#gpshang

To them, he is ever-changing. Brutality morphs to passion. Aggression turns to confidence. Skill is painted over as luck. One day red, the next day gold. Rising sun, falling meteor.

People call him a god. Call him a devil. Gasp in awe at his visage—squint their eyes and turn away with disdain. Sun too bright; fire too hot.

He doesn't listen to what they say. So far beneath him, they can only see the way the light refracts off of him, of the sparkling champagne. They look up to him, standing on the top step, as the podium lights bathe him in gold and red, but they are squinting, eyes closed against the glow, and they don't see that behind it all, his race suit is only blue.

He steps off the podium, a sunset. A meteor. Ball of fire come down to earth, sparing no one.

Back in the garage, he's damp with sweat under the champagne. His eyes, no longer gleaming with the reflection of the trophy, are deep blue, traced underneath with the lines of his balaclava.

Gods can't be marked. But the red flush on his cheeks sits stubborn, and his golden hair stands wild atop his head. Invisible on the top step, light bending into halo and horns.

But every sun must set, and every meteor must fall to earth. Nobody can stand on the top step forever. Only gods and devils keep their thrones eternal.

In a blue car, in a blue suit, he is asked to do the impossible. Again and again, he's done so. But he is not the sun, steady on its course. And he is not an eternal flame.

Damp with sweat, blue eyes squinting against the harsh midday light, he slams his thumb on the radio button. "I am not God."