Nr.132 - The Road is the Story

    A few hours earlier — Friday morning. Sitting in a taxi on the way to the track felt like some parallel universe. I was technically heading for a racing licence — something that should smell like control, precision, and “I’ve got my life sorted”. And yet there I was in the back of a taxi, while my own car was six kilometres away, parked up somewhere, probably having a quiet little pity party. The road to Poznań was harmless. The taxi was warm, quiet, reliable. I realised my body was reacting to every normal bit of acceleration like it didn’t trust it — as if it was asking: “Hang on… so it can move without drama?” I leaned my head against the window and stared out, and somewhere between exhaustion and adrenaline an annoying thought popped up: maybe today would actually be… easy. Luckily, day one was theory. No car needed. No starting. No chasing volts. No praying for 14. Just a classroom, rules, flags, behaviour, safety — all the stuff that makes motorsport feel like...