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"Death is nothing, but to live defeated and inglorious is to die daily." - Napoleon Bonaparte
Sunday wasn't a fun day. It was the opposite. It was hard, and nerve-wracking, and physical, and exhausting. Singapore always was like this, but this time it was worse. He would've loved to be on the podium, to taste the champagne, to be the one to win. But it was his own fault for not getting the pole on Saturday and having to play the good teammate game. He was exhausted.
He congratulated Carlos. He gave his interviews. He stayed for the group photo. And then he went straight to his hotel. This day was too long and all he wanted was to sleep and wake up directly at Suzuka. Will it be better next weekend? Who knows when you have a car as unreliable as his. How much longer does he have to do this? As long it takes for him to win a championship (and more than one if he can). But he can't even win a race, how can he think he can win a championship. He is so exhausted.
He knew that this year Red Bull were stronger and faster and no one stood a chance in front of them. It was a nightmare. Every weekend he goes to the track and just hopes for a miracle. He hopes, and he traines, and he drives that car to its limit. And it's still not enough. The car is just not that good.
Or maybe he is the real problem. Carlos put the car two times on pole back to back. Carlos was P3 in Monza, and won in Singapore. He said he feels like he is one with the car. Charles hasn't felt that in so long, he can't even remember how it is to drive a car suitable for him. Everything feels wrong. And there are still a lot of races on the calendar.
He feels defeated. That is the truth. He is trying every weekend and every time is not enough.
Somewhere deep in his core, there is this insatiable hunger for wins. It's always there, always screaming in his head win, win, win . It is never satisfied. The moment he doesn't deliver, it's like a big angry cloud is over him: why are you not winning, you are here so you can win, all you need to do is win . Sometimes, he thinks he annoyed the racing gods by being alive and now he needs to deliver wins like you deliver offerings to a temple. And they are as hungry as he is, maybe even hungrier. He hears them when he sleeps, he hears them when he's racing. He hears them when the Ducth anthem is playing every week. Not this week though; this week the Spanish anthem played, and the gods were even angrier. How can you let your teammate win, how can you let him steal your win, how can you let him be first, how, how, how . It wasn't his fault, but they didn't know this. Or maybe they did, but didn't care. He felt their anger in his bones, on the tip of his tongue. He could let it out so easy, just give in a little. But he was afraid that once it's out, he won't be able to get it back in. What a disaster that would be. An unhinged Charles Leclerc. What would the world say then? They say a lot of awful things now, how much worse it can get? He doesn't want to find. Not yet at least.
Every weekend that he doesn't win he dies a little. He psychically feels how the hope is diminishing little by little. The racing gods are laughing at him.
"You really thought you were good enough? You'll never be good enough."
And he wants to scream back at them.
"I know, I know. I am sorry. I am trying. I am trying. Please let me try again. I will try again, and again, and again."
And every weekend it's the same story. And everyone is watching as he shatteres in front of the whole world. And he is doing everything he can. And he still believes he can do it. And all he does is try, try, try.
It's not enough.
He is defeated.
He is inglorious.
He is dying daily.
Can the racing gods let him die now?