“Do you know how to handle a machine like this?”

Whoever this crew guy was, he sure was very serious about the question—and the car.

In their identical candy apple red jumpsuits with matching helmets, the rest of the pit crew might as well be anonymous robots. This guy, lifting the dark visor from his helmet, is standing out from the crowd with his look of concern.

“This baby?” Trying not to steal a glance—or even gaze—at one of Carmine Bocci’s prized F1 Ferraris had been a trial, but now I finally give it a full-on look. “Hey, I’ve been around the block, er, the racetrack a few times. I’m sure I can handle whatever this baby throws at me.”

The crew guy nods his head, far from satisfied with that response.

“A few times isn’t enough...”

“It’s just a saying.”

“Look, this is only one of Mr. Bocci’s spare racers, but it’s still a powerful machine. If you get too excited, you’re gonna blow it—and that’ll make today bad for everyone involved.”

“I know better than to get too excited too fast.”

“That’s what you think, but you’d be surprised what can happen when you get behind the wheel of something like this.”

The crew guy stands protectively in front of the driver’s side entrance, and I make the decision to stay silent and nod until he’s done.

You’d think that fronting a loan large enough to buy this entire fucking track would be enough to get me a few minutes in the F1 with no strings attached. But this guy’s not going to stop until he’s done with his safety lecture, so it’s time to gather every last ounce of patience.

“Smooth—that’s what you’ll want to be from start to finish. Don’t hit that accelerator until you’re in the right position, then work your way up to where you want to be. Then, when the time comes, don’t be afraid to hit the brakes and ease off so you can work your way back up to where it feels right.”

“Smooth,” I repeat.

That seems to be his word, the one that’ll get me in the F1 some-fucking-time today I hope.

The crew guy nods.

“As long as you start out calm and stay smooth, it’ll feel nice and natural, and you can let yourself get excited and accelerate when the time comes.”

Flipping his visor back down, the crew guy removes himself from my path, allowing me to climb into the F1 driver’s seat.

I put on my helmet and run my gloved fingers over the galaxy of controls on the steering wheel; the focus of my entire universe narrows toward the straight stretch of track in front of me.

The muffled sound of the engine through my helmet was nothing compared to the even, steady tremors of the racer coming to life as I shift into gear.

Smooth.

The first straightaway from the start line is a fucking blur; I didn’t even see it go by. Leaning into the brakes at full force, the racer decelerates just enough for me to finesse my way around the first hairpin turn onto the next straightaway.

Nice start—but time to see what this fucking thing can do.

Upshifting just as the straightaway hits, I push the accelerator with eager passion as it revs with ferocity—like a tigress on the prowl.

A deeply powerful force pins me to the seat as I leave the usual limits of the world behind.

I’m fucking flying.

There was barely time to brake at all as the next hairpin turn approached. The racer shrieked around the bend, a little unsteadily, and it felt like I was being pushed and pulled into a half-dozen different directions until I was back on the straight track and everything righted itself.

Adrenaline gushes liberally through every fucking fiber of my being as I zip past the start line for my second lap.

Fucking A—Carmine Bocci can keep the fucking money as far as I’m concerned. This shit is what life’s all about.

Naturally, I’m not about to tell him that outright, but, fuck, the racer’s still picking up speed down the next straightaway. My heart pounds as I sail around the next turn.

After a couple of laps to warm up, I’m finally fucking driving for real.

Intuitively, I knew exactly what to do and when. I’m conducting the brakes, the accelerator, and each and every goddamn button and knob on the Ferarri Thrustmaster wheel into a magnum fucking opus of speed.

The world flies straight at me before disappearing into the dust behind my beautifully growling machine.

This is the way to move through life—not staying too long in any one spot, or in any one relationship—when there’s so much of the world to see and embrace in the limited time we have.

The engine growls louder…sexier as I accelerate to the next turn. Unfortunately, this machine isn’t really mine, and I should probably get out before it becomes too difficult to leave.

Giving full power to the brakes, I decelerate easily around the hairpin and come to a perfect stop at the checkered line.

Fucking smooth—I don’t need some crew guy to tell me how to do this shit.

The crew rushes over to the racer as I climb from the cockpit and remove my helmet.

Carmine’s standing right there in the pit, looking a little surprised to see who was under the helmet.

“That helmet suits you—I almost thought it was some veteran racer who decided to drive my car. Of course, that would’ve been a problem.”

The crew is trying to work around me, so I step a few feet closer to talk to Carmine in relative privacy.

“I hope you keep better tabs on your assets than that, Mr. Bocci.”

Carmine laughs, a bit nervously.

“It was a bit of a joke, Mr. Monatello.”

It’s clear that Bocci isn’t ready to make a payment yet.

The way my family did things in the past, that would’ve been a real problem. But that’s not the way I choose to do things.

“How much longer do you need, Carmine?”

Carmine breaks eye contact and laughs anxiously once more, with a touch of shame.

“A month and I should have it all.”

I start at the sound of a loud giggle coming from somewhere overhead—that’s not what I expected to hear right now. Looking up into the nearby stands, I notice two women.

Both of them are wearing racing jackets, and they both have blond hair whipping slightly in the breeze. They both wave as I looked over, and I wave back.

They’re racing fans, probably hanging around to see if they can catch sight of a famous driver between races. While I may not be famous, it seems like they enjoyed the show.

Carmine hasn’t noticed or maybe he knows them and doesn’t care.

“That’s fine, Carmine. I’ll see you then.”

“Oh, thank you, Marco. I...I won’t even bother to explain.”

“No need.” I really don’t care.

A shrill Woooooo from the stands make me look back up. Now that they have my attention again, both women are gesturing for me to come meet them.

“Don’t mind them,” says Carmine, “we get fans hanging around between races sometimes. But I was about to do some practice laps, if you want to get back out there and race.”

“Thanks, Carmine, but maybe some other time.” I was already on my way up to the stands.