Our regular fitness programme means that the race lasting longer

Host: The air hung heavy with humidity, thick enough to taste. It was night in Singapore, but the heat still pressed like an unseen hand against the skin. The skyline shimmered with reflected light — glass towers rising like molten mirrors — and from somewhere far below came the distant roar of engines, alive, feral, relentless.

A circuit coiled through the heart of the city, its tarmac still steaming from the day’s rain. Spectators filled the stands, waving flags that caught the glow of neon, their cheers cutting through the humid air.

Behind the pit wall, in a quiet garage half-drowned in the scent of rubber and fuel, Jack leaned against a tool chest, his shirt clinging to his back, sweat tracing slow lines down his temples. Across from him, Jeeny sat on a crate, a bottle of water in her hand, her hair tied back, her eyes bright despite the exhaustion that wrapped the night.

The hum of the city and the sound of distant racing pulsed like a shared heartbeat.

Jeeny: “Romain Grosjean once said, ‘Our regular fitness programme means that the race lasting longer than others should not be a problem, but something you have to prepare for in Singapore is ensuring you always keep well-hydrated, as the heat and humidity can easily dehydrate you.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Hydration and endurance — sounds simple enough. Until you realize it’s a metaphor for everything.”

Host: A fan turned slowly overhead, pushing around the same warm air. Sweat glistened on the metal tools, on the curve of the helmets resting nearby, on the quiet determination in their faces.

Jeeny: “It’s true, though. You can’t outrun exhaustion — not in a race, not in life. You can only prepare to meet it.”

Jack: “Preparation’s overrated. People spend their lives training for battles they never fight.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when the real one comes?”

Jack: “You improvise.”

Host: Jeeny’s brow furrowed slightly, her voice soft but edged with challenge.

Jeeny: “Improvisation might save you in a sprint, Jack. But not in Singapore.”

Jack: “You think life’s a Grand Prix?”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? Everyone racing in circles, overheating, trying not to burn out?”

Host: Jack’s eyes followed the faint shimmer of heat rising from the track beyond the garage doors. The city lights bled into his pupils, fractured and feverish.

Jack: “Then maybe the smart ones just pull over.”

Jeeny: “No. The smart ones learn when to pace themselves.”

Jack: “Pacing’s just a polite name for fear.”

Jeeny: “And recklessness is just fear pretending to be courage.”

Host: The sound of a passing engine tore through the night — a scream of power, then silence. The echo lingered, vibrating in the still air like a held breath.

Jack: “You ever notice how every driver says the same thing before a race? ‘It’s about focus. It’s about control.’ But in reality, it’s chaos. You’re strapped into a bullet, sweating through your suit, praying your mind doesn’t slip a second. The heat cooks you from the inside.”

Jeeny: “That’s why Grosjean talked about hydration. It’s not just the body that dries out, Jack. It’s the spirit. The longer you fight the heat, the easier it is to forget to take care of yourself.”

Jack: “So we’re all dehydrated souls now?”

Jeeny: “Look around. Everyone’s running on empty. Everyone chasing something faster, brighter. But nobody stops to drink.”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy — not awkward, but honest. The kind of silence that settles only between people who’ve run the same race, even if they finished in different lanes.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve been through the circuit yourself.”

Jeeny: “In a way. You don’t need a helmet to burn out. Sometimes just existing in this world is enough.”

Jack: (dryly) “Deep philosophy, brought to you by electrolyte drinks.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe philosophy needs more sodium.”

Host: A small laugh escaped both of them — brief, real, cutting through the heat. Then Jeeny’s face turned thoughtful again, her voice quieter.

Jeeny: “You know what I think he really meant? That endurance isn’t just about lasting longer — it’s about knowing what drains you and what fills you back up.”

Jack: “So what fills you?”

Jeeny: “Stillness. Music. People who don’t need to win to feel alive.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But you can’t coast through a race on poetry.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But poetry teaches you why you wanted to start racing in the first place.”

Host: A faint breeze slipped in through the open garage, carrying the distant scent of the ocean, mixed with exhaust and salt. It was a rare mercy in the thick, tropical heat.

Jack: “Funny thing is, even when the race ends, the heat doesn’t. You carry it. Inside your bones.”

Jeeny: “That’s why you hydrate — not to beat the heat, but to remember you’re still human under it.”

Host: She passed him the bottle of water. He hesitated, then took it, drank deeply, as if realizing only then how dry his throat had been.

Jack: “You think I’m dehydrated, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “I think you’ve been running too long without stopping.”

Jack: “And you?”

Jeeny: “I learned to rest mid-lap.”

Host: The city hummed around them — alive, relentless, beautiful. From the pit lane came the echo of laughter, the smell of fresh tires, the throb of living engines.

Jack: “You ever think maybe we run because we’re afraid of slowing down? That if we stop, we’ll have to face the things chasing us?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But slowing down isn’t surrender. It’s survival.”

Jack: “You’d never make it as a racer.”

Jeeny: “And you’d never make it past the first corner.”

Host: He laughed, low and real — the kind that surprised even him. For the first time, the night didn’t feel suffocating. The air still clung, but something in it had changed.

Jeeny: “Endurance doesn’t mean invincibility, Jack. It means knowing when to breathe.”

Jack: “And what if I forgot?”

Jeeny: “Then start again. Inhale. Exhale. That’s the most honest race there is.”

Host: Outside, the engines quieted. The final laps had ended. A cheer rippled through the crowd, the sound of victory echoing through the city like a heartbeat.

Inside the garage, Jack and Jeeny sat in the aftermath — sweat, silence, the faint rhythm of cooling machines.

Jack: “You know, maybe Grosjean was right. It’s not the length of the race that matters — it’s how you survive the heat.”

Jeeny: “And how you stay alive when the race is over.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — catching the soft glow of neon, the steam rising from the streets, the quiet calm after the chaos. The city shimmered like a living organism, pulsing with light and breath.

As they stepped out into the night, Jack looked up at the skyline, the sweat on his skin cooling in the faint breeze. Jeeny handed him another bottle, her smile small but sure.

Jeeny: “Drink up, racer. Tomorrow’s another circuit.”

Jack: “Yeah. But maybe this time, I’ll remember to hydrate.”

Host: The rain began again — soft, forgiving, cool — as the city sighed in relief. The night stretched on, infinite and alive, two figures walking beneath the golden glow, not toward the finish line, but toward the simple, sacred rhythm of breathing again.