maintaining aerodynamics?"
Liam smiled. "More than you'd think. Wraps and decals can add weight or disrupt airflow if not applied perfectly. We tested several iterations in the wind tunnel with prototype graphics to make sure the aesthetic didn't cost us tenths on the track."
A reporter from a European outlet shifted gears. "Rachel, what kind of logistical challenges come with running a pop-up facility at a legendary track like Road America?"
Rachel exhaled. "The usual chaos of race weekends, but compacted. We have less room and time to set up, so every minute counts. Managing tire storage, coordinating parts deliveries, and maintaining communication between the engineers on-site and the factory back home is a daily scramble."
Sanjay, watching the data feed on his tablet, was next. "Sanjay, with limited test miles here, how do you approach fine-tuning the ECU maps and traction control?"
He glanced up, serious. "It's mostly predictive and reactive. We use data from Jaxon's simulator sessions combined with real-time telemetry to adjust power delivery and traction settings lap by lap. It's a constant dialogue between driver and machine."
Another question came from a veteran racing analyst. "Jaxon, how do you balance pushing the car to its limits with preserving the tires over a race distance?"
Jaxon shrugged, voice steady. "It's a mental game. You have to feel the tires' life slipping away and adapt your lines and braking to stretch them without killing pace. It's a skill I'm learning every lap."
The reporter pressed further. "Do you ever feel the temptation to overdrive, especially when chasing or defending?"
"Every lap," Jaxon admitted with a half-smile. "But that's when experience kicks in, knowing when to bite and when to back off."
A local journalist's voice cut in. "Ian, with this car being a 'one-off' for the event, how much risk are you taking on reliability?"
Ian shrugged, but his eyes were steady. "We built this with the same quality standards as any McLaren GT4 car, but the short prep time means less room for error. We've been stress-testing everything, but racing always carries risk. The key is to manage that risk without sacrificing speed."
A reporter from a lifestyle magazine aimed at younger readers asked Jaxon, "What's a typical day look like for you during race weekends? Is it all work and no fun?"
Jaxon smirked. "Simulator, briefings, gym, track sessions, debriefs — rinse and repeat. Fun's secondary."
Laughter bubbled up from the crew nearby.
"Rachel, how do you keep team morale high with such a packed schedule?"
Rachel's smile was quick but genuine. "Small things — good coffee, snacks, knowing when to crack a joke. We all want to win, but if you're miserable, that goal feels farther away."
The questions kept coming.
A reporter from a tech outlet asked, "Liam, how do you balance the use of cutting-edge materials with cost constraints on a car built just for this race?"
Liam leaned forward, animated. "GT4 rules are strict on cost and spec, but we exploit every legal edge. Carbon fiber, advanced composites, and custom alloys, all carefully selected to shave weight and maximize durability without breaking the budget. It's a constant chess game with the regs."
A motorsport historian queried, "Jaxon, Road America has a storied past. How much does the track's history weigh on you?"
Jaxon's voice dipped a notch. "A lot. Racing here means joining a long line of legends. That's pressure but also a privilege. I want to respect that history, but I'm here to make my own."
Another reporter asked, "Ian, how does working on a McLaren project differ from other GT teams you've been with?"
Ian's grin was dry. "McLaren's obsessive about details and innovation. The tools, the data, the people — it's like stepping into the future every day. That said, no one here's softer. The pressure's brutal."
A question came from a young journalist covering women in motorsport. "Rachel, what steps does McLaren take to ensure inclusivity and diversity within the team?"
Rachel nodded thoughtfully. "It's a priority. We actively recruit diverse talent and provide mentorship programs. Racing is evolving, and McLaren wants to lead, not lag."
The crowd's energy was steady now — rapid-fire, hungry for insight.
"Sanjay," a data analyst pressed, "how do you integrate simulator data with live telemetry to predict tire wear?"
Sanjay tapped his tablet. "We overlay historical track data, surface temperatures, and Jaxon's throttle maps. The sim gives us baseline behavior; real data adjusts it live. It's about catching the tiny shifts before they become big problems."
Jaxon was asked, "How do you mentally reset after a mistake on track?"
He paused, voice low. "You don't have time to stew. Hit the next corner, hit the next lap harder. The clock doesn't stop for feelings."
Another question from a tire expert. "Ian, how did you decide on tire pressures and camber for this race?"
Ian's eyes lit up. "We ran simulations on ambient temps, track surface, and Jaxon's driving style. We're balancing grip and longevity. Start pressure slightly higher than usual to avoid overheating, then let it settle after a few laps."
"Rachel," a PR reporter asked, "how do you manage media expectations around a young driver like Jaxon?"
Rachel smiled tightly. "We focus on facts, results, and letting Jaxon be himself. Media loves drama, but we keep the narrative grounded."
A technical reporter asked Liam, "What's the one technical upgrade you're most proud of on this car?"
Liam's grin was proud. "The adaptive suspension settings. It's subtle, but it lets us tune corner entry on the fly, responding to tire degradation and track temperature."
"Jaxon," a fan reporter shouted, "what music gets you pumped before a race?"
Jaxon smirked. "Something that makes you want to punch the walls, but with rhythm. Classic rock, mostly."
"Final question for the team — what's the biggest unknown heading into this race weekend?"
Ian exchanged looks with Liam and Sanjay before answering. "The weather, the track evolution, and Jaxon's comfort level with the car under pressure. It's the perfect storm, and that's what makes racing exciting."
Ian glanced at his watch and raised a hand. "Alright, folks, we've got time for one more question."
A local fan stepped forward, voice steady but excited. "Jaxon, you've crushed every racing championship you've been in so far. What can we expect from you here, in front of your home crowd? And do you feel the whole town's got your back?"
Jaxon looked out over the crowd, the weight of those words sinking in for a moment. Then he nodded slowly, voice calm but firm. "I've never been one to settle. I'm here to race hard and put on a show — for the team, for the fans, and yeah, for the town that's been behind me since day one. I don't take that lightly."
The fan smiled, satisfied. "We're all rooting for you, Jaxon."
The reporters packed up, buzzing with fresh stories and new angles.
Ian let out a low whistle as the last question wrapped up. "Not bad, kid. You handled that like a pro."
Rachel, the event manager, gave a small smile. "The hometown crowd loves that kind of straightforward honesty. You're making them believe."
Sanjay nodded, eyes on the tablet. "And you kept your cool under the spotlight. That's what counts. Now, let's get you back to the paddock and dial in for tomorrow's sessions."
Jaxon eased himself back into the cockpit, the familiar embrace of the seat settling around him. The engine rumbled to life with a smooth growl. He glanced up at Ian, who gave him a thumbs-up from the pit wall.
The car rolled forward, tires gripping the tarmac as Jaxon guided the Artura GT4 back toward their spot. The paddock buzzed with activity — mechanics tuning, engineers reviewing data, drivers stretching and prepping.
Jaxon kept it steady, focused, his mind already shifting toward the track.
They pulled into their designated garage, the crew already waiting with a nod and ready hands.
Ian climbed in beside him once the car was parked, voice low. "Good work. Now, we keep building. No distractions."
Jaxon nodded once, eyes clear. "No distractions."
The garage hummed with quiet energy as Jaxon and the crew waited for the lower classes to finish their practice runs. The afternoon sun filtered through the open doors, casting long shadows over the McLaren Artura GT4 gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
Ian leaned against the wall, phone in hand. "Alright, while we wait, check this out." He swiped through his screen, then held it up for Jaxon and the others to see.
On McLaren's official Instagram, a short clip of Jaxon's Q&A was already racking up likes and comments — crisp edits, clean graphics, the "Elkhart Legacy" livery gleaming in the background.
"Look at this," Ian said. "TikTok's on fire. Clips from the interview, highlights from the reveal, fan reactions — they're everywhere."
Rachel peered over his shoulder. "Comments are mostly positive. People love the story, the heritage angle. But there's a few asking how a 14-year-old's even allowed to drive this thing against adults."
Sanjay nodded, scrolling through Twitter. "Yeah, that's the hot topic. Some are stunned — 'Is this kid serious?' 'How does he stack up to seasoned pros?'"
Jaxon shrugged, crossing his arms. "Let them wonder. I'm here to race, not explain."
Ian smirked. "Smart move. Keeps them guessing."
Rachel tapped the screen. "You've got a lot of eyes on you now. Social media's good for hype, but it also means pressure."
Jaxon met her gaze, voice steady. "Pressure's nothing new."
The crew shared quiet smiles, the mix of anticipation and focus hanging in the air like a charged wire.
Ian slid his phone back into his pocket. "Alright, classes should be wrapping up soon. Time to get you back in the car and ready for your session."
Jaxon nodded, the distant roar of engines growing louder through the garage doors.'
—
Jaxon sat low in the McLaren Artura GT4 cockpit, the leather wrapped steering wheel cool beneath his gloves. The car was quiet except for the steady hum of the engine's electronics and the faint tick of the cooling fans.
Ian's voice came through the radio headset, clear and calm. "Jaxon, this is Ian. Radio check, can you hear me?"
Jaxon pressed the button on the wheel and replied, "Loud and clear, Ian."
Sanjay, the lead engineer, chimed in. "Telemetry's live and stable. Engine temperature steady at 87 Celsius. Oil pressure's holding firm at 4.5 bar. Fuel pressure normal."
Jaxon glanced at the dashboard, confirming the numbers. Tire pressures were showing 28 psi front, 30 psi rear — right where they wanted for a cold start.
Ian continued, "Remember, no traction control or ABS on this car. You're managing everything yourself. The brake balance is set at 56 percent front."
Jaxon flexed his fingers on the wheel. "Got it."
Sanjay added, "Fuel load is set light — about 35 liters. Should give you clean laps for the session."
Ian said, "Brake pedal feel?"
"Firm and consistent," Jaxon replied. "Steering feels tight. No unusual feedback."
"Perfect. Track is green. When you're ready, roll out gently. Take it easy on the first few corners, get some heat in the tires and brakes. Call out any issues, no matter how small."
Jaxon released the clutch smoothly, the sequential gearbox clicking into first gear as the McLaren rolled forward. The tires hummed softly against the pit lane tarmac.
"Out lap clear," Ian confirmed. "Keep it smooth, and don't push flat out until the tires are warm."
Jaxon exhaled slowly and nodded to himself. The car was his responsibility alone.
Jaxon eased the McLaren onto the start/finish straight, the engine's growl low and taut beneath the carbon fiber hood. The tires warmed quickly on the rough asphalt.
Lap one, no changes yet. He focused on rhythm, feeling the chassis under him, memorizing how it responded after being off the track for months.
Lap two
Coming out of Turn 14, Jaxon noticed the rear stepping out more than expected under throttle. He radioed in smoothly, "Ian, the rear feels a little loose on the exit of the straight — got some snap oversteer hitting the throttle."
Ian replied, "Copy that. We'll check rear bar stiffness and tire temps."
Through Moraine Sweep, Turns 3 to 5, the car felt a touch nervous mid-corner. The front was light, making turn-in slow and hesitant.
"Front end's a bit vague in Moraine," Jaxon said quietly over the radio. "I'm having to roll off mid-corner to keep it planted."
"Understood. Could be a touch softer front sway bar or less front wing angle," Mara suggested from the pit wall.
At Hurry Downs, the hard braking zone before Turn 7, Jaxon was catching the brakes deep, but the initial bite felt inconsistent.
"Brake pedal's mushy at first press," he reported. "Pressure builds well after, but initial bite's soft."
"Brake bias's set at 58 front," Sanjay replied. "We'll shift it forward a bit, maybe to 60. That should help initial bite."
In the Carousel, the long, fast left-hander between Turns 9 and 10, the McLaren's balance was decent but Jaxon struggled with slight understeer mid-corner.
"Carousel understeer—front's pushing on throttle," he said. "Feels like I'm losing front grip halfway through the curve."
"Front tires temps in the 85-90°C range?" Liam asked.
"Fronts hitting 95 right now."
"Front pressures might be a little high," Mara replied. "We'll drop them by two psi on the next stop."
Lap three
With brake bias shifted forward, Jaxon immediately noticed more confidence braking into Hurry Downs.
"Brake bite's sharper," he said. "I can trail brake deeper without pedal going soft."
Moraine Sweep still felt a bit unstable, though the rear was more predictable on throttle.
"Rear snap eased off," Jaxon confirmed. "Maybe a little stiffer rear bar next time."
At The Kink (Turn 11), a quick left-right flick, the car responded well, balanced and sharp.
"Good rotation through The Kink," Jaxon noted. "Feels planted, no weird twitch."
But Kettle Bottoms (Turns 11 to 12) was tricky—the car understeered entering the corner, forcing him to back off the throttle early.
"Kettle Bottoms is tight," he reported. "Front end's pushing, need more front grip."
"Lowering front wing angle a bit," Liam said. "Try that next run."
Lap four
Front wing adjusted, Jaxon felt more precise turn-in through Kettle Bottoms.
"Much better. Front's biting on turn-in, but now the rear's a little loose on exit."
Canada Corner (Turn 12) came fast after Kettle Bottoms, a sharp right-hander that needed good rotation.
"Canada Corner rotation's good, but I'm catching a little oversteer exiting. Might be tire wear?"
"Fronts and rears balanced for wear," Sanjay replied. "Temps okay, but let's keep an eye."
Thunder Valley (Turns 12 to 13), a fast, swooping right-hander, required commitment.
"Thunder Valley's stable, but I'm fighting understeer mid-corner. I'm not sure if it's aero or mechanical grip."
"Front pressures dropped, so aero might be cause," Mara answered. "We'll adjust front splitter angle slightly."
Lap five
Splitter adjustment gave a little more front downforce.
"Front end's hooked up better now, especially through Moraine and Thunder Valley."
The rear felt more planted on exit of Moraine Sweep.
"I'm able to get on throttle earlier without the tail stepping out."
At Hurry Downs, the brake bias felt balanced but Jaxon thought he could be even more aggressive.
"Brake bias feels good, but I think I can push harder braking into Turn 7."
Ian replied, "We can shift bias slightly more forward, but don't want to lose rear stability."
Lap six
Brake bias tweaked slightly more forward.
"Okay, braking feels more responsive. I can trail brake deeper now."
Through the Carousel, the car felt perfect. Jaxon found his rhythm.
"Front's planted, rear's stable, throttle response smooth."
He carried speed better through Canada Corner, the McLaren gripping beautifully.
"Canada's clean, but the exit is still a bit twitchy."
Ian: "Rear bar stiffness increased by one click. See if it helps."
Lap seven
Rear bar stiffer.
"Less twitchy on exit of Canada, much better."
Through The Kink, the car was balanced, precise.
"Feels connected, ready to attack."
At Kettle Bottoms, Jaxon pushed harder.
"Front grip's solid now, I can carry more speed."
Thunder Valley felt great, the car flowing.
"This is working. I'm getting consistent lap times."
Lap eight
Jaxon began experimenting with his braking points, pushing deeper into Hurry Downs.
"Brake bias's spot on, but I'm trying to brake a meter later each lap."
He clipped the apex cleanly, carrying momentum through the straight.
"Entry speed's up. I'm hitting Moraine Sweep with more confidence."
Lap nine
The team relayed telemetry showing consistent tire temps and pressures.
"Temps stable. We're not overheating the fronts or rears."
Jaxon felt the car was nearly perfect.
"The McLaren's biting hard through Carousel and Thunder Valley."
The feedback was clear: setup had gone from nervous to confident.
Lap ten
Jaxon was fully in rhythm, the laps flowing smoother, his body relaxed but focused.
"Braking's dialed. Rotation's good. Balance feels even."
He finished the lap and radioed, "Setup's feeling good overall. Just a hair softer on the rear next time, to keep the tail predictable on exit of Canada and Thunder Valley."
Ian smiled from the pit wall, "You're dialing it in, kid. This is exactly what we wanted."
Ian's voice came steady over the radio: "Alright, Jaxon. Time for a mock qualifying lap. Clean and fast. No mistakes. Find the limit and hold it. Let's see what you've got."
Jaxon took a deep breath through the balaclava, feeling the McLaren's carbon fiber chassis snug around him like armor. The controls were all perfectly familiar now — buttons, dials, paddles — ready to respond instantly to his input.
Clutch down, first gear selected. The rear tires bit hard into the tarmac as he released the clutch smoothly. The engine roared to life beneath him — raw, unfiltered power with no driver aids, just pure mechanical grip and throttle.
He focused on the start/finish straight ahead, long and flat, stretching like a ribbon into the distance. The visor caught the low morning sun, the light bright but not blinding.
Shifting up to second, then third, he kept the throttle clean and progressive, the car balanced on the edge of traction as the speed climbed.
Approaching Turn 1 — a tight right-hander — he read the brake markers carefully: 250… 200… 150… 100.
He pressed firmly but precisely on the brake pedal, feeling the calipers clamp hard on the rotors, the front tires biting sharply into the asphalt. Downshifting smoothly from 6th to 4th gear, he kept the revs high but controlled.
Turning in at the apex, the McLaren responded instantly — no understeer, no oversteer — just crisp, pure grip. He maintained throttle balance, releasing pressure just enough to keep the rear planted through the corner.
Accelerating out, the rear tires dug in as he headed toward Moraine Sweep — the sweeping left-right-left from Turns 3 to 5.
He tucked in tight to the apex of Turn 3, carrying maximum speed while keeping the line tight but fluid. The steering feedback was perfect — a constant conversation between tire and driver.
At Turn 4, he carried the speed but feathered the throttle, letting the suspension soak the bumps without unsettling the balance.
Turn 5 demanded a delicate touch — a quick flick of the wheel to the right while still maintaining momentum. Jaxon's hands stayed steady, precise.
Ian's voice crackled, but Jaxon ignored it, fully focused on the rhythm.
Down the next straight, Jaxon braced for Hurry Downs (Turn 7), the heavy braking zone after a fast blast. He squeezed the pedal progressively, shifting from 5th to 3rd gear.
No lock-ups, no scrubbing tires — perfect modulation.
Into Turn 7, he rotated the car crisply, the McLaren's grip holding firm.
Throttle came on smoothly exiting the corner, carrying speed toward Turn 8.
Turn 8 was a sharp right-hander, requiring a clean line to maximize exit speed. Jaxon turned in sharply but controlled, holding the apex tight.
Then came the Carousel — a long, flowing left-hander (Turns 9 to 10).
He leaned into the curve, managing the throttle and steering balance with practiced precision. The car hung on every inch of the road, the tires humming with grip.
Exiting the Carousel, he punched the throttle, propelling the McLaren toward The Kink (Turn 11), a quick left-right flick demanding quick reflexes.
His hands moved fluidly, guiding the car through the series with no corrections needed.
Kettle Bottoms (Turns 11 to 12) demanded respect — a tricky left-hander requiring braking and a smooth line.
Jaxon braked early and precisely, downshifting cleanly from 4th to 3rd gear, then turned in crisply, the car responding without hesitation.
Canada Corner (Turn 12) was next — a fast right where maintaining momentum was crucial.
He eased the steering wheel, balancing throttle and grip expertly to hug the apex.
Finally, Thunder Valley (Turns 12 to 13), the final high-speed right-hander, tested his nerve.
Jaxon nailed the exit of Turn 14, the car's V8 roaring as he surged uphill. The incline pushed against the chassis, but the McLaren stayed glued, every gear change precise, every ounce of power feeding into the long straight ahead.
He crossed the finish line cleanly, then lifted off the throttle to ease the car.
Ian's voice crackled through the radio, a rare edge of excitement cutting through the static.
"Jaxon, that was smooth—crossed the finish line three tenths faster than second place! Clean lap all around. Keep that pace, and you're setting the bar."
Jaxon allowed a flicker of a grin inside the helmet, eyes narrowing in focus but lips almost twitching. "Thanks, Ian. Let's keep pushing."
He settled in deeper, a quiet confidence settling over him like a second skin.