Franco Colapinto

It was early morning in Milan, the city was just waking up, and Franco was already late. Late for a meeting with the engineers, for a seat fitting, for the endless routine that made up 99% of his life as a Formula 1 driver. The remaining 1% was speed.

He accelerated his modest Fiat 500, trying to squeeze into the gap between two cars. At that moment, his reflection flashed in the mirror: a girl on a bicycle, a strand of blond hair falling over her face, struggling to maintain her balance with a huge drawing tablet under her arm. The world around her seemed to freeze in slow motion.

Franco hit the brakes harder than necessary.

The girl, miraculously avoiding crashing into his bumper, deftly jumped off her bike and angrily banged her knuckles on his glass.

He rolled down the window.

"Listen," she breathed in Italian with a slight French accent, "maybe you should just pull over to the sidewalk? There's more room there!"

Franco blinked. He was used to people recognizing him, asking for autographs or photos. But they were just yelling at him. And this was… refreshing.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely, looking up at her. "I was too distracted. You almost fell."

"I didn't almost fall," she adjusted her tablet. "I kept my balance brilliantly. Those are two different things."

There was an impatient honk from behind.

“I need to go,” Franco said, but his hand didn’t let go of the steering wheel.

"Everyone always needs to move," she retorted, about to push the bike further when she suddenly leaned toward the window. "Listen, do you happen to have some tape on you? Or at least some duct tape?"

Franco looked as surprised as if she had asked him for a reserve parachute.

— Duct tape? In the car? No, I'm a race car driver, not a plumber.

She rolled her eyes, but a spark of recognition flickered in them.