The roar of the bikes echoed throughout the paddock, a symphony of engines that made the ground vibrate beneath my feet. The Tuscan sun beat down on the asphalt, reflecting off the fairings of the red Ducatis that dominated the pit lane. Among them, the most imposing was number 93.

Leaning against the wall of the Ducati box, I watched Marc adjust his gloves with his typical fierce concentration. His eyes, hidden behind the visor of his helmet, barely strayed from their objective: the track. But before he climbed onto the bike, he gave me one of those quick smiles, which only I knew well.

“Ready to watch me give a lecture?” His tone was pure confidence, with that defiant glint that made him so addictive.

I rolled my eyes, feigning disinterest, although my heart was pounding.

—If you don't give me a good show, I'll change teams. —I stuck my tongue out at him, provoking him.

He laughed and leaned slightly towards me, as if he were going to tell me a secret.

—Not even if you tried. —He lowered his voice, saying the sentence with the confidence of someone who always wins.

A mechanic made a sign to him. It was time. Marc climbed into his Desmosedici with the ease of someone who has been taming 300 km/h beasts for years. The engine roared, the pit lane opened and in an instant, the legend was in his natural habitat.