It’s February 1st, the heart of winter, but here in Zagreb, Croatia, the chill feels refreshing, not harsh. The snow doesn’t blanket the streets, just dusts the corners of old cobblestone roads and the edges of rooftops. The air is crisp, carrying the faint aroma of roasted chestnuts from a nearby vendor.

Lewis Hamilton strolls through the narrow streets, bundled in a dark, minimalist winter coat, his scarf loose around his neck. No paparazzi. No flashing lights. Just the quiet hum of a city he’s never really known. That’s the beauty of these hidden corners of the world—peaceful anonymity.

As he rounds a corner, his eyes catch a simple, battered sign: “Karting Area – 50m.”

A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. Of course. Some habits never fade. Curiosity wins. He heads in.

The karting arena is indoors, faintly lit with overhead fluorescents buzzing softly. The smell of rubber, oil, and faint exhaust fills the air—a nostalgic cocktail. Lewis leans casually against a metal pillar, folding his arms, his sharp gaze scanning the small track.

The karts zip by—kids, teenagers, all hungry to win. There’s one kid dominating the track, smooth and aggressive, every corner calculated. But that’s not where Lewis’s attention lingers. No, his eyes lock onto the kart struggling in the back. The one that’s spun out twice already. The driver’s helmet tilts slightly after each mistake, frustration evident even through body language. But they keep going. Every lap, every stumble—they’re still in the race.

Lewis doesn’t smile. He just watches, his expression unreadable, but there’s a fire in his eyes. Because this—that relentless persistence—is what makes a champion. Not the kid flying at the front, but the one who refuses to quit. Speed, perfect lap times and winning corners are easy when everything's perfect. But it's precisely those with perfection that fall first. Kids like this, stay in the game.