Pit Lane Persephone

Chapter 27: Seb (Part 1 of 2)

At the next grandstand, a spectator hands an Italian flag across the barrier to one of the marshals who then runs trackside with it. I slow and take the pole, holding it with my left hand while resting the midsection on my shoulder. As I push off again, the soft fabric unfurls behind me in its vertical green, white, and red pattern.

Riding with my country's flag makes me unexpectedly sentimental. Success at Mugello is way sweeter than any place else, and my eyes cloud with tears. The people in the stands and those watching from the fence line cheer. I pop a wheelie and they go even more nuts. Celebrating with tens of thousands of fans who came out today and are now clapping for me as I ride by feels indescribably good, but I can't wait to get back to the paddock and share the moment with the people who really matter.

Mamma. Papá. Nando. The team. The faces of all the guys who always have my back and who've helped get me here flash across my mind. Enzo. Scotty. Nigel. Even Nicola and her annoying Type-A personality. And Lauren. No. That's not right. Not and. Especially Lauren. Speeding up, I remember the last time we were alone, sharing an amazing afternoon on the drive up from Rome. I've held back all week to focus on the race, but now that it's over, I need to make sure things between us are still where we've left it.

Passing Mraz on the blue and yellow Husqvarna, I nod to the Slovak before taking turn fifteen. After entering pit lane and rolling past the open garages—with the 3Prix teams winding down for the day and the 2Prix ones preparing for their upcoming race—I pull into parc fermé.

The area reserved for the winning machines at the base of the Race Control tower is the usual post-race circus. Crew and family are crowded around the security barriers, competing for the top-three's attention against the gaggle of always-there reporters and cameras. Stopping on a giant mat marked with the number '3,' I lift my visor and swing my right leg over the seat before handing the Ducati off to Enzo. He grins and approvingly pats me on the arm.

My parents are front and center, and I rush over. Amid the throng of arms reaching for me, I go to Mamma first. She hugs me close as I rest my head on her shoulder, and I squeeze my eyes shut for a second to appreciate the moment. Papá is less gentle, wrapping one arm around my neck while tapping the back of my helmet with his free hand.

A tug on my waist makes me turn. Behind me, Nicola nods toward a reporter on the adjacent side of the barrier. I grit my teeth. Duty calls.

Opening the Velcro on my gloves as I walked over, I have them off and am working on my chinstrap when the brunette asks the first question. Over the simultaneous cheers from the grandstand, announcements from the loudspeaker, and yells from the immediate crowd, it's impossible to make out her exact words, but I definitely hear something about a second-half comeback and podium finish. After pulling off my helmet and tucking the gloves inside, I muss up my sweat-soaked hair.

"Today was a very tough race for sure, but I pushed through for my home crowd and I am very happy with the result," I say into the fuzzy, yellow microphone thrust into my face.

The reporter frowns at the generic answer and opens her mouth for a follow-up, but Nicola pulls me away. Thank god. She may not be my favorite person, but at least she's good at her job. But the journalist isn't wrong, either. While my response was truthful, I know the words are complete fluff. The thing is, I don't care. As the adrenaline wears off, I'm growing more tired by the minute, and I still have the whole podium ceremony and press conference to get through.

The Magister guys duck into the building ahead of us. As I take out my earplugs, Nicola also ushers me inside. Nando is waiting at the door and after a quick bro-hug, takes my helmet in exchange for a Dunlop-branded cap and plastic Max Rate water bottle.