I have seen, heard of and written much about death since I started my racing career. You may be rivals on the circuit one day, and parted by death the next. This time, the bends where the fatal crashes occurred were just several hundred metres away from my hotel. I hardly know what to say.

My family members have tried their best to persuade me to quit. It’s a dangerous game, and you should leave when you’re on top, they said. They are right, of course.

But when you set off to war, you know you’ll be facing bombs not bread. When you go hiking in the mountains, you don’t expect a king-size bed in the depths of the valley. For someone in their early thirties, they have welcomed many new people into their lives in the past; from now on, they are probably going to say goodbye to more people they know and love – unless, of course, they themselves depart first.

Writers love to talk about life and death as if it gives them more depth. Some try to sound brave about it, some seek to deconstruct death. But the more you see and experience, the less you have to say. Those who feel strongly about death should have long been tired of it all.

I think about my friends who have died. But all I could do is lie down, close my eyes, open my eyes again, paint my rearview mirror black, strap myself in, put on my helmet and move to the starting point to continue racing.

I would like to end this piece with an except from one of my novels.

“They went first, and I ran behind them, picking up the poker cards that fell out of their bouncing pockets. I always ran in the air stream they sliced open, yet I didn’t feel less wind resistance. What they did was, they crashed into every wall I would have crashed in, and fell into every ditch I would have fallen in. Then they told me, nothing wrong with the road, go right ahead. But you have used up one favour. Goodbye, my friends.”