I wasn't his fan. I was never his fan. I'm the fan of the guy who had a big fall-out with him.

    Yet the pain was so real that it's almost impossible to bear, especially in the first few hours.

    I guess the only good thing about this race being in Malaysia is that I could have hours between the race and bed time. If the race had been held in Europe, it might've become a sleepless night.

    I wasn't really watching my screen when it happened. But Gavin and Nick cried and I looked up only to see Colin and Vale out in the gravel. Then there was him, lying there, motionlessly.

    In that split of a second, part of me knew that the worst could happen. Because Colin was walking, obviously in pain though, Vale rode away, and he was just lying there on his face, on the track.

    But that was just for that one moment. I guess I just refused to think the worst could happen.

    So I chose to believe those tweets about him being conscious. And I was just forcing myself to think that nothing serious will happen to him, he will just be in bed for a couple of days or weeks, miss the VAL round and test, and come back next February, on that RC213V he just tested a few days ago, and being the pain in the ass for some other riders.

    I was waiting for the replay and I waited for a long time. That was another bad sign. Was it because the scene was too horrible to be replayed? Plus the mentioning of his helmet falling off on twitter which I failed to notice in the live feed of the accident, bad feelings rose again. But again, I forced it back, and kept telling myself that it wouldn't be THAT unfair to him.

    Then came the replay, and I saw Colin and Vale hit him. And of course once again, I convinced myself that everything was gonna be OK no matter how ugly it looked.

    Then came the cancellation of the race.


    When I first saw the subtitle I was hoping that my English would be in such a mess that I misunderstood the announcement. But Gavin and Nick tried so hard to finally squeeze out that the worst worst thing had happened.

    I guess I was calm enough to snap a picture and to post it in two places, though I was already crying.

    In those previous events with Peter Lenz, Shoya Tomizawa and Dan Wheldon, I was sad, and I wrote a few words, I read and watched tributes with tears in my eyes, and I knew I would remember them, especially Peter and Shoya, forever. But this time, I realized it was nothing. I couldn't really pay tribute to those guys because I didn't really follow their races. I thought I could at least summarize something this time because at least I followed him racing for 17 months.

    I was wrong.

    My hands were on the keyboard and nothing could be typed down.

    Those words I came up so easily before failed me this time. I mean, I knew about him, shouldn't I be saying something unique, something that was more HIM?!

    But all those things about him, about his characters, about his racing styles, about his season, about his career, shouldn't it be summarized more carefully?!

    I guess that was the feeling of speechless.

    All I could do was just posting pictures of him before the race, on the podium and stating the fact. Nothing more. Nothing more than RIP SuperSic.

    The idea of "It's him", "No more chance of seeing him" sank in slowly. Bit by bit, the loss seemed more and more real. This time it wasn't just a name, it wasn't just a tragedy for the motorsport world, it wasn't the change you can barely feel. This time, it was the tallest man in this class, it was the heaviest man in this class, it was the man with the hair you'll never fail to notice in the class photo, it was the man from the team with cute snack food as the title sponsor, it was the man who you saw crashed out when leading, it was the man who almost everybody was accusing in the paddock, it was the man who said "I will be arrest", it was the man who presented the breath taking battles in the most recent boring races.

    And that man, will never be in the paddock again.

    In May and June, when he kept crashing out of races, taking others with him or only ruining his own races, those journalists said he was a future star, a future champion, if he learned to manage his race to the chequered flag.

    And those were the words bouncing in my head over and over again that night, in the first few hours after the accident. A future star, a future champion. Yet that future had ended before it could even started.

    I was afraid I would see words like that, so at first I couldn't find the courage to read any of article about him.

    I'd rather see moments of his life he actually lived, not those shoulda, woulda, coulda.

    The next day was a clear day. The sun was so bright. But it just couldn't shine into my gloomy heart.

    I thought I could sleep it off, but it was more like a hangover. When I woke up, it didn't get any better, and I realized even if you shed tears silently, your throat would still hurt afterwards.

    Again, I wasn't his fan, but it already hurts so much. Every time I thought about that moment I saw the announcement, every time I thought about the paddock without him, every time I thought about that in less than two weeks' time the show will go on without him, my heart ached. If it was already so hard for me to deal with this tragedy, what about his fans, what about the people who have been following his race since the 250s or 125s, what about the people in the paddock, what about the people in his teams, what about his family. I can only imagine it to be ten times, hundreds of times more.

    What's ironic is that it was his family who took the hit the hardest way that cheered the others up. What his parents and girlfriend said actually gave me the strength to face it positively, to realize it's time to celebrate his life which he lived so fully and passionately and not to mourn his death, at least not in the sad way.

    This is the first time for me to lose someone who I once had so many vivid memories of. And it happened so fast, it happened right in front of my eyes. All those talks about motorsport being dangerous were not something I wasn't familiar with. But those talks never made sense the way it does right now. People in the paddock and their relatives have been around this sport long enough to know exactly what kind of risks they're taking and how to handle the situation. For me, I hate to learn this because I don't want to face it anymore, but I'll have to.

    For he would've wanted everyone to move on and to keep enjoy motorsport.

    He was colorful, vibrant, and full of life, they said.

    He kept the throttle wide open until the very end, they said

    His bike may be missing from the grid, but his spirit races on, they said.

    It's been 97 hours, but it seemed like a very long time. Too many things happened, and too many changes happened in my mindset. I'd rather believe I became stronger in some ways.

    He will be buried tonight (afternoon in Europe) with his friends and family around him, and tens and thousands of fans watching. But I'm sure, he will live on forever as the rider who made the paddock a better place in our heart, and he will be at every circuit with his fellow riders and us, motorsport fans.