Chasing The Last Lap

Fragile Wings And Distant Tracks

MARCO

The alarm was weak, a thin buzz that barely stirred Marco from a sleep riddled with aches and the soft echoes of dreams. He lay in the single bed of the motel, muscles stiff, kidneys pulsing with the faint reminder of mortality that had become a constant companion. Yet beneath the frailty, a spark burned bright. Today, he would resume the pilgrimage, no matter how weary or broken he felt. The next race awaited, and he would be there. Rising slowly, he stretched, feeling the careful give and resistance of his joints, the subtle protest of his back. Every movement was calculated, measured, a negotiation with a body that had grown fragile over decades of life and the insidious march of kidney failure. Yet the mind remained sharp, alert, filled with anticipation. Every ache, every twitch, every flutter of nausea was a reminder of how precious this journey was.

He packed meticulously, lining up clothes, notebooks, snacks, and the small vial of medication that kept his condition manageable. He double-checked dialysis arrangements, cross-referencing the list his doctor had prepared a chain of local hospitals and clinics across cities, each aware of his arrival, each ready to treat him with precision. Even as a man who lived under the shadow of illness, he moved with the confidence of purpose, as though the world itself would bend to allow his pilgrimage. As he folded his jacket, a memory surfaced unbidden, soft and persistent: his late wife, Elena, smiling as she waved him off on one of his earlier MotoGP chases, long before illness had worn him down. Her laughter, her gentle teasing, the way she had brushed his hair back from his forehead when he left home with a grin too eager to be contained. She had understood his obsession, had indulged it, had even laughed at the quixotic madness of a man chasing engines and speed like a boy forever enthralled.

Marco paused, hand on the folded jacket, and closed his eyes. He could see her, could hear her voice. 

Go, my love. Watch them all. Feel every roar. Don't let the world stop you. 

The ache of loss pierced his chest, sharp and tender, but it was tempered by gratitude. She had given him permission to chase this dream, to live fully in these moments of devotion, to embrace the chaos and the joy of being present. He adjusted the strap of his worn leather bag and pushed open the door. The hallway smelled faintly of bleach and old carpet, but to Marco, it was nothing. Outside, the city hummed lazily, indifferent to the pilgrimage of a single, determined man. He hailed a taxi with careful deliberation, speaking softly to the driver, ensuring directions, confirming stops. Every detail mattered not just travel, but survival, comfort, continuity.

The journey began slowly, the familiar rhythm of buses, trains, and waiting areas. Every mile, every stop, every hiccup in timing was a small adventure, a testament to endurance. Marco's legs ached, his back protested, his lungs reminded him of fragility but his heart lifted with each passing city, each glimpse of racetrack signage, each subtle scent of fuel and rubber that reminded him he was moving toward purpose. During a layover in a small, sunbaked station, he found a bench in the shade and closed his eyes briefly. The chatter of travelers, the announcements over crackling speakers, the shouts of vendors selling snacks and newspapers it all blurred into a symphony of motion. Marco allowed his mind to wander, drifting into memories of Elena once more.

He remembered a rainy evening, the smell of wet asphalt mixed with her perfume, as she had insisted on walking with him to the bus station before one of his early races. 

"I want to see the madness before you disappear into it," she had said, hand tucked into his. 

The memory was warm, bittersweet, tinged with the ache of absence. Yet it was also motivating. She had given him this love, this freedom, this insistence on following passion no matter the cost. By the time the sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the station, Marco was back in motion, boarding a bus that would take him closer to the race city. His body complained, kidneys twinged, legs cramped but the joy of motion, the anticipation of arriving, kept him upright, resolute. Every mile carried him closer to engines, flags, the roar of tarmac and throttle. Every mile reminded him of life, of choice, of the relentless pursuit of dreams.

He leaned back in the bus seat, glancing out at the horizon, watching shadows stretch across the plains, feeling the wind whip at the edges of open windows. Around him, travelers slept, read, whispered, lived their own fragmented lives. But Marco's world was singular. The upcoming race, the young racer he had noticed at the first event Alex Marini occupied his thoughts in ways he couldn't articulate. The boy's fire, his persistence, his struggle against inherited shadows... it resonated with Marco's own life. As dusk fell, he scribbled notes in his travel notebook: reminders of medical stops, check-ins with local hospitals, route adjustments, fuel and food provisions. But between the logistical details, he wrote observations. 

"Alex... focus... fourth place isn't defeat, but every wobble, every corner tells a story. Watch the apex. Learn from the young ones who fight the impossible."

He smiled faintly, alone in the bus, the vibrations of the road thrumming beneath him like a heartbeat. Elena's memory mingled with anticipation, the past and present coalescing into a quiet, fragile joy. Despite the body's betrayals, despite illness, despite fatigue, Marco felt alive. He was moving. He was witnessing. He was participating, even from the sidelines, in the narrative of life and speed and devotion that had carried him from a boy in a small Italian village to this man, fragile but unbroken, racing alongside time and memory. The night settled in, and he dozed lightly, dreaming briefly of engines, of Victor Marini shaking his hand long ago, of flags snapping in wind, of Alex carving corners with the fury and precision of someone determined to be seen. And when he awoke, it was with the same resolve he had carried for decades: he would be there. He would witness. He would endure. And every mile, every turn, every moment of fatigue and risk would be worth it.

Because for Marco, the journey wasn't merely about seeing the race it was about being alive enough to remember, to love, to connect with life in its rawest, most glorious form. Fragile, yes. Human, absolutely. But devoted. Always.