Part III: Resonance — Chapter 1
The Echos
The Same Track, Different Days
ABU DHABI, 2024 – 4:30 PM
The sun hung low over Yas Marina, bathing the circuit in a golden haze that softened its clinical edges. Alexander walked alongside Ricci, their pace unhurried as they navigated Turn 1, the track still warm beneath their feet. The mechanics would be finalising setup changes back in the garage; this walk was ostensibly about setup implications for FP1 for tomorrow, ride heights, cambers, curb changes, but I suspected it was also about something more.
I watched from a respectful distance. Alexander had granted me rare access to this pre-race ritual, though with the understanding that I’d observe rather than intrude. The championship hung in the balance once again, with Alexander leading by eight points after the mechanical failure in Qatar. Another Abu Dhabi showdown, another final race decider. The symmetry was almost too perfect.
“This is where it started to go wrong,” Alexander said quietly as they reached Turn 3, the fast right-hander where the first signs of tyre degradation had appeared in 2021.
Ricci nodded, his normally expressive face unusually contemplative. “Different car now. Different tyres. Different Alexander.”
“Same Max though,” Alexander replied with a wry smile. “Same hunger.”
I saw him slow his pace, eyes sweeping across the tarmac as if reading invisible messages left there three years prior. For a moment, he seemed to be in two places at once: preparing for the championship of 2024 and the devastated runner-up of 2021.
“It’s strange being back here like this,” Alexander continued, running the bottom of his shoe along the top of the exit curb of Turn 7. “Every corner has these… echoes. I can remember exactly how the car felt through here on those hard tyres, fighting for grip.”
Ricci’s face softened. I’d interviewed him extensively about that 2021 race, about the hollowing sense of injustice that had swept through the Ferrari garage as the safety car decisions unfolded. His passionate Italian temperament had made him less guarded than Alexander in discussing that day. Now, watching them walk the scene of triumph turned disaster, I could see how that shared history had cemented their partnership.
“You were perfect that day,” Ricci said, his accent thickening with emotion. “Perfect. The world knows this.”
Alexander shook his head slightly. “Not perfect enough.”
They paused at the approach to Turn 9, where Alexander had attempted his desperate countermove on Verstappen in those final moments of 2021. The memory seemed to hover in the air between them.
“I should have braked five metres later, carried more speed through the apex,” Alexander said, eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance. “I’ve replayed it a thousand times.”
“And tomorrow?” Ricci asked.
Alexander’s gaze refocused, a slight smile forming. “Tomorrow is different,” he replied. “The mathematics are on our side. We don’t need to win - we just need to be smart. Max is the one who has to take all the risks.”
Ricci nodded, a mixture of pride and caution in his expression. “Eight point margin is good, but not guaranteed. We stay vigilant, yes?”
“Always,” Alexander agreed, already moving toward the next corner.
They continued walking, and I noticed how Alexander’s gait had subtly shifted. More assured, less burdened. The Qatar DNF could have shattered another driver’s confidence, but Alexander seemed to have metabolised the disappointment into quiet determination.
As they approached the final sector, where the track winds beneath the illuminated Yas Hotel, Ricci broke the companionable silence.
“When you did not speak on the radio after the chequered flag in 2021, I was…” he hesitated, searching for the right word. “Scared. For you.”
Alexander glanced at his engineer, surprise briefly crossing his features. “I didn’t know that.”
“Your silence, it was so loud,” Ricci continued, gesturing expressively. “In that moment, I feel like I failed you. The team failed you.”
“No one failed me,” Alexander replied firmly. “The circumstances were just… what they were.”
They stopped at the final corner, looking down the main straight toward the finish line. The same stretch of tarmac that had witnessed both the cruellest disappointment of Alexander’s career and soon, potentially, its greatest redemption.
“It feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago simultaneously,” Alexander said, his voice quiet enough that I had to strain to hear it. “I was a different person then.”
Ricci’s hand came to rest on Alexander’s shoulder, the touch conveying more than words could. “Yes, but this person now? He is stronger because of then. The echo, it makes the music more beautiful, no?”
Alexander smiled, a genuine expression that reached his eyes. “Let’s make some new echoes tomorrow.”
As they turned to head back to the paddock, I caught a glimpse of Alexander’s face in profile against the setting sun. The composed mask he showed the world remained firmly in place, but there was something different in his eyes. Not just determination, but a kind of peace. Whatever happened tomorrow, he had already conquered the ghosts of 2021 simply by returning to face them on his own terms.
The same track, the same final race showdown, the same rival. But the Alexander Macalister walking these sixteen corners was a man transformed by the journey between then and now. The echoes remained, but they no longer defined him.
The Preparations
ABU DHABI, 2021 – 10:00 AM
Alexander’s hotel suite was bathed in the gentle light of a desert morning, the curtains drawn just enough to filter the brightness to a manageable glow.
“Same routine as always,” Adamo instructed, his voice steady as he guided Alexander through the first mobility exercises.
Alexander nodded, his movements deliberate yet mechanical. He hadn’t slept well. That much was evident in the shadows beneath his eyes. The championship hung in the balance, level on points with Verstappen, and the weight of expectation from an entire nation of tifosi pressed upon his shoulders.
“Hydration levels good?” Adamo asked, scrutinising the data on his tablet.
“Within parameters,” Alexander replied, the technical language a comfort, a retreat into the measurable when emotions threatened to become unwieldy.
I noted how his gaze repeatedly drifted to his phone on the bedside table, though he never reached for it. Later, Amy would tell me he’d been fighting the urge to check social media predictions, something he normally avoided with monk-like discipline.
A knock at the door announced the arrival of breakfast. The same precisely calculated combination of protein, complex carbohydrates, and micronutrients that preceded every race. The same china cup filled with the same carefully brewed coffee. The rituals of normality in the face of extraordinary pressure.
“What are you thinking?” Adamo asked, breaking protocol to address the elephant in the room.
Alexander’s hand hesitated, coffee cup midway to his mouth. “That this might be the only chance I ever get,” he said quietly, the rare vulnerability startling in its rawness.
ABU DHABI, 2024 – 10:15 AM
The morning light in Alexander’s suite looked identical, the desert sun casting familiar patterns through the half-drawn curtains. Three years had passed, but the room’s geography hadn’t shifted. The bed still pressed against the same wall, the same muted view of white sand and quiet sea stretching beyond the balcony.
Adamo moved through the space with the same methodical efficiency, setting out the familiar equipment for their pre-race preparation. The physical choreography was identical, a perfect recreation of the scene the room and rooms like it have witnessed over the years. Like a stage play of well rehearsed actors.
Yet something fundamental had shifted.
Alexander sat cross-legged on the floor, completing his breathing exercises with eyes closed, his posture relaxed yet alert. Adamo clued me in that the tension that had vibrated through him in 2021 was conspicuously absent, despite the similar stakes.
“How did you sleep?” Adamo asked, though the answer was evident in Alexander’s clear eyes and composed demeanour.
“Like the dead,” Alexander replied with a slight smile. “Straight through until the alarm.”
I watched him move through the same mobility exercises as three years before, the physical actions identical but the intention behind them transformed. Where before there had been rigid adherence, now there was fluidity. Where there had been nervous energy barely contained, now there was focused calm.
His phone remained untouched on the nightstand, not through forced discipline but genuine disinterest. When breakfast arrived, he ate with unhurried appreciation rather than mechanical necessity.
“What are you thinking?” Adamo asked, echoing his question from years before, though now it seemed born of curiosity rather than concern.
Alexander considered the question, his gaze clear. “That whatever happens today is not the end, just another part of the journey.”
Adamo’s eyes met mine briefly, a wordless communication passing between us. “Same driver,” he would tell me later, “different human being.”
ENGINEERING ROOM, 2021 – 2:00 PM
The Ferrari engineering room hummed with tightly controlled tension. Monitors displayed endless streams of data, simulations running through countless permutations of strategy and scenarios. The red-clad engineers moved with purpose, their voices hushed as if excess volume might somehow disturb the delicate balance of probability.
Alexander arrived precisely on schedule, dressed in team kit, his expression giving away nothing of the earlier vulnerability Adamo witnessed. He greeted each team member individually, a ritual he never skipped regardless of pressure.
Ricci looked up from his station, his expressive face unable to fully mask his anxiety. “We have run every scenario,” he said, his accent thickening as it always did under stress. “The car is as perfect as is possible. You just drive like Alexander Macalister, yes?”
Alexander nodded, scanning the data screens with that remarkable focus that seemed to enable him to absorb information at superhuman speeds. “The medium tyre in the first stint—” he began, immediately diving into technical minutiae.
Ricci observed the subtle signs that only those who knew him well would recognise: the slightly too-rigid posture, the microscopic hesitation before each decision, the way his questions sought confirmation rather than exploration. The technical discussion provided refuge from the emotional weight of what lay ahead.
When Fred Vasseur entered, the energy shifted. The team principal had a gift for reading the emotional temperature of his team. He placed a hand on Alexander’s shoulder, speaking too quietly for anyone to hear. Alexander’s posture relaxed fractionally, a silent exhale releasing some of the pressure.
“We focus on our race,” Alexander said to the assembled team as the meeting concluded. “One lap at a time.”
The words were perfect, exactly what a championship contender should say. But beneath them lurked the unspoken: this might be my only shot.
ENGINEERING ROOM, 2024 – 2:15 PM
The same room, the same banks of monitors, the same red-clad engineers. The same championship hanging in the balance. Even the simulation running on the main screen showed a similar weather prediction: clear skies, cooling temperatures as the desert sun set.
But the atmosphere had undergone a subtle transformation. The tension remained (this was still Formula 1, still a title decider) but it had a different quality. More focused, less frenetic. More purposeful, less anxious.
Alexander’s entrance was identical in timing but different in energy. He still greeted each team member individually, but the interactions carried the easy familiarity of shared battle. When he reached Ricci, the Italian engineer smiled, the lines around his eyes crinkling.
“Like old times, eh?” Ricci said.
Alexander permitted himself a small laugh. “I hope not exactly like old times!
Ricci watched him scan the data screens with the same remarkable focus, but now his questions probed deeper, explored alternatives rather than seeking reassurance. He wasn’t looking for confirmation that the strategy would work; he was looking for ways to make it even better.
“What if we extend the first stint?” he suggested, pointing to a simulation parameter. “Max will expect us to cover him. If we stay out longer, we create options.”
The technical discussion flowed with an energy that felt collaborative rather than defensive. When Fred entered this time, Alexander was already in motion, explaining his thinking on the strategy wall.
As the meeting concluded, Alexander gathered the team with the same words as three years before: “We focus on our race. One lap at a time.”
But this time, the subtext was transformed. Not ‘this might be my only shot,’ but ‘I know exactly what needs to be done.’
“In 2021, he was trying not to lose a championship,” Ricci told me later. “Now, he was simply ready to win one. Same words, same actions, but…” he tapped his chest over his heart, “different here. Same driver, different human being, I think.”
Elkann’s Echo
ABU DHABI, 2021 – 4:30 PM
The Ferrari hospitality area hummed with the controlled chaos that precedes any race, amplified by the championship-deciding gravity of the occasion. Team members moved with heightened purpose, their red uniforms creating streaks of colour against the sterile white interior.
I’d positioned myself discreetly in a corner, having negotiated limited access through Fred Vasseur. This was not a day for interviews, but rather for observation. For capturing the human moments behind the machinery of Formula 1.
John Elkann’s arrival caused a subtle ripple through the room. The Ferrari Chairman commanded attention not through volume or theatrics, but through the quiet authority that seemed woven into his bespoke suit. He acknowledged various team members with brief nods as he made his way toward the private room where Alexander was completing his final mental preparations.
When Alexander emerged fifteen minutes later, I caught a glimpse of something I rarely saw in his composed features: an emotional rawness quickly masked but unmistakably present. Whatever had transpired in that room had pierced his carefully maintained equilibrium.
Later, as Alexander made his way toward the garage for final preparations, I found myself unexpectedly alone with Elkann for a brief moment.
“May I ask what you said to him?” I ventured, expecting polite deflection.
Elkann considered me with measured assessment before responding. “I reminded him that regardless of today’s outcome, he has already honored Ferrari with his commitment and character.” He adjusted his tie with precise movements. “Sometimes young men need permission to see beyond a single moment, however significant it appears.”
There was something paternal in his tone that transcended the typical team owner-driver dynamic, a quality that seemed particularly meaningful for a young man who had lost his father at such a formative age.
“Do you think he’s ready?” I asked.
Elkann’s expression remained neutral, but his eyes softened almost imperceptibly. “Alexander has been preparing for this moment since he was fourteen years old. But readiness and outcome are not always aligned in this sport.” He glanced toward the garage where Alexander had disappeared. “What matters is that he drives as himself, not as who he thinks he should be.”
As Elkann moved away to join Fred and other senior team members, I reflected on the weight those words must carry coming from him, the man who had ensured Alexander’s place at Ferrari after his father’s death, who had witnessed his transformation from orphaned teenager to championship contender.
ABU DHABI, 2024 – 4:35 PM
The same hospitality suite, the same pre-race energy, even the same desert light filtering through the windows. The sense of déjà vu was powerful enough that for a moment, I could have believed the intervening years were merely an elaborate dream.
John Elkann arrived with the same measured presence, dressed in another impeccably tailored suit, acknowledging the same team members with the same reserved warmth. The choreography was so familiar that I found myself anticipating his next movements: the turn toward the private room, the subtle gesture requesting privacy.
But this time, when Alexander emerged fifteen minutes later, the difference was striking. Where before I had glimpsed vulnerability quickly masked, now I saw a centered calm. Not the absence of emotion, but rather its complete integration. He nodded to Ricci, exchanged a quick word with Amy, then headed toward the garage with unhurried purpose.
Once again, I found myself briefly alone with Elkann.
“Different circumstances from last time,” I observed.
“And yet, remarkably similar,” he replied, his gaze following Alexander’s departing figure. “Three years ago, he was defending a fragile lead. Today, he approaches with a cushion of points. The math is different, but the challenge remains the same .”
“What did you tell him this time?” I asked, curious whether his approach had changed to match Alexander’s evolution.
Elkann’s expression remained characteristically measured. “I reminded him that regardless of today’s outcome, he has already honoured Ferrari with his commitment and character,” he said, the echo of his words from 2021 unmistakable. “And that what matters is that he drives as himself, not as who he thinks he should be.”
The words were virtually identical, yet something told me they had landed differently. “The same advice as 2021,” I noted.
“The same words,” Elkann corrected gently. “But I suspect Alexander hears them differently now.” He straightened his tie before continuing. “Three years ago, those words were a permission to fail. Today, they are a reminder of who he already knows himself to be.”
As Elkann moved away, I reflected on how the same wisdom from the same mentor could resonate so differently depending on who was receiving it. The words hadn’t changed, but Alexander had. Transformed not just by success and failure, but by the gradual, hard-won integration of all his experiences.
In 2021, Elkann’s words had been a lifeline to a young man terrified of disappointing both himself and the Ferrari family that had embraced him. In 2024, they were an affirmation of a journey already traveled, regardless of what the next few hours might bring.
As I watched Alexander through the glass wall, now seated in his car with that familiar focused expression, I understood that the echo wasn’t just in Elkann’s words, but in Alexander himself. The boy he had been and the man he had become, separated by time yet connected by the thread of who he was always meant to be.
The Grid and the Start
ABU DHABI, 2021 – 4:55 PM
Grid position two. Yas Marina Circuit. Abu Dhabi Grand Prix.
The late afternoon sun hung low over the circuit, casting long shadows across the track as the cars lined up on the grid. Alexander could feel the desert heat radiating through his race suit, though he knew the temperature would gradually ease as daylight faded. Through his visor, he glimpsed the distinctive outline of the Yas Hotel in the distance, its LED mesh not yet illuminated against the still-bright sky.
I watched from the Ferrari garage as the grid emptied of all but the most essential personnel. The pageantry was complete. The national anthem performed, the celebrities ushered away, the television cameras repositioned for the start. Now came the moment of truth that all the preparation, all the simulation, all the strategy meetings had been building toward.
Alexander’s Ferrari positioned aside but behind Max Verstappen’s Red Bull. Two cars at the front of the grid, separated by mere metres of tarmac and a thin ribbon of championship points. The perfect narrative conclusion to a season of extraordinary drama.
The mechanics performed their final adjustments before retreating. Now Alexander sat alone in his carbon fibre cocoon, surrounded by chaos yet perfectly isolated from it.
Twenty-six degrees ambient temperature. Thirty-four on the track surface. Humidity at sixty percent.
Numbers. Always numbers.
Through the team radio feed, I heard Ricci’s voice: “Remember, we are racing our race, Alexander. Our race.”
“Understood.” Three syllables that revealed nothing of the pressure he must have been feeling.
From this distance, Alexander appeared completely still within the cockpit, a stark contrast to the frantic energy around him. No nervous adjustments, no last-minute fidgeting. Just the measured rise and fall of his chest beneath the Ferrari red.
One minute to the formation lap. The grid cleared further. Engineers retreated to the pitwall.
Through the radio feed, I heard Alexander’s final exchanges with the team. Technical adjustments, mode settings, start procedures. His voice remained steady, clinical, betraying none of the stakes involved.
Then silence.
The formation lap began. Twenty cars pulled away in sequence, embarking on their parade lap before returning to their grid slots. The countdown to the defining moment of the season had truly begun.
When the cars reassembled on the grid, I studied Alexander’s Ferrari through the TV feed. Position perfect, angled marginally toward the inside line into Turn 1. A driver planning his attack rather than his defence, despite the championship implications.
Five lights illuminated in sequence above the grid.
The world held its breath.
Lights out.
Twenty throttles opened simultaneously, unleashing a symphony of engineered power. Verstappen’s getaway was good, but Alexander’s was sublime. His reaction time was fractionally better, his launch perfectly calibrated. As they surged toward Turn 1, the Ferrari edged alongside the Red Bull, Alexander positioning his car with aggressive precision.
Max defended the racing line, but Alexander held his nerve, braking later and carrying more speed through the apex. For a heart-stopping moment, the two championship contenders ran wheel to wheel, separated by centimeters of desert air. Then, with characteristic authority, Alexander completed the move on the exit, claiming the racing line and with it, the lead.
The maneuver was executed with such clinical perfection it appeared almost inevitable. No drama, no contact, just racing craft of the highest order. Alexander had taken command of the race from its opening seconds, establishing both physical and psychological advantage.
From the Ferrari garage came restrained celebrations. Fists clenched, shoulders clapped, but focus maintained. This was only the beginning of a long battle. Alexander had won the opening skirmish, but the war stretched out for fifty-seven more laps.
Watching Alexander’s perfect start and decisive overtake, I couldn’t help but wonder: was he driving to win a championship, or simply to extract the maximum from himself and his machinery? The distinction seemed important, though I couldn’t yet articulate why.
ABU DHABI, 2024 – 4:55 PM
Grid position two. Yas Marina Circuit. Abu Dhabi Grand Prix.
The same golden late-afternoon sunlight gradually yielding to floodlights. The same circuit transforming from natural daylight to artificial illumination as the race progressed. The same Yas Hotel structure that would begin to glow its distinctive blue against the darkening sky as dusk fell. The grid cleared in identical fashion, celebrities and dignitaries retreating to their air-conditioned hospitality suites.
Three years had passed, yet Alexander’s Ferrari once again sat across and behind Max Verstappen’s Red Bull on the front row. The symmetry was almost eerie. The same position on the same stretch of tarmac, with a championship again hanging in the balance.
The conditions were nearly identical. Twenty-four degrees ambient temperature. Thirty-four on the track surface. Humidity at sixty-two percent.
But everything else had changed.
As in 2021, in the moments leading up to the formation lap, Max had approached Alexander before getting strapped in. But this time, their exchange was different. Max leaned in said something that made Alexander nod, then both drivers shared what appeared to be a genuine laugh. A startling moment of lightness amid the championship tension.
Later, I would ask Max about this exchange. “I told him to remember our iRacing battle last Tuesday, because he owes me a rematch when this is over,” Max explained with a grin. “Some things are bigger than championships, you know?”
From my position in the Ferrari garage, I studied Alexander through the multiple TV feeds. His physical posture in the car appeared identical to 2021. The same stillness, the same measured breathing. Yet something intangible had shifted. Not confidence exactly, but clarity.
“Mode 4,” came Ricci’s voice through the radio feed. “Battery optimal. Remember, today we are controlling, not chasing.”
“Understood. Let’s make it count.” Alexander’s response carried a warmth absent from 2021’s clinical acknowledgments.
The global TV feed showed a shot of Ferrari in the foreground and Red Bull in the background. Heat haze ripping through the sponsor’s logos. Max’s helmet suggested he was looking in his mirrors at Alexander. Alexander was intently focused on the apex in T1.
The grid emptied further. Engineers retreated to the pitwall. The same choreography as three years before.
Alexander’s final radio exchanges remained focused on technical details, but even here, a subtle shift was evident. Where 2021’s communication had been purely reactive (acknowledging instructions, confirming settings) now he actively shaped the conversation, questioning, suggesting, collaborating. The voice of a champion rather than a challenger.
When silence fell, I wondered what thoughts occupied Alexander’s mind behind that composed expression. Was he replaying the heartbreak of 2021? Calculating overtaking opportunities? Or was he in that state of perfect presence that elite athletes describe? Where past and future dissolve, leaving only the immediate moment?
The formation lap began. Twenty cars pulled away, following the same path around the circuit as they had in 2021, returning to identical grid positions.
Back on the grid, Alexander’s Ferrari was positioned with the same precision as before, angled toward the inside line. A driver planning his attack rather than his defence, despite the championship implications.
Five lights illuminated in sequence.
This time, my focus remained entirely on Alexander. Not on the championship mathematics or the surrounding drama, but on the human being inside that machine, poised at the intersection of his past and future.
Lights out.
The start unfolded with uncanny similarity to 2021. Verstappen’s launch was clinical, Alexander’s matching it perfectly. They surged toward Turn 1 separated by the same margin as before, the Red Bull leading, the Ferrari shadowing.
But where 2021’s Alexander had been driving with the weight of possibility, the fear of losing a championship that was within his grasp, 2024’s Alexander drove with a different kind of freedom. Eight points ahead, he knew exactly what he needed. The pressure was entirely on Max, who had to win and hope for Alexander to falter.
As they disappeared around Turn 1, I realised what had changed most profoundly. The machinery was similar. The positions identical. The stakes equally high. But Alexander himself had been transformed. Not by success or failure alone, but by the journey between these twin moments.
He wasn’t driving to avoid losing a championship. He was driving to win one.
And in that distinction lay everything.
The Safety Car Moment
ABU DHABI, 2024 – 5:56 PM
Lap 39. Alexander maintained a carefully calculated two-and-a-half second gap behind Max through Turn 8, the Red Bull’s rear wing shimmering in the floodlights. The plan was unfolding perfectly. Conserve tyres now, attack in the final ten laps when Max’s rubber would begin to degrade more rapidly. Patient predator versus desperate defender.
“Yellow flag, Sector 2,” Ricci’s voice came through, tense but controlled. “Bottas slowing with what looks like a power unit issue.”
Alexander prepared to lift slightly, respecting the upcoming yellow zone while processing the implications. Valtteri’s Sauber appeared in his peripheral vision, smoke visibly trailing from the engine bay as the car limped toward the run-off area at Turn 9.
His heart rate spiked despite years of conditioning. The car felt suddenly constricting, the cockpit airflow insufficient. Unbidden, images from 2021 flashed through his mind: Latifi’s crashed Williams, the safety car, the fateful decisions.
“Race Control assessing the situation,” Ricci informed him, the caution in his voice unmistakable.
Those words hung in the air. The uncertainty was more unsettling than any definitive announcement. Alexander’s breathing pattern altered slightly, the rhythm he’d maintained all race momentarily disrupted. The Sauber continued moving, Bottas clearly searching for a safe place to park the stricken car.
For six eternal seconds, the question remained unanswered: Safety Car or Virtual Safety Car? The distinction represented entirely different strategic implications, entirely different race dynamics, entirely different echoes of 2021.
“Please be a VSC,” Alexander caught himself thinking, then immediately corrected the emotional response. “Whatever it is, we manage it. Different race. Different circumstances.”
Ricci’s voice cut through the tension: “Race Control has deployed the Virtual Safety Car. VSC, VSC. Match delta times.”
The relief was so immediate, so visceral, that Alexander’s fingers fumbled slightly as they adjusted settings on his steering wheel. The vivid green Sauber now sat harmlessly in the Turn 9 runoff area, marshals approaching with fire extinguishers as a precaution.
His delta time fluctuated dangerously close to the penalty threshold as he recalibrated, mind and body resynchronising after the momentary disruption.
“Alex, watch your delta. Minus 0.3 at sector two,” Ricci’s voice anchored him back to 2024.
Alexander took a deep breath, acknowledging the internal turbulence now subsiding. The panic had lasted precisely 2.7 seconds. I knew this because later, when reviewing the telemetry with Ricci, the engineer showed me the momentary fluctuation in Alexander’s normally flawless VSC delta compliance. A window into the brief mental battle that no television camera could capture.
“Copy that. Managing Delta,” he responded, voice betraying nothing of the momentary struggle.
Unlike a full Safety Car, the VSC preserved the time gaps between cars. Max remained two seconds ahead. No bunching of the field, no strategic resets, no agonising waits for lapped cars to unlap themselves. Just a controlled neutralisation of the race that would soon resume with all the hard-earned advantages intact.
Different scenario. Different circumstances. Different Alexander.
“Expected VSC duration: two to three laps,” Ricci informed him. “Bottas clear of danger zone. No debris reported on track.”
Alexander processed this information while maintaining the precise delta time required. The Sauber recovery was straightforward, nothing like the complex barrier repairs after Latifi’s crash in 2021. No controversial decisions looming, no championship-changing calls to be made.
“How are Max’s tyres?” Alexander asked, a question he wouldn’t have thought to ask three years ago, when he was focused on his own race rather than the competitive opportunities.
“They seem concerned with their deg. Stick to the plan.”
Alexander allowed himself the ghost of a smile behind his visor. “Understood.”
As he navigated the circuit under restricted pace, mind and machine in harmony once more, a calm certainty settled over him. The echo of 2021 had momentarily threatened to pull him into the past, but the present was stronger now. More solid. More real.
The race control message appeared on his steering wheel display: “VSC ENDING.”
Alexander prepared, adjusting his brake bias slightly for the restart, reviewing his mental map of Max’s position and the optimal racing line for the upcoming sequence of corners.
Different race. Different outcome.
The countdown reached zero, green flags waved around the circuit, and the race resumed its full-speed intensity. Alexander accelerated precisely, mindful of the lower temperatures now.
“VSC ended. Target plan A plus 2. Plus 2. Ten laps to go after this one,” Ricci confirmed.
Ricci had adjusted the planned attack to compensate for the VSC. Alexander was already calculating tyre life, attack points and Max’s counter-attack options.
The memory of 2021 had arrived like a sudden squall and departed just as quickly, leaving behind not trauma but clarity. The similarities between then and now weren’t threats but opportunities. Chances to demonstrate just how far he’d come.
As he rounded Turn 14, the scene of Latifi’s fateful crash three years before, Alexander felt no lingering anxiety, no flashback, no hesitation. Just the pure, clean focus of a driver in complete command of himself and his machinery.
The past would always echo, but it no longer defined him. Only the next corner mattered now. The next lap. The next challenge.
Different race. Different Alexander. Different outcome.
The Strategy Unfolds
ABU DHABI, 2024 – 6:11 PM
Lap 49 of 58. Alexander sat three seconds behind Max, a gap that had gradually stretched from the two seconds after the VSC period. To the casual observer, it might have appeared that Verstappen was simply faster, pulling away with each lap, building a comfortable cushion at the front.
The Ferrari pitwall told a different story.
“Sector times exactly as planned,” Ricci’s voice confirmed through the radio. “Max is pushing. Asking a lot from his tyres. You’re right in the window. Perfect execution, Alexander.”
“Copy that. How are his rear tyres looking?” Alexander’s voice carried none of the strain one might expect from a driver watching his championship rival extend a lead with nine laps remaining.
“Camera feeds showing graining starting on left rear.”
I observed from the Ferrari garage as the race strategists huddled around their screens, nodding with quiet satisfaction. What appeared to be a Red Bull demonstration of dominance was, in fact, precisely the scenario they had anticipated and planned for.
Three days earlier, in the privacy of some inner office of the Ferrari Engineering offices in the Abu Dhabi paddock, I had witnessed the formation of this strategy. While most of the paddock expected another all-out battle between the two championship contenders, Alexander and his team had devised something far more nuanced.
“Max always races at maximum attack,” Alexander had offered, his fingers tracing patterns on the circuit map spread before us. “It’s his greatest strength; his pure pace is untouchable. But it’s also a potential weakness. He pushes the tyres harder than anyone. On this surface, with these temperatures, there’s a tipping point.”
Now that strategy was unfolding in real-time. While Max had immediately pushed to build a gap after their pit stops, Alexander had done something that would have been unthinkable for him in 2021: he had deliberately let him go, focusing instead on preserving his hard tyres with metronomic precision.
“Gap now 3.2 seconds. Max’s last lap two-tenths slower than his previous,” Ricci reported.
“Understood. Beginning Phase Two,” Alexander replied.
With those words, Alexander’s driving underwent a subtle but significant transformation. The Ferrari’s lines through corners shifted by inches, braking points adjusted by metres. Nothing dramatic enough to raise alarms on the Red Bull pitwall, but enough to begin the gradual hunt.
I watched the interval times on the monitors: 3.0 seconds. 2.8 seconds. 2.5 seconds.
“Max has been informed of your pace increase,” Ricci warned. “He’s responding. Pushing harder.”
“Perfect.”
That single word contained multitudes. In 2021, the prospect of Max pushing harder would have prompted anxiety, urgency, perhaps desperation. Now it was exactly what Alexander wanted. Max digging deeper into his tyre reserves, accelerating the inevitable degradation.
Alex’s strategy reminded me of something his father had apparently once told him, which Alexander had shared during our Silverstone interview: “Racing isn’t always about being the fastest. Sometimes it’s about being the smartest.”
The gap continued to shrink: 2.2 seconds. 1.9 seconds. Then stabilised briefly as Max found another reserve of pace.
“He’s overdriving the car now,” Ricci observed, a hint of satisfaction creeping into his professional tone. “Corner entry speed increased. He’s experiencing some slide in Turn 5.”
Alexander’s response was characteristically minimal: “Noted.”
Eight laps to go. The gap held at 1.7 seconds. Max was seemingly finding a way to maintain the buffer despite his tyre degradation. A less disciplined driver might have grown impatient, might have pushed harder to close the gap more quickly. Alexander maintained his exact pace, his inputs as precise as a surgeon’s.
“Stick to the plan,” Ricci reminded him. “It will come to us. Trust the plan.”
“I know.”
This was the transformation most evident to me, watching from the garage: the absolute trust Alexander now placed in both himself and his team. Gone was the 2021 Alexander who needed constant reassurance, who second-guessed strategy calls, who feared losing his one chance at glory. This Alexander had the serene confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was doing and why.
Lap 51. Seven laps remaining. The gap suddenly decreased to 1.3 seconds. Then 0.9. Max’s tyres had reached their limit.
“He’s struggling,” Ricci confirmed. “Left rear critically degraded. Right rear following same pattern.”
Alexander’s pace remained metronomic, his lap times consistent to within hundredths of a second. Not pushing beyond his limits, not forcing the issue. Simply executing the perfect strategy with perfect discipline.
Five laps to go. The gap: 0.4 seconds.
Red Bull responded, Max’s race engineer urging him to find more pace. The race leader complied, producing a lap time that briefly held the gap steady. Alexander remained unfazed, his approach unchanged.
Three laps to go. The gap: 0.9 seconds. Still within DRS range.
I felt the garage tension rise around me. Engineers who had been quietly confident now leaned forward in their seats, eyes fixed on the monitors. Fred Vasseur stood motionless, arms crossed, face impassive except for the intensity of his gaze.
Then came the moment the entire strategy had been building toward. Ricci’s voice, normally so controlled, carried a hint of anticipation that betrayed the magnitude of what was unfolding:
“P2 is enough. You will be champion if you finish like this.”
It was as if a switch had been flipped. Alexander, who had been driving with such disciplined restraint, unleashed the full potential of the Ferrari. His next sector time flashed purple on the timing screens. Fastest of the race. The precise, measured inputs remained, but now directed toward maximum attack rather than preservation.
Max defended valiantly, using every trick in his considerable arsenal to keep the Ferrari behind. Under normal circumstances, even with fresher tyres, passing the Dutchman would be a monumental challenge. But these weren’t normal circumstances. This was the culmination of a strategy that had been unfurling for fifty-five laps.
As they approached Turn 9, where Bottas’s parked Sauber had triggered Alexander’s earlier flashback, the Ferrari pulled alongside the Red Bull. For a brief moment, the two cars ran parallel, a visual echo of their battles across multiple seasons, multiple tracks, multiple championships.
This time, Alexander had the advantage. The inside line, better traction, and crucially, tyres with life remaining. The pass was clinical, decisive, inevitable. Not forced through desperation but executed through strategy.
The Ferrari garage erupted in a low, controlled exuberance. Their celebrations remained restrained compared to what would come. The job wasn’t finished yet.
“Two laps to go. Manage the gap,” Ricci instructed, his voice steady once more.
I watched Alexander build a small but decisive buffer over the final two laps. Not showboating, not pushing unnecessarily, simply controlling the race with the same discipline that had characterised his entire strategy.
As he rounded the final corner for the last time, the contrast with 2021 couldn’t have been more stark. Then, he had been the hunted, desperately trying to hold off an inevitable challenge on fresher tyres. Now, he was the hunter who had patiently stalked his prey, striking at the perfect moment.
In that moment, I understood what had truly transformed between these twin Abu Dhabi experiences. It wasn’t just Alexander’s skill or maturity that had evolved, but his entire philosophy of racing. Where 2021 had been reactive, responding to events as they unfolded, 2024 had been proactive, dictating those events through strategy and discipline.
The gladiator had become a chess grandmaster, sacrificing immediate advantage for ultimate victory. The desperate hopeful had become the calculated champion.
Different race. Different outcome. Different Alexander.
THE CHECKERED FLAG
ABU DHABI, 2021 – 6:30 PM
Final lap. Alexander’s Ferrari led into the first corner after the safety car restart, Verstappen’s Red Bull in hot pursuit. But the advantage was momentary. The hard tyres beneath him, fitted long before Latifi’s crash, had surrendered their last reserves of grip, the rubber worn beyond recovery while Max’s fresh softs allowed him superior traction through every corner.
In the Ferrari garage, the atmosphere had shifted from anticipation to resignation. Engineers stared at telemetry screens showing the inevitable unfolding: the championship slipping away with each sector completed.
The cockpit camera showed Alexander’s eyes fixed on the mirrors as the Red Bull closed in. His hands remained steady on the wheel, his inputs as precise as they had been all race, but the machinery beneath him simply lacked the grip to defend against his competitor’s superior pace.
“Stay with it, Alexander,” Ricci encouraged, his normally exuberant voice subdued. “Still half a lap. Anything can happen.”
The words hung in the air, unanswered. Alexander maintained radio silence. An unusual departure from his typically methodical communication. Through the onboard camera, I could see his breathing remain controlled, his head level, his hands still executing perfect inputs despite knowing what awaited at the checkered flag.
Max crossed the line first, the Red Bull team’s celebrations erupting over the international television feed. Several seconds later, Alexander’s Ferrari followed, taking the flag in second place.
The championship was decided.
As Verstappen’s jubilant radio messages dominated the broadcast, Alexander’s channel remained silent. No words of commiseration from the team, no response from the driver. Just the sound of the Ferrari’s engine note changing as he eased off the throttle for the cool-down lap.
Alexander took that final circuit slowly, unusually slowly, even for a cool-down lap. The television director, focused on Max’s celebrations, paid little attention to the Ferrari gradually making its way around the track.
From the Ferrari garage feed, I watched Alexander navigate each corner with deliberate care, as if memorising the circuit under these specific conditions, cataloguing every sensation of this moment. His head occasionally turned toward the grandstands, acknowledging the fans waving Ferrari flags despite the outcome.
Still, no radio communication.
Ricci tried once more: “P2, Alexander. You drove perfectly. Nothing more you could have done.”
The words received no acknowledgment. The silence extended, becoming heavier with each passing second, each passing corner. Engineers exchanged concerned glances. Amy, watching from her position near the garage entrance, maintained her composed expression, but her fingers gripped her tablet with unusual intensity.
When Alexander finally reached parc fermé, he positioned the Ferrari in its designated P2 slot with characteristic precision. The engine note died. The cockpit camera showed him sitting completely motionless, hands still on the wheel, head forward, visor down.
Time seemed suspended as the world waited for him to emerge and face the reality of what had just transpired.
The line had been crossed. The championship was lost. And Alexander Macalister, in that moment, appeared frozen between heartbreak and composure. Unwilling or unable to step from the car and acknowledge which had won.
ABU DHABI, 2024 – 6:23 PM
Final lap. Alexander’s Ferrari led Verstappen’s Red Bull across the start-finish line to begin the fifty-eighth circuit of Yas Marina. The gap: 2.1 seconds and stable. Alexander was managing the pace perfectly, preserving his tyres just enough to maintain control without unnecessary risk.
The Ferrari garage vibrated with contained anticipation. Engineers remained focused on their screens, monitoring every parameter, unwilling to celebrate prematurely despite the commanding position. Fred Vasseur stood motionless at the pit wall, his expression unchanged but his eyes never leaving the timing screens.
“Last lap, Alessandro. Keep it clean. Bring the car home,” Ricci advised, his voice professional despite the momentous occasion unfolding.
“Copy, final lap,” Alexander replied, his tone revealing nothing of what must have been building within him.
The rear-facing cockpit camera showed the same focused eyes as 2021, the same controlled breathing, the same precise inputs. But now those eyes were fixed on clear track ahead rather than a competitor pulling away. Now those hands were guiding a Ferrari toward championship glory rather than championship disappointment.
I watched from the garage as Alexander executed that final lap with the same meticulous precision he’d shown throughout the race. No showboating, no early celebration, no risks. Each corner approached and conquered with the same discipline that had characterised his entire season.
As he rounded the final corner, the straight stretching before him, the checkered flag visible in the distance, Alexander maintained that perfect composure, the calm in the eye of the emotional storm surrounding him.
The flag waved. Alexander Macalister crossed the line as World Champion.
“P1, ALEXANDER! P1! YOU ARE THE WORLD CHAMPION!” Ricci’s voice exploded through the radio, professional restraint finally surrendering to pure joy.
The dam broke. The Ferrari garage erupted, red-clad figures embracing, hands raised in triumph. Fred allowed himself a rare, unrestrained smile, delivering congratulations to all around him on the pit wall.
Alexander eased off the throttle, beginning his victory lap. Unlike 2021’s measured cool-down circuit, he pumped his fist in the air as he passed the first grandstand, acknowledging the sea of red flags waving in celebration.
Then, as if collecting himself, he slowed the Ferrari to an unusually leisurely pace, taking his time, extending this lap as long as possible. Not to delay the inevitable as in 2021, but to savour every second of it.
When he finally spoke, the contrast with 2021’s silence could not have been more profound:
“Thank you, team. Thank you for everything.” His voice was steady at first, controlled as ever, but with each sentence, emotion crept in. “Thank you to all the engineers and everyone back in Maranello. Thank you for giving me such an amazing car this year. I feel all of the late nights, the sacrifice, the expertise, the love, that you put into it, giving this car it’s potential. And, oof, it was a pleasure to spend this year with you extracting that potential. We all worked so hard for this.”
He continued around the circuit, the Ferrari moving at parade pace as he gathered his thoughts.
“Ricci, your voice in my ear for all these years. Thank you for your trust, your patience. Fred, for believing in us even when things were difficult.
As he approached the back straight, his voice wavered slightly. “The pit crew, that stop today was flawless. Like every stop this season.”
With each sector completed, the emotions seemed to build, his normally measured tone giving way to something raw and genuine. The microphone caught his breathing, less controlled now, betraying the tide of feeling he was navigating.
As he approached the final sector, the same stretch where his 2021 championship hopes had faded, Alexander’s voice caught. The Ferrari’s pace slowed further, as if he needed this additional moment to compose himself.
“Thank you, Amy, for all of it.” The emotion was unmistakable now, a lump in his throat audible even through the radio compression. “We’ll have to hold off on the margaritas, I feel like CHAMPAGNE TONIGHT!”
The garage erupted in laughter at this unexpected personal reference, though few understood its significance. Amy, now standing near parc fermé awaiting his arrival, pressed her hand briefly to her mouth before regaining her professional composure.
As Alexander completed the lap and approached parc fermé, I was struck by the perfect symmetry of the moment. The same track. The same final corner. The same checkered flag. The same finish line.
But everything else had changed.
The emotions he had suppressed in 2021 now flowed freely. The silence had been replaced by heartfelt communication. The isolation had given way to connection. The numbness had transformed into elation.
The line was identical. Everything else had changed.
Parc Fermé Symmetry
ABU DHABI, 2021 – 6:36 PM
Amy Millie stood at the edge of parc fermé, her professional mask firmly in place despite the emotions churning beneath. The designated area for the top three finishers buzzed with activity. Camera operators repositioning, officials checking procedures, Red Bull team members barely containing their jubilation as they awaited their champion.
The contrast with Ferrari’s subdued presence couldn’t have been starker. Ricci stood with hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on Alexander’s car as it rolled into the P2 position with mechanical precision. The rest of the team hovered nearby, uncertain how to navigate this moment they had hoped would unfold differently.
I watched from my position near the media pen, close enough to observe but removed from the immediate drama. Amy’s posture caught my attention: the slight tension in her shoulders, the deliberate control of her breathing. Her eyes never left Alexander’s Ferrari as the engine died and silence fell.
One second. Two. Ten.
Alexander remained motionless in the cockpit, visor still down, hands at idle rest in his lap. The television cameras lingered on him, broadcasting this private moment of processing to millions worldwide.
“Come on, baby,” I read Amy’s mouth whisper. “Just step out.”
When Alexander finally moved, it was with a deliberate slowness that suggested each action required conscious thought. The removal of the steering wheel. The unfastening of harnesses. The careful extraction of himself from the cockpit that had been his sanctuary for the past two hours.
His movements were precise, economical, devoid of emotional content. The continuation of his racing discipline despite the race being over. When he removed his helmet, his expression revealed nothing of the disappointment he must have felt. His features might have been carved from marble.
The Ferrari team surveyed the situation cautiously, like mourners uncertain of funeral etiquette.
Amy remained at her position, phone in hand, watching with an intensity that conveyed volumes about their relationship. She didn’t rush forward, didn’t attempt to breach the professional boundaries of parc fermé. She simply observed, present and waiting, understanding that Alexander needed to navigate these next moments on his own terms.
Alexander walked metronomically towards the celebrating Red Bull team, towards Max. The cameras captured their embrace, genuine despite the circumstances, and the brief exchange of words. Alexander’s congratulations appeared sincere, his sportsmanship unimpeachable even in defeat.
But watching closely, I caught the subtle rigidity in his posture, the slight delay in his responses, the careful control required to maintain this public persona while privately absorbing the magnitude of what had just occurred.
Alexander approached the spot along parc fermé where the Ferrari contingent has collected. Their hands reached out, pats on the shoulder, touches to the arm, gestures of support that Alexander acknowledged with slight nods but didn’t fully receive. His body language suggested someone physically present but emotionally elsewhere, processing something beyond immediate reach.
As he moved toward the weigh-in area, Alexander passed close to where Amy stood. Their eyes met briefly, a wordless exchange that seemed to communicate more than any radio message had during the race. She gave an almost imperceptible nod. He returned with an equally subtly and minute shake of his head before continuing toward his obligations. The podium, the interviews, the public performance of gracious defeat.
The Ferrari team gathered their equipment, accepting the reality of second place with professional dignity. There would be time for analysis, for processing, for planning the response. But in this moment, they simply followed their driver’s lead. Composed, controlled, acknowledging the outcome without surrendering to it.
Alexander moved through parc fermé like someone navigating unfamiliar territory. Present in body but distant in spirit, his movements mechanical, his interactions minimal. The weight of opportunity lost seemed to hang in the air around him, though his expression betrayed none of it.
The contrast between the Red Bull celebration and Ferrari’s subdued proceedings created a visual representation of the championship outcome. Joy and despair separated by mere metres of concrete, bound together by the theatre of sport.
ABU DHABI, 2024 – 6:33 PM
Amy stood in nearly the identical position at the edge of parc fermé, phone in hand just as before. The same camera operators, the same officials, the same designated positions for the top three finishers. The architecture of the moment remained unchanged.
But the energy that now charged the space could not have been more different.
The Ferrari team lined the barriers, red uniforms forming a wall of anticipation. Ricci bounced on his toes, unable to contain his excitement as Alexander’s car approached. Fred Vasseur stood slightly apart, his typically reserved expression giving way to a rare, unguarded smile.
I observed from the same vantage point near the media pen, struck by the perfect symmetry of the scene: the same setting, the same characters, but a fundamentally transformed narrative.
Alexander guided the Ferrari into its P1 position with the same precision as three years before. The engine died. Silence fell. But a silence pregnant with anticipation rather than resignation.
This time, there was no hesitation. No prolonged moment of stillness in the cockpit. Alexander was in motion almost immediately, removing the steering wheel, unfastening harnesses, extracting himself from the car with uncharacteristic urgency.
When his feet touched the ground, something remarkable happened, something few had ever witnessed from the normally composed champion. Alexander Macalister crouched down next to the car and laid a gloved hand on the spot where the bright yellow shield and Cavallino Rampante emblazoned the SF-24. A deep sentimentality few had seen on display. As he stood, he turned towards the direction of the red mass of awaiting engineers and personnel. And for the first time in his Formula 1 career Alexander leapt into the air, both fists raised in triumph, a primal release of emotion that sent a roar through the assembled Ferrari team.
Amy’s professional mask dissolved entirely, a radiant smile transforming her features as she watched Alexander literally leap into the arms of his team. Where in 2021 they had approached him cautiously, now they surged forward, a wave of red engulfing their champion. Where once he had passively accepted their touch, now he actively embraced them, his body language open, animated, electric with joy.
Alexander moved through the throng of red uniforms with a physicality that stood in stark contrast to the measured control of 2021. High fives, embraces, shared moments of disbelief and exhilaration. His features, no longer marble but flesh and emotion, cycled through expressions of joy, relief, and something deeper. Perhaps the recognition that a journey begun in childhood had finally reached its destination.
When Max approached from his car, having finished a valiant second, the two championship rivals again met at the midpoint between their vehicles. The embrace they shared mirrored that of 2021, but the context transformed its meaning entirely. No longer consoler and consoled, they met as equals. Both champions now, both understanding the unique summit they had reached.
Their exchange, though brief, carried the weight of their shared history: the battles, the controversies, the respect that had deepened through years of competition. Max’s congratulations appeared as genuine as Alexander’s had been three years before, the cycle of sport completing another revolution.
As Alexander moved through parc fermé toward the weigh-in, he glanced toward the same spot where Amy had stood in 2021, their exchange then so subtle and restrained. But this time, there was nothing subtle about their connection. Amy had already breached protocol entirely, sprinting past security barriers and launching herself toward him in full view of cameras and officials alike. He caught her mid-leap, their embrace a physical manifestation of the journey they’d traveled together.
“I told you,” she said, her voice carrying just enough for the nearby cameras to catch. “I always knew.”
The Ferrari team’s celebration continued unabated. Mechanics embracing engineers, strategists high-fiving catering staff, the entire organisation united in this moment of collective achievement. The contrast with Red Bull’s more subdued response created a mirror image of 2021’s tableau, the pendulum of fortune having swung completely.
Fred approached, placing a paternal hand on Alexander’s shoulder as he finally moved toward the weigh-in and podium preparations. The team principal leaned close, saying something that made Alexander nod with emotion evident in his expression. No longer navigating unfamiliar territory, Alexander moved through parc fermé with the certainty of someone who had found his place. Not just within Ferrari or Formula 1, but within himself.
As he prepared to ascend to the podium, the same podium he had stood on in second place three years before, I was struck by how perfectly these twin moments bookended his journey. The physical space unchanged, the rituals identical, but the man himself transformed.
In 2021, a driver had lost a championship. In 2024, a champion had simply confirmed what he already knew himself to be.
The symmetry was perfect. The transformation complete.
The Night After
ABU DHABI, 2021 – 10:47 PM
The hotel corridor stretched empty and silent as I made my way back to my room, the muted celebration from Red Bull’s hospitality suite still audible in the distance. The official proceedings had concluded hours ago, the podium ceremony, the press conference, the media obligations, yet the night felt unfinished, suspended between what had been and what might have followed.
As I passed Alexander’s suite, I noticed Amy standing outside his door, phone in one hand, collecting a room service tray balanced in the other. Our eyes met briefly. Something in her expression, concern tinged with determination, made me pause.
“He’s in there?” I asked quietly.
She nodded. “Still in his race suit.”
The information carried more weight than its simplicity suggested. Hours after the race, Alexander remained in the fireproof layers that had witnessed his championship slip away. As if changing clothes might force an acceptance he wasn’t ready to confront.
“Can I get you anything?” I offered, though we both knew my question extended beyond practical assistance.
Amy shook her head. “We just need time.” Her gaze drifted toward the door.
I understood then what was happening. Not just the aftermath of a sporting defeat, but a pivotal moment in Alexander’s emotional development. Amy wasn’t simply providing comfort; she was creating space for necessary growth.
I stepped away to give them privacy.
As I continued down the corridor, I glanced back to see Amy enter the suite, the door closing softly behind her. What transpired beyond that threshold would remain largely private. Fragments later shared in interviews, details alluded to but never fully disclosed.
They remained in that room until dawn, I would later learn. Not sleeping, not strategising for the future, but simply being present with the reality of what had happened. Talking, sometimes crying, occasionally sitting in companionable silence. The emotional first aid necessary after such profound disappointment.
Alexander would later describe it to me as “the night that changed everything.” Not because of what was lost, but because of what was finally confronted: the fear of failure, the weight of expectations, the ghosts of earlier losses.
In that hotel room, while celebrations continued elsewhere and the Formula 1 world dissected every controversial moment of the race, Alexander Macalister began the process of transformation, guided by the one person who understood both who he had been and who he could become.
The quiet processing of defeat, laying foundations for future triumph.
ABU DHABI, 2024 – 11:15 PM
The hotel corridor bustled with activity despite the late hour. Ferrari team members still in various states of celebration, journalists hunting final quotes, hotel staff navigating the controlled chaos with professional smiles. The official Ferrari party continued in full swing downstairs, champagne flowing freely, toasts offered in multiple languages, the collective release of tension after a season-long battle.
As I approached Alexander’s suite, Amy emerged from the elevator across the hall, a bottle of champagne in each hand, her typical business attire replaced by a Ferrari team shirt, her hair slightly disheveled from the celebrations.
“Taking a breather?” I asked, noting her direction away from the main festivities.
She smiled. The unguarded, genuine expression I rarely saw in professional settings. “Stealing the champion for a moment. The team can have him back in an hour.”
The contrast with 2021’s somber vigil couldn’t have been more pronounced. Not withdrawal for emotional first aid, but a momentary retreat to savour achievement in private before returning to the public celebration. Not hiding, but simply catching breath.
“He’s in there?” I asked, echoing our exchange from three years before.
She nodded. “Finally out of his race suit, thank god. Though I think he’d have worn it for days if we’d let him.” Her eyes sparkled with a mixture of triumph and relief. “I’ve never seen him like this, Richard. It’s like someone turned the brightness up on his entire being.”
The observation perfectly captured what I’d noticed during the podium ceremony: Alexander’s typically reserved expressions replaced by unfiltered joy, his measured gestures giving way to physical celebration. The man who had always seemed so carefully calibrated now operating beyond those self-imposed limitations.
“Congratulations, again. I’ll catch up with you both tomorrow,” I said, understanding their need for this private moment.
“Come by for breakfast,” Amy suggested. “I think we might both actually sleep tonight.” She raised the champagne bottles with a grin. “After this, of course.”
As she disappeared into the suite the door closed, sealing their private celebration away from the world’s observation.
What transpired in that room would remain largely between them, another chapter in their shared history that outsiders could only glimpse in fragments. But unlike 2021’s emotional processing, this retreat served a different purpose: not healing, but honouring the journey completed.
I continued down the corridor, the sounds of their laughter fading behind me. In that hotel room, while celebrations continued throughout Abu Dhabi and the Formula 1 world analysed every strategic decision of the race, Alexander Macalister and Amy Millie shared something beyond professional success: the quiet recognition of a transformation completed, a promise fulfilled.
ABU DHABI, 2024 – 2:23 AM
Later, Alexander would tell me about a moment that occurred in that hotel suite, long after midnight. The initial excitement had mellowed into something more reflective, the adrenaline giving way to a deeper appreciation of what had been achieved.
Standing before the bathroom mirror, champagne glass in hand, Alexander had caught his own reflection. The FIA winner’s medal still around his neck, the Ferrari team shirt bearing his name, the unmovable smile Amy had described.
For a fleeting second, he’d seen not just his present self, but an echo of the man he had been in 2021. The one who had sat motionless in his car, who had processed defeat through long night hours, who had begun the journey toward this moment without knowing if it would ever arrive.
Alexander had raised his glass to that reflection, a gesture half in jest but resonating with genuine acknowledgment.
“To the guy who lost in 2021,” he’d said, the words making Amy look up from her phone. “Without him, tonight doesn’t happen.”
Amy had crossed the room to join him, raising her own glass to his reflection. “He was already a champion,” she’d said quietly. “Just waiting for the world to catch up.”
They’d clinked glasses, laughing at the theatrical nature of the gesture while recognising its underlying truth: the path to triumph had been paved with necessary defeat. The journey between these twin Abu Dhabi nights, with all its struggles, setbacks, and eventual triumph, had transformed not just Alexander’s trophy cabinet, but his understanding of himself.
The echo of 2021 would always remain, not as a haunting reminder of what was lost, but as an essential chapter in the story of what was gained. Not a burden to be carried, but a foundation to be built upon.
Different night. Different emotions. Different Alexander.
The same reflection, transformed by the journey between.