The Bridge

The Grandstand Project

The Autodromo di Modena was quiet by Formula 1 standards. It was a modest circuit with none of the grandeur of Monaco or the technical complexity of Suzuka. Yet there was an energy in the simple pit garage that rivalled any Grand Prix weekend I’d witnessed.

Alexander sat on a folding chair, Ferrari race suit unzipped to the waist revealing a plain white t-shirt, facing a semicircle of wide-eyed children aged nine to thirteen. They perched on similar chairs, kart suits in various colours bearing the names of local sponsors or sometimes no sponsors at all. Their helmets, some shiny new and others well-worn, rested at their feet like treasured artefacts.

I stood against the back wall alongside Amy and a small team from Ferrari media relations, who were filming discreetly. What struck me immediately was how open and relaxed Alexander’s body language was, lacking the careful composure he typically maintained during official appearances. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, making eye contact with each child as they spoke.

These weren’t the standard VIP fixtures: the children of wealthy executives or celebrity connections. They were participants in Ferrari’s global community outreach program ‘The Grandstand Project’, which brought talented young drivers from disadvantaged backgrounds who had been identified by local karting organisations for Ferrari to take them out of the ‘grandstands’ and into the heart of motorsport. Children for whom a day at a proper racing circuit was extraordinary rather than routine. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was a programme Alexander was always keen to be present for.

“Okay,” Alexander said, clapping his hands together. “You’ve been driving all morning. I’ve been watching some of your laps. Very impressive. But now it’s your turn. Ask me anything you want.”

There was a moment of shy hesitation before a small boy with a Spanish accent raised his hand.

“How fast is your Ferrari?” he asked, voice barely audible.

Alexander smiled. “Depends on the track. At Monza, about 350 kilometres per hour on the straight. But you know what’s more important than top speed?”

The boy shook his head.

“Braking,” Alexander replied. “Anyone can go fast in a straight line if the car has enough power. The real skill is knowing exactly when to brake, how hard to brake, and how to carry speed through corners. That’s where races are won.”

He demonstrated with his hands and feet as he spoke, creating an imaginary braking zone and apex. I noticed he didn’t simplify his explanation. He spoke to them as fellow drivers, using the same technical language he would with professionals.

A girl with tight braids and a British accent raised her hand next. “Did you always know you would be a Formula 1 driver?”

Alexander’s expression shifted subtly. “No. I hoped, but I didn’t know. There were many times when it seemed impossible.” He leaned forward. “How many of you have been told that Formula 1 is an impossible dream?”

Nearly every hand went up.

“Anche io,” he said, then quickly translated: “Me too. Many times.”

Their surprised expressions at his admission were telling. For them, Alexander Macalister represented the pinnacle of achievement, a world champion who had seemingly ascended a clear path to success. The reality of his struggle was invisible from their vantage point.

“When I was your age,” he continued, “I was racing in karts that were held together with tape and spare parts. My competitors had newer equipment, professional mechanics, proper testing programs. I had my father, a toolbox, and determination.”

I knew from our interviews how rarely Alexander spoke about this period of his life, especially in formal settings. Yet here he was, opening up to these children with a naturalness I’d rarely witnessed.

A tall boy from somewhere in Eastern Europe asked, “How did you get Ferrari to notice you?”

“I kept having strong results despite having less,” Alexander replied simply. “When you achieve results that seem impossible given your circumstances, people start paying attention. But—” he raised a finger, “—it’s not just about talent. It’s about work. Preparation. I studied every track, every technique. I couldn’t afford to test as much as others, so I made sure that when I did drive, I made every minute count.”

A small girl with a pink helmet who hadn’t spoken yet raised her hand tentatively. When Alexander nodded encouragingly, she asked in heavily accented English, “Do you ever feel scared?”

The Ferrari PR team exchanged glances. This wasn’t the type of question champions typically addressed in media appearances. Alexander’s response surprised me.

“Certo. Sempre,” he replied, then switched to English. “Of course. Always. Before every race. Before my first day at Ferrari. Before speaking to all of you today.”

The children giggled at this last admission, and Alexander smiled.

“Being afraid isn’t the problem,” he continued. “The problem is letting fear make decisions for you. You acknowledge it—‘Yes, I’m scared because of this’—and then you do what needs to be done anyway.”

He scanned their faces, then added, “That’s actually the definition of courage, you know. Not being fearless, but acting despite your fear.”

The conversation flowed more naturally after that, with questions ranging from technical (“How do you find the perfect racing line?”) to practical (“How many hours do you practice?”) to personal (“What’s your favourite food?”). Through it all, Alexander maintained an unusual openness, answering with neither the practiced polish of media appearances nor the professional formalities of engineering debriefs, but with a straightforward honesty that resonated with his young audience.

What fascinated me was his frequent redirection of the conversation back to them. After explaining his approach to a particular technique, he’d ask, “How do you handle that corner in your kart?” When discussing race preparation, he’d inquire, “What’s your pre-race routine?” He treated them not as fans to be indulged but as fellow racers on the same journey, just at different stages.

“You know,” he said after a particularly technical question about weight transfer, “when I was in karting, there was no handbook, no perfect explanation. I learned by experimenting, by making mistakes. That’s still how I learn.” He glanced around the semicircle. “How many of you tried something new on the track today? Something that didn’t work exactly as you expected?”

Several hands went up hesitantly.

“Fantastico!” Alexander exclaimed. “That’s how you improve. If you’re not making some mistakes, you’re can’t be sure you are finding the limits.”

A boy with a French accent raised his hand. “But making mistakes is expensive. My father says we cannot afford for me to crash.”

Alexander nodded thoughtfully. “That’s a real challenge. I understand it completely.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping slightly. “When I was a kid I knew each race could be my last if I damaged too much equipment. But I also knew that if I didn’t push, if I wasn’t fast, that too could mean it was my last race. The pressure was enormous.”

The garage grew quiet. Even the Ferrari media team had stopped checking their phones, caught by the unexpected vulnerability in Alexander’s voice.

“I developed a technique,” he continued. “Each night before a race, I would close my eyes and drive the entire circuit in my mind: every braking point, every apex, every potential problem. I’d imagine different scenarios (rain, a poor start, a mechanical issue) and plan my response. This mental practice cost nothing but time and concentration.”

He mimed holding a steering wheel, eyes closed, demonstrating his visualisation technique. “By the time I actually drove the track, I’d already completed hundreds of laps in my mind. It wasn’t the same as real laps, but it helped narrow the gap. I still made mistakes, and those mistakes still sometimes made it hard on my Dad, but I knew the track, my kart, so well in my mind that I could make the bigger mistakes up there”, Alexander pointed to his temple, “and save the smaller mistakes for out there,” Alexander pointed to the track. “The biggest thing I want you to remember about mistakes is that they’re unavoidable. But, if you learn something from it,” Alexander paused to look pointedly at all the faces looking back up at him, “if you learn from it, it changes from a mistake to a lesson.”

From my position against the wall, I could see Amy watching Alexander with quiet pride. These mental techniques were something he’d mentioned briefly in our interviews but never explained in such personal detail. Here, with these children who faced similar barriers, he was sharing not just the what of his journey but the how.

“Can I ask something?” The quiet voice came from the edge of the group, from a small Asian boy who hadn’t spoken until now.

“Of course,” Alexander replied, turning his full attention to the child.

“My mother says I should have a backup plan. That racing is too difficult, too expensive.” He hesitated. “Did you have a backup plan?”

Alexander considered the question carefully. I could see him weighing the balance between encouragement and realism.

“No,” he admitted finally. “I didn’t. But your mother is very wise.”

Alexander ran a hand through his hair.

“The truth is, very few make it to Formula 1. That’s reality. But that doesn’t mean you should stop pursuing it.” He leaned forward. “What’s your name?”

“Liang,” the boy replied.

“Liang, here’s what I believe: Even if you don’t reach Formula 1, pursuing racing teaches you discipline, focus, technical understanding, how to perform under pressure, how to analyse problems and find solutions. These skills serve you in any path you choose.”

He glanced around the semicircle. “Many of the most successful people in racing never drove a car professionally. Engineers, strategists, and team principals are the backbone of this sport, and many started as drivers who found different ways to remain in the world they love.”

A Ferrari media representative signalled that time was up, but Alexander held up his index finger, clearly unwilling to end the conversation abruptly.

“Before we finish, I want to tell you something important,” he said, his voice taking on a quality I hadn’t heard before. “Each of you is here because someone recognised your talent. That’s significant. But talent alone isn’t enough.”

He paused, making eye contact with each child in turn.

“What transforms potential into achievement is what you do when no one is watching. The early mornings. The extra practice. The study and preparation when it would be easier to do something else. The choice to work when it would be easier to rest.”

Alexander stood, moving from his chair to kneel at their level, a deliberate physical shift that seemed to underscore his words.

“I can’t promise that all of you will reach Formula 1. But I can promise that the qualities that make a champion, like persistence, focus, resilience, and continuous improvement, will serve you everywhere in life. Whether you’re driving in Formula 1 or doing something completely different, these qualities create success.”

As the session concluded and the children returned to their karting activities, I watched Alexander speaking quietly with Liang. The boy was showing him something on his phone, footage of a karting race judging by Alexander’s focused comments and hand gestures demonstrating racing lines.

Amy approached me as we observed this interaction. “This is where he’s most authentic,” she said quietly. “No personas, no compartmentalisation.”

“Because he sees himself in them?” I asked.

She considered this. “Partly. But it’s more than that. He understands the value of being the person he needed when he was their age.” She nodded toward Alexander, who was now crouched beside Liang, analysing the racing footage with the same intensity he brought to his own debriefs.

Later, as we walked back toward the paddock, I asked Alexander about his plans for the foundation he’d mentioned establishing.

“Today clarified some things,” he replied, glancing back at the garage where Ferrari staff were organising the next activity. “These kids don’t need inspiration. They’ve already got talent and determination. What they need are real opportunities, like access to equipment, coaching, and technical knowledge.”

He stopped walking, turning to face Amy and me. “Especially Liang. He has the analytical approach. His questions were so precise. He’s already thinking about racing the way drivers years older would.”

“I noticed,” Amy replied with a knowing smile. “You’ve already decided, haven’t you?”

Alexander looked momentarily caught out, then nodded. “I want him to be one of the first. For the foundation. We’ll need to speak with his parents, of course. And there’s so much infrastructure to establish…” He trailed off, mind clearly racing ahead to logistics.

“We don’t have any structures set up yet. You haven’t even decided on who is going to be on the board,” Amy reminded him.

“I know. But I can rent out the track again before the weekend. I already checked. I want to work with him directly, see what he can do with proper coaching.” Alexander’s expression shifted to something rarely seen in public, a look of pure, unguarded enthusiasm. “He reminds me so much of… well, of me. Except he’s analysing everything even more systematically than I was at his age.”

As we continued walking, I was struck by the transformation I was witnessing. The carefully compartmentalised Alexander Macalister, the world champion, Ferrari standard-bearer, and calculated public figure, had been momentarily replaced by someone who could see his own past clearly enough to reshape it for others.

“You know,” I said, “most champions try to distance themselves from their struggles once they’ve succeeded.”

Alexander considered this, then shook his head. “What would be the point of all of it, then? The struggle is what gives meaning to the achievement.”

As we reached the paddock, one of the Ferrari representatives approached with scheduling questions about the next day’s activities. Alexander seamlessly shifted into his professional mode, discussing logistics and timing with practiced efficiency. Yet something remained different. The wall between his compartmentalised selves seemed thinner, more permeable.

Later, watching him sign autographs for the young drivers, I noticed how he spoke to each child individually, mixing English and Italian naturally, remembering specific details from their earlier conversations. He was neither the reserved British racer nor the animated Italian ambassador, but a synthesis of both. A man whose fragmented parts were finally finding harmony.

As we departed, I caught a final glimpse of Alexander demonstrating a racing technique to several children, his movements fluid and expressive, his explanation seamlessly bridging technical precision and intuitive understanding. The champion and the orphaned teenager who had clawed his way into Ferrari’s academy now existed simultaneously in the same person. Not as separate identities, but as complementary aspects of a whole, finally coming into harmony.

---

It was Amy who first told me about the morning that changed everything.

“I’d been curious about the foundation since Alexander had first mentioned it: those initial cheques he’d written to promising young drivers, the VIP passes he’d arranged. But it had always seemed more aspiration than reality, a someday-project perpetually pushed aside by championship battles and testing schedules.”

“I popped round to his house one January morning,” Amy explained, stirring her coffee as we sat in a quiet corner of the Ferrari hospitality area at pre-season testing. “Just on a whim, really. I’d been looking at antiques nearby, couldn’t find anything worth buying, so I picked up lunch and thought I’d check if he was home.”

She found Alexander at his dining table, a space normally reserved for entertaining guests, surrounded by papers and his laptop, looking somewhat dishevelled in sweatpants.

“He was sitting there trying to sort out tax identification numbers and business licenses,” Amy said, laughing at the memory. “For the foundation. All on his own. Alexander Macalister, doing paperwork!”

When she’d offered to handle it for him, his response caught her completely off-guard.

“He said he wanted to be useful. Can you imagine? As if being world champion wasn’t quite useful enough.” Her expression softened. “But it was what he said next that really struck me about that day. Something about not wanting everything to be uneven between us anymore. About how if he was going to ‘ride the horse,’ he needed to ‘muck out the stable’ too.”

According to Amy, what followed was one of the most candid conversations they’d ever had. Alexander acknowledged how his single-minded focus on excellence had inadvertently created an expectation that everyone around him operate at the same relentless frequency. He expressed shame that while he cared deeply for his team, he’d sometimes treated them as components in a machine rather than as people.

“It wasn’t just about apologising,” Amy said. “It was about recognition. About living more consciously moving forward.”

When I asked Alexander about this conversation weeks later, he confirmed Amy’s account with characteristic understatement.

“I’d been thinking about what comes next,” he told me. “Not just for me, but for all of us. The foundation seemed like the perfect opportunity to build something differently. Not just in what we were doing, but how we did it.”

This revelation explained the subtle shift I’d observed in Alexander’s interactions with his team in the months following the championship. The excellence remained, but the dynamic had evolved. He was more present, more aware of the cost of his ambitions on those who shared them.

The foundation itself came together with remarkable speed after that January morning. By March, they’d secured a modest office space near Maranello, established the legal framework, and begun reviewing applications from promising young drivers across Europe, the Middle East, and Africa.

“We’re looking for something specific,” Alexander explained when I visited the newly established headquarters. “Not just raw talent, though that matters enormously. We’re looking for kids who remind us of ourselves, who have that same hunger, that same ability to learn and adapt, but who lack the financial runway to prove themselves.”

The walls were still mostly bare, save for a simple logo – a stylised bridge spanning water – and photographs of kart tracks Alexander had raced in his youth.

“The bridge made sense,” Amy told me when I asked about the symbolism. “That’s what we’re trying to build: a way across the financial chasm that keeps so many talented drivers from reaching the other side.”

When I asked why this particular venture mattered so much to him, Alexander paused, searching for the right words.

“I was lucky,” he said finally. “Even after losing my parents, I had Ferrari and the staff at the Academy. I had Amy believing in me and moving heaven and earth for me in the way that only Amy can. Most kids don’t get those breaks. They just… disappear from the sport, and we never know what they might have become.”

His eyes took on that familiar focused intensity, but now directed at something beyond lap times and championship points.

“I believe there are champions out there who will never stand on a podium because of circumstances entirely beyond their control. If we can change that for even a few of them, that’s a legacy worth building.”

---

The connection between Alexander and Amal al-Mansouri began, as many pivotal moments in motorsport do, with a carburettor problem.

I wasn’t present when they first met in Qatar 2024, but both Alexander and Amy recounted the story with such detail that I could picture it perfectly. Alexander wandering through the support race paddock, spotting the struggling father-daughter team, offering mechanical advice that helped solve their carburettor-timing issues.

“It wasn’t just her obvious talent,” Alexander told me later. “There was something in her shoulders, the way she held herself in the kart. I recognised it immediately.”

What began as a chance encounter evolved into the foundation’s first official mentorship. The al-Mansouri family (Amal, her father Yousef, and mother Maya) became the test case for what Alexander was trying to build.

When Alexander invited me to observe a training session at Autodromo di Modena, I jumped at the chance to see this new facet of his character in action.

The April morning was cool but clear as I arrived at the modest karting facility. Amy greeted me with coffee and introduced me to Yousef and Maya al-Mansouri, who were watching their daughter with a mixture of pride and that universal parental concern I recognised from countless paddocks.

On track, Alexander was virtually unrecognisable in a plain white race suit, only his distinctive helmet giving him away. Despite the significant size difference between the world champion and the teenage girl, their movements in the karts were remarkably similar, sharing that same economy of motion, the same subtle weight shifts navigating the turns.

When they pulled into the pit lane and removed their helmets, the transformation in Alexander was immediate and striking.

“YES!” he exclaimed, face animated with genuine excitement. “Did you feel the difference?”

“I did,” Amal replied, equally enthusiastic. “It was like… how do you like to say, ‘night and day’?”

What followed was a technical discussion about trail braking that started in English but suddenly, mid-sentence, Alexander switched to rapid Italian. The confusion on Amal’s face stopped him short.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I only know a few words of Italian.”

For a moment, Alexander looked genuinely bewildered, as if he hadn’t realised he’d changed languages. Then understanding dawned.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he replied in English. “I didn’t mean to. Italian has been what I’ve used when talking about racing since I was about your age. I guess I went on autopilot.” Alexander quickly summarised in English for her.

As they broke for lunch, Alexander, Amy and I instinctively gave the al-Mansouri family some space. I helped myself to sandwiches cut into neat triangles, served on paper plates alongside fruit and sparkling water.

“Humble roots, for our little endeavour,” Alexander commented, nodding to my plate. “But actually, I remember growing up on sandwiches like that, served on too thin paper plates with a couple of crisps. And I did alright!”

Amy gave a soft laugh. No doubt recalling her fair share of sandwiches like this consumed in those early days with Alexander in F4.

“Thanks for coming today, Richard.” Alexander continued. “I know it’s not the usual thing you cover but I thought… I don’t know, you’ve been around for so many of the conversations it also seemed right to have you here too.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” I replied, genuinely touched by the inclusion. “And this is not the worst sandwich I’ve had at a track. It’s pretty good, really!”

As we ate, Alexander and Amy explained that this session was part of a broader introduction to European karting for the al-Mansouri family. The foundation was funding visits to various prestigious karting championships across Europe, helping them determine the best next step for Amal’s career.

“Having Amal race in Europe is the obvious next step in raising her profile,” Alexander explained. “As global as motorsport is, that’s just still the way it is right now. And if they are going to take that leap, I would like them to be able to do it in a place that feels good for them.”

I couldn’t help but draw the contrast with Alexander’s own journey. He had moved to Italy because that’s where the Ferrari Academy was located, his path determined by others rather than chosen for himself.

---

After lunch, the racing lesson resumed. Amal sat in her stationary kart, operating the controls in synchronisation with Alexander’s guidance as he stood beside her, demonstrating movements with his hands.

Watching Alexander work with her, I noticed something that would have seemed impossible three years earlier: the unmistakable emergence of linguistic integration.

Having spent so long with Alexander, I could see he was initially expending conscious effort to avoid slipping into the Italian that had formed his racing education. But over the next forty minutes, a fascinating transformation occurred. His mind appeared to reach an internal compromise: Italian technical terms would emerge, immediately followed by their English translations, delivered with increasingly Italian hand gestures.

The effect was striking. Alexander’s English words maintained their British accent, but the rhythm and melody of his speech subtly transformed. His hands became more expressive, punctuating technical points with gestures borrowed from his Italian engineering team. A glance at Amy confirmed she had noticed the same phenomenon, her expression a mixture of surprise and something warmer.

“Yes, benne, good,” Alexander exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air like a true tifosi. “That’s the secret to all of this, I swear. But the distance between you knowing it and feeling it, is the distance between you and greatness.”

“OK! Il Maestro!” Amal replied, beaming as she looked toward her parents.

Yousef, with his arm around his wife, called out, “Don’t take it easy on him!”

As they prepared for their final laps, I watched Amal’s face transform. She took a deep, centring breath just as Alexander had demonstrated, then slipped into the focused game face I’d seen on countless drivers before high-pressure sessions. Alexander started his kart with an effortless flick of muscle memory, following a few lengths behind his student initially before moving alongside her on the main straight.

When I pointed this linguistic metamorphosis out to Alexander later, he seemed genuinely surprised. “I don’t even notice myself doing it anymore,” he admitted. “Racing has always lived in both languages for me. I suppose it makes sense that as I’ve become more… integrated in other ways, the languages would follow.”

What struck me most watching Alexander with Amal wasn’t just his technical instruction, though that was impressive, but how he’d found a way to communicate the emotional essence of racing. The taciturn English of his professional self had given way to something richer, something that combined the precision of his British roots with the expressive passion of his Italian education.

In teaching Amal, Alexander had inadvertently discovered how to bridge the compartmentalised aspects of himself. Not by choosing one language or the other, but by allowing them to flow together naturally, creating something more complete than either could be alone.

---

Late Afternoon - Alexander’s Home, Pre-season 2025

Alexander’s kitchen was alive with the sounds and aromas of slow-cooked ragù, its rich scent filling every corner of the house. I had been working at his dining table since midday, laptop open, notes spread across the polished surface. Over the past eighteen months, his home had gradually become a place where I could work undisturbed when in Italy, an unexpected privilege that spoke volumes about our evolving relationship.

I glanced up as Alexander emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a tea towel. He moved with the same precise economy of motion I’d observed in his garage, but there was a looseness to his shoulders I rarely saw on race weekends.

“How’s it coming along?” he asked, nodding toward my laptop.

“Getting there. The Elkann chapter is proving trickier than I expected.”

“He’s a complex man,” Alexander said, leaning against the doorframe. “Hard to capture in words.”

“Unlike you, who’s an open book,” I replied dryly.

He laughed, a genuine sound that had become more frequent in recent months. “Speaking of which, I should warn you the ragù will be ready in about an hour. The team’s coming over for dinner around seven. Nothing formal, just…” he paused, searching for the right words. “Just wanted to have everyone together, not for work. You’ll join us, right?”

The casual invitation held a weight that Alexander seemed unaware of. Or perhaps was deliberately downplaying.

“I’d love to,” I said simply. “Can I help with anything?”

“Just keep writing,” he replied, his eyes sliding to the kitchen. “I’ve got this under control.”

As he disappeared back into the kitchen, I noted the slight nervousness in his movements, a rarity for someone whose composure under pressure was legendary. Tonight clearly mattered to him.

Early Evening - The Arrival

I was still typing, but moved to a position on a recliner in the living room when the doorbell rang, just before seven. Alexander emerged from upstairs, freshly showered, wearing simple dark jeans and a light blue shirt. Casual but deliberate, like everything else about him.

“That’ll be Amy,” he said, heading for the door. “Always first.”

Sure enough, Amy Millie stood on the doorstep, a bottle of wine in hand, her typical professional attire replaced by a relaxed sundress.

“You’re cooking?” she asked by way of greeting, her eyebrows rising as she caught the aroma from the kitchen. “Actual cooking, not just heating something Claudia arranged?”

“Maria’s recipe,” Alexander confirmed, taking the wine. “She spent hours yesterday explaining exactly how much of each ingredient to use, right down to how finely to chop the onions.”

“And you took notes, I assume,” Amy said, sharing a knowing glance with me as she entered.

“Voice recording,” Alexander replied with complete seriousness. “For accuracy.”

The doorbell rang again, and soon Claudia arrived with her partner Sophia, followed shortly by Adamo and his fiancée Elaina, their arms full of desserts and flowers. Each arrival shifted the energy of Alexander’s usually quiet home, filling it with voices, laughter, the casual chaos of people who knew each other well.

What struck me most was Alexander’s body language, the subtle but unmistakable transition to his “Italian self.” His gestures became more expansive, his speech pattern shifted to accommodate more Italian phrases and expressions, and his typical reserve melted into something warmer and more animated.

Enzo, Alexander’s Border Collie, wove excitedly between guests, constantly returning to Alexander’s side as if checking that his master was still present in this unusual gathering.

Dinner - The Shared Table

Alexander’s dining room had always been a showcase for his architectural interests, minimalist but warm, with carefully selected pieces that balanced form and function. Tonight, the long table was set simply but beautifully, with candles and small vases of wildflowers that Claudia immediately recognised.

“These are from the field behind the factory,” she said, touching a blue cornflower gently.

“Picked them this morning,” Alexander confirmed. “You pointed them out to me once. I thought they’d be nice.”

It was such a small detail, but the thoughtfulness behind it seemed to catch everyone slightly off guard. This wasn’t the Alexander who had systematically deleted parts of himself through 2024, who had emerged from Abu Dhabi 2021 with walls where windows used to be. This was someone they hadn’t seen in years. Someone who noticed wildflowers, who remembered small conversations, who brought beauty just because. Not a new person, but the one who had gone missing somewhere between heartbreak and triumph.

The ragù was served with homemade pappardelle, the pasta cut with the same precision that characterised everything Alexander did. Maria would have approved of the deep, rich flavour developed through hours of patient cooking. A process that couldn’t be rushed, that required faith in the slow transformation of simple ingredients into something complex and satisfying.

“This is seriously good,” Adamo said, clearly surprised. “Maybe you’ve been in the wrong profession all along.”

“Don’t give him ideas,” Amy replied. “I’ve only just figured out how to manage a racing driver. I’m not ready to pivot to celebrity chef.”

The conversation flowed easily around the table, deliberately steered away from the upcoming season, car development, or contract negotiations. Instead, they spoke about Adamo and Elaina’s wedding plans, about Sophia’s research in marine biology, about a film Claudia had recently seen that had inspired her.

“Still can’t believe you’re making me wear a proper suit to your wedding,” Alexander said to Adamo, reaching for his wine glass. Then he turned to Elaina, “I offered to wear my race suit. Fireproof, comfortable, already has my name on it.”

“He actually suggested it,” Adamo confirmed to the table, his arm draped comfortably across his fiancée’s shoulders. “With a straight face.”

A brief flash of horror crossed Elaina’s face before she caught the teasing glint in Alexander’s eye. “For a moment there, I thought you were serious,” she admitted, laughing with relief.

“The Ferrari red would have complemented your flowers perfectly,” Alexander insisted with mock seriousness.

“False,” Claudia interjected. “It would have clashed horribly. That’s why we’re putting him in navy.”

“You’ve been colour-coordinating me?” Alexander asked, eyebrows raised in feigned offence.

“Always,” Amy confirmed dryly. “You think those ‘casual’ outfits just happen by accident?”

The easy laughter that followed spoke volumes about the relationship that had developed between them. They were not just colleagues bound by professional obligations, but friends who had witnessed each other’s vulnerabilities and strengths.

As the meal progressed, I noticed Alexander carefully ensuring everyone was included. He’d draw Sophia into the conversation when she grew quiet, ask Claudia about her nephew’s football matches, engage with Elaina about her volunteering work. There was a mindfulness to his hosting that seemed both natural and newly developed.

The Toast - Acknowledgment

As the pasta plates were cleared and before dessert was served, Alexander stood, holding his wine glass. The conversation quieted, a hint of surprise rippling through the group. Alexander rarely initiated toasts or speeches outside of obligatory team functions.

“I shan’t keep you long,” he began, his English accent more pronounced than it had been during dinner, a subtle shift back toward formality that betrayed his nervousness. “But I wanted to say something while I have you all here.”

He paused, looking around the table at each person in turn.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what makes a home,” he continued. “Not just a house, but a real home. When I was young, my mother used to say, ‘Home is where they understand you.’ It was one of those phrases adults say that never quite made sense to me as a child.” He paused, a brief flicker, but he continued steadily.

“What I’ve realised, especially since last year, is that I’ve been fortunate enough to find that again. With all of you.”

He turned to Claudia first. “Claudia, you’ve kept my life from descending into complete chaos for years now. But more importantly, you’ve done it while being genuinely concerned about my wellbeing, not just my schedule. You remember things about me that I would otherwise forget about myself.”

Claudia blinked rapidly, clearly moved. Sophia squeezed her hand under the table.

Alexander shifted his gaze to Adamo. “Adamo, you’ve been torturing me for years under the guise of ‘physical preparation,’” he said, drawing laughter. “But you’ve also been there during the hardest moments. Not just as my trainer, but as someone who understands when to push and when to simply be present. You and Elaina have shown me what partnership looks like, and I’m honoured to stand with you at your wedding.”

Adamo’s typical stoicism wavered slightly as he nodded, unable to form words.

“And Amy,” Alexander said, his voice softening. “Amy, who has been there from the beginning. Who believed before anyone else did. Who has seen every version of me, the good, the bad, the absolutely insufferable, and somehow stayed.”

Their eyes met across the table, close to a decade of shared history passing between them in a single glance.

“You all have lives beyond me and my career,” Alexander continued. “Families, relationships, dreams of your own. And yet you’ve given so much of yourselves to this… enterprise we’ve built together. I don’t always express it well, but I see that. I see you. And I’m grateful not just for what you do, but for who you are.”

He raised his glass higher. “So this is simply to say thank you. Not to my team, though you are that, but to my family. The one I was lucky enough to find.”

The toast was met with a moment of profound silence, the weight of his words settling around the table. Then Amy raised her glass, eyes suspiciously bright.

“Alla famiglia,” she said simply.

“Alla famiglia” the others echoed, and Alexander sat down, looking simultaneously relieved and slightly embarrassed by his own display of emotion.

Evening - The Bridge

Dessert was tiramisu that Elaina had brought, accompanied by coffee made with Alexander’s meticulous attention to detail. Afterwards, the evening softened into the comfortable rhythm of people who enjoyed each other’s company. They moved to the living room, where the conversation continued to flow without the formality of the dining table.

“Remember Monza 2021?” Claudia asks, refilling Adamo’s glass without being asked. “When Alexander insisted he wasn’t tired—”

“—and then fell asleep standing up against the motorhome,” Adamo finishes, laughing. “Come un cavallo!”

“I was resting my eyes,” Alexander protests with the air of someone who has defended this position many times.

“You were snoring,” Claudia adds, her usual efficient reserve softening with amusement.

“Post-race adrenaline crash,” Alexander says primly. “Perfectly normal physiological response.”

“You drooled on my press schedule,” Amy counters.

The conversation meandered through shared memories. Not victories or achievements, but the human moments between: Adamo almost getting on the wrong flight in Japan, Claudia’s uncanny ability to predict exactly what Alexander would need before he knew himself, Amy’s legendary takedown of an overzealous journalist in Monaco.

What struck me was how naturally Alexander participated, not as the central figure these stories revolved around, but as an equal contributor to a shared history. He wasn’t Alexander Macalister, Ferrari driver and World Champion. He was simply Alexander, telling Sophia about the time Enzo had somehow gotten into his suitcase before a flight, or asking Elaina about her brother’s new restaurant in Milan.

As the evening drew to a close, I observed Alexander standing slightly apart, watching his guests with quiet satisfaction. Amy approached him, speaking softly.

“This was lovely,” I heard her say. “And completely unexpected.”

“Good unexpected, I hope,” he replied.

“The best kind,” she assured him. “Though I’m still trying to process the fact that you actually hosted a dinner party. Actually sitting at the table and with no racing on in the background!”

“Don’t get used to it,” he warned. “It’s strictly a special occasion thing.”

“And what’s the occasion?” she asked.

Alexander considered for a moment. “New beginnings, I suppose,” he said finally. “Or perhaps just acknowledging what’s already been true for a long time.”

Amy studied him with the perceptive gaze that had guided his career for nearly a decade. “It suits you,” she said simply, and they rejoined the others, moving seamlessly back into the flow of conversation.

As the guests began to depart, with warm embraces and promises of more gatherings to come, I hung back, watching Alexander say goodbye to each person with genuine warmth. The formal lines that had once separated his professional and personal relationships had blurred into something more authentic and complete.

When only Alexander and I remained, Alexander began clearing glasses with the same methodical efficiency he applied to everything.

“Need any help?” I asked.

“No, I’ve got it,” he said, then paused. “Actually, yes. But not with this. With the book.”

I raised my eyebrows questioningly.

“I’ve been thinking about writing an introduction,” he said. “Just a few paragraphs explaining… well, why I agreed to all this. Why it matters. Would that be helpful?”

“Very,” I said. “But only if you want to.”

He nodded decisively. “I do. I think it’s important that readers understand this isn’t just my story. It’s about all of us.” He gestured to the empty room that still held the energy of the evening’s gathering. “About how we’re all shaped by the people who choose to remain in our lives.”

As I drove back to my hotel later that night, I reflected on the evening. Not just as material for the book, but as a privilege I hadn’t expected when I began this project. I had witnessed not just the making of a champion, but the emergence of a more whole person. Someone who had learned to value connection as much as achievement, belonging as much as excellence.

The bridge Alexander was building wasn’t just between his past and future, or between his racing self and personal self. It was a bridge to others. An opening that allowed for genuine reciprocity rather than merely strategic support. That evolution, more than any championship trophy or racing record, seemed to me the most significant victory of his journey so far.