Epilogue

THE BRIDGE FOUNDATION

Late Autumn, 2025

The afternoon light streamed through the high windows of the training centre, casting long rectangles across the polished concrete floor. Amal, a serious fourteen-year-old with remarkable car control, frowned in concentration as she studied the telemetry displayed on the tablet Alexander held.

“See the difference here?” Alexander traced a line on the screen with his finger. “You’re losing time on corner entry because the weight transfer isn’t optimal. You’re braking slightly too early and too gradually.”

Amal nodded, her dark ponytail bobbing. “I understand the concept, but when I’m driving…” She trailed off, frustrated.

“When you’re driving, you need to feel the grip and that’s not the same as understanding the concept,” Alexander finished for her. He glanced at the other three young drivers watching intently, their expressions mirroring Amal’s theoretical understanding with practical confusion.

This was the challenge he hadn’t anticipated when establishing the foundation. Teaching the technical aspects was straightforward; translating them into physical execution was something else entirely. These kids comprehended the concepts intellectually but struggled to embody them.

Alexander ran a hand through his hair, searching for a different approach. “Let’s try—”

“Sorry I’m late!” A familiar voice called from the doorway. “Traffic from the airport was terrible.”

Alexander turned to see Gemma Rhodes walking toward them, dressed in casual athletic wear, her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. Something shifted in the atmosphere of the room. Not tension exactly, but a heightened awareness. The foundation staff exchanged curious glances; Alexander hadn’t mentioned she was coming.

“You’re right on time,” he said, offering a genuine smile. “We’re just hitting a sticking point with weight transfer concepts.”

They hadn’t seen each other in person since their relationship ended over a year ago, though they’d exchanged occasional texts. Their last in-person conversation had been difficult but necessary; this felt different. Professional but warm.

Gemma approached the group, introducing herself to the kids with a natural ease that Alexander found himself admiring. Amal’s eyes widened with recognition.

“You’re the Olympic gymnast,” she said, somewhere between a question and a statement.

“Former Olympic gymnast,” Gemma corrected with a smile. “Now I mostly teach others how to do the flips I used to do myself.”

Alexander gathered the young drivers. “Ms. Rhodes is visiting today because she knows a lot about coaching young athletes that I’m still figuring out. In motorsport, we tend to focus on the technical aspects and expect drivers to translate that into physical execution. But I’ve noticed that many of you understand the concepts perfectly and yet struggle to apply them in the car.”

He turned to Gemma. “I’ve been watching your coaching videos online. Gymnastics seems to have a much more developed language for translating technical concepts into physical movement.”

Gemma raised an eyebrow, surprised. “You’ve been studying gymnastics coaching techniques?”

“I study anything that might help me teach these kids more effectively,” Alexander replied simply.

The matter-of-fact way he said it, without defensiveness or self-consciousness, caught Gemma’s attention. The Alexander she had known would have approached this gap in his knowledge as a problem to solve privately, through the sheer power of will, and not something to acknowledge openly, especially in front of others.

“Well,” she said, recovering quickly, “the biggest difference I notice in gymnastics coaching is we rely heavily on physical cues rather than technical language. Instead of talking about weight distribution and body positioning, we create sensations the athlete can feel.”

She turned to Amal. “May I?” At the girl’s nod, Gemma placed her hands lightly on Amal shoulders. “In gymnastics, if I wanted you to understand the proper shoulder position for a skill, I wouldn’t describe the exact angle and muscle engagement. I’d give you something to feel. ‘Imagine your shoulders are being pulled toward your ears by strings,’ or ‘press your shoulders into the ground like you’re trying to make a print.’”

Alexander watched intently. “So instead of explaining the ideal weight transfer point, I need to create a physical sensation they can recognise and reproduce?”

“Exactly,” Gemma said. “Children—and adults too, honestly—learn movement patterns through feeling, not thinking. The analysis comes later, after the body understands.”

“Let’s try something,” he said, gesturing the young drivers toward the mechanical rig they used for simulating g-forces. “Instead of looking at telemetry and diagrams, we’re going to feel the data.”

What followed was an impromptu workshop that blended Alexander’s technical precision with Gemma’s experiential approach. He created physical cues for weight transfer by having the kids lean against pressure points, using tennis balls positioned on seats to create awareness of weight shift. Amal was the first to have a breakthrough, her eyes lighting up with sudden understanding.

“I feel it now!” she exclaimed during a simulator run. “It’s like what you said, catching the car’s momentum rather than fighting it.”

Alexander nodded, satisfaction evident in his expression. “Exactly. Now try it again, but only focus on that sensation, not the lap times.”

As the kids continued practicing with renewed enthusiasm, Alexander and Gemma stepped back, observing.

“They’re getting it,” Gemma said. “You translated the technical knowledge into physical understanding beautifully.”

“With your help,” Alexander acknowledged. “We don’t have a coaching tradition in motorsport the way you do in gymnastics. Drivers are expected to figure it out themselves or fail. I don’t want that for these kids.”

There was something different about him, Gemma realised. The intense focus was still there, the methodical mind still evident. But there was a new flexibility, a willingness to approach problems from multiple angles rather than searching for the single correct solution.

“You’ve changed,” she said quietly, not as criticism but observation.

Alexander considered this. “Racing, coaching, life… they all require different approaches sometimes, but they’re not as separate as I used to tell myself,” he said finally. “I’m trying to integrate rather than compartmentalise these days. Finding the optimal balance internally, and also with those around me.”

As I observed this exchange from my position near the doorway, I couldn’t help but note the significance of his words. In all our conversations about his post-championship evolution, Alexander had never articulated his transformation so succinctly or openly.

Gemma glanced around the facility, taking in the meticulous organisation and attention to detail that was unmistakably Alexander’s influence. “This is impressive. You and Amy have done a lot. Speaking of which, where is she? I’m surprised I haven’t seen her and her travel mug of coffee.”

Alexander shook his head slightly, his attention still mainly on Amal’s progress. “Amy was helpful with some of the initial contacts and legal framework, but the day-to-day is mostly me. This is… something I needed to build myself.”

A subtle shift in Gemma’s expression suggested she recognised the significance of this statement. Amy had been the executor of Alexander’s vision throughout his career, the one who translated his ideas into reality while he focused on driving. This arrangement was clearly different.

“That’s new for you,” she observed.

“It needed to be,” he replied simply. After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “She’s developing her own projects too. She’s co-founding a production company and has gotten serious about art collection, mostly contemporary Italian artists. She’s got quite an eye for it.”

There was genuine warmth in his voice when he spoke of Amy’s pursuits, free from any hint of abandonment or concern. It was the tone of someone who had recognised a long-standing imbalance and was quietly working to correct it.

Gemma nodded, understanding passing between them without further explanation needed. “And you’re handling all this yourself? The scheduling, the admin, the coaching?”

“Not entirely alone,” he acknowledged with a small smile. “I have a part-time operations manager, and then there’s Bruno over there. In gymnastics terms, I suppose he’d be my ‘assistant coach.’ He’s not much older than the others, but he’s been competing since he was five and has the perfect temperament for this work.” Alexander watched as Bruno patiently guided a frustrated young driver through a simulation. “He has this natural ability to connect with them, to know when they need pushing and when they need reassurance. I’m trying to be more like him, actually.” He shrugged slightly. “But yes, I’m much more hands-on than I would have been before. Less delegation, more participation.”

What struck me most as I watched this interaction was the absence of self-congratulation in Alexander’s demeanour. He wasn’t presenting this shift as evidence of personal growth or seeking approval. It was simply his new reality. A quiet recalibration of a relationship that had been fundamentally imbalanced for years, however functional it had been.

“This work suits you,” Gemma replied. They watched as Amal executed a perfect simulation run, her movements fluid and confident. Her times improving.

“There’s a new restaurant that opened near here,” Alexander said after a moment, his tone casual but deliberate. “Northern Italian cuisine, but with a modern approach. Supposedly excellent.”

Gemma glanced at him, a small smile playing at her lips. “I haven’t had really good Italian food since…” She left the sentence unfinished, but they both knew the reference.

“They have this tiramisu that’s apparently worth the visit alone,” he continued. “Though I haven’t tried it yet.”

“Sounds intriguing,” she said. Not a commitment, but not a refusal either.

Alexander nodded, then returned his attention to the kids. “Amal, that was excellent! Now, can you describe what you felt to Liang? And Liang, you describe what you felt. I want you all to explore your own language for the sensations you are feeling.”

Gemma watched as Amal attempted to explain her breakthrough to the younger boy, with Alexander guiding the conversation without dominating it. He was creating a collaborative learning environment rather than a hierarchical one. Another departure from his usually solitary approach to problem-solving.

I noticed Gemma observing Alexander as he made notes on each student’s progress. Detailed, thoughtful observations that would inform their next sessions. These weren’t the rapid, shorthand notes he would typically make for Amy to expand upon and action, but complete thoughts in his distinctive handwriting.

“You know,” Gemma said quietly as she helped him gather the equipment for the next exercise, “when we were together, I sometimes felt like I was competing with your singular focus on racing. But watching you today…” She paused, searching for the right words. “It’s not that the focus isn’t still there, but it seems like you’ve found room for other things, other people, alongside it.”

Alexander looked at her thoughtfully. “I spent so long believing that to do one thing perfectly, I couldn’t afford to do anything else well,” he said. “You know, I used to watch you move so effortlessly between worlds: elite athlete in the gym, daughter at family dinners, partner when we were together. I couldn’t comprehend how you did it,” he admitted. “I thought it was just something unique to you. It’s taken me this long to realise it wasn’t about ability, but choice.”

As the session continued, Gemma found herself studying Alexander with fresh eyes. The champion driver was still there, evident in his precise movements and analytical mind. But now there was room for the mentor, the student, the person who could find joy in a young driver’s breakthrough as meaningful as his own racing success.

He had found a way to be both exactly who he had always been and something new entirely. It reminded her of what she’d told him once, lying in his garden under the Italian sky: “Maybe there’s room for both? The precision and the cartwheel.”

It seemed he’d found that room at last.

---

THE NEXT SUMMIT

The coaching session had ended for the day, but no one seemed in a hurry to leave. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the karting track, painting everything in warm amber light. I sat quietly in a folding chair at the edge of the garage, notebook open but pen still, allowing myself to be temporarily distracted by the fleeting notes of a perfect summer afternoon.

Alexander and Amal had settled themselves against the armco barrier, legs stretched out on the pit lane tarmac, backs to the metal. They formed a striking contrast. The world champion in his understated, unadorned, plain white race suit, the fourteen-year-old prodigy in her bright Bridge Foundation racing suit, both staring down the pit lane out upon the empty track as daylight slowly faded.

From my position, I could just make out their conversation. Not close enough to be intrusive, but near enough to catch the cadence of their exchange. Gemma had positioned herself a few metres away from me, ostensibly reviewing some notes but occasionally glancing towards the pair at the barrier.

“Can I ask you something personal?” Amal’s voice carried in the quiet evening air.

Alexander nodded, that characteristic slight hesitation before he spoke that I’d come to recognise over our months together. “Of course.”

“Now that you’ve won the championship…” She paused, gathering courage. “What makes you keep going? What’s left to achieve?”

I watched Alexander take a moment with this question. Genuinely considering it. This was another change I’d noted in recent months. He’d become more comfortable with silence, with thinking before speaking. Not in self-defence, but in considered openness.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” he finally said, turning slightly to look at her. “It’s what everyone wants to know. Including me, sometimes.”

Amal waited, seemingly content with his thoughtfulness.

“When I was your age, all I could think about was getting to Formula 1,” Alexander continued. “Then it was winning my first race. Then it was with wining my next race. Then it was the championship.” He picked up a small stone from the tarmac, turning it over in his fingers. “The strange thing is, achieving those goals didn’t change things like I expected.”

“Was it not as good as you thought?” Amal asked, concern flashing across her face.

“No, it was…” Alexander paused again. “It was extraordinary. But also ephemeral. The moment itself passes so quickly.”

He gestured toward the track. “I used to think there was a perfect race out there somewhere. The perfect qualifying lap, the perfect strategy, the perfect drive. If I could just find all the pieces and put them together, I’d have this… complete satisfaction.”

Amal nodded eagerly. “The perfect line.”

Alexander smiled at that. “Exactly. But I’ve realised that the perfect line doesn’t exist as a destination. It exists just… as a direction. Something to move toward but never quite reach.”

He set the stone down deliberately. “So to answer your question, what drives me now isn’t just collecting more trophies. It’s the pursuit itself. The constant discovery. Finding new approaches, new challenges.”

From my vantage point, I could see Gemma had stopped pretending to review her notes. She was listening openly now.

“Is that why you started the foundation?” Amal asked.

Alexander seemed surprised by the question. “Partly,” he admitted. “But it’s also about…” He gestured vaguely, searching for words. “Balance, I suppose. Racing gives me one kind of fulfilment. This..” he motioned to the facility around them, to Amal sitting next to him ”… gives me another kind entirely.”

“My grandmother says balance is the hardest skill to master,” Amal said, drawing her knees up to her chest.

“Your grandmother is very wise,” Alexander replied with a slight smile. “I spent my life focused exclusively on racing. Everything else was… secondary. Postponed for some theoretical future moment when I’d achieved enough.”

He looked directly at Amal now. “I don’t regret the focus. It got me where I wanted to go. But I regret not understanding sooner that life happens alongside achievement, not after it.”

I noticed Gemma shift slightly in her chair, her expression unreadable.

“Did winning the championship change that for you?” Amal persisted.

Alexander considered this. “Not in the way I expected. I thought it would feel like…” He searched for the right comparison. “Like reaching the summit of a mountain. Instead, it felt more like discovering the mountain was actually part of a range, with many different peaks, each offering a different view.”

He gestured toward the foundation buildings. “Teaching you and the others, that’s one peak I’m exploring now. It offers a perspective I never had before.”

“What other peaks are there?” Amal asked.

Alexander laughed softly. “I’m still figuring that out. Family, perhaps. Exploring interests and hobbies.” He paused. “But for now, connections with people.”

“The point is,” he continued, “achievement isn’t an endpoint. It’s just a marker on the way that let’s you know you’re doing something right”.

Amal nodded, though I suspected some of this was beyond her fourteen years. Still, she seemed to grasp the essence.

“So you’re still going to try to win more championships, right?” she asked, the competitive spirit evident in her voice.

Alexander laughed more fully this time. “Absolutely. Racing is still central to who I am. I’m not about to start taking Sundays off.” The familiar intensity flashed in his eyes. “But I’ve learned that a life singularly devoted to one purpose, no matter how noble or exciting, is ultimately incomplete.”

He bumped her shoulder lightly with his own. “The trick is finding the harmony between fierce ambition and open-hearted living. I’ll let you know when I master it.”

“Deal,” Amal grinned, bumping him back.

As darkness began to settle over the track, a foundation employee appeared from the garage, waving to catch Alexander’s eye. A silent reminder of other commitments waiting. Alexander nodded in acknowledgment, then turned back to Amal.

“One last thing,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Remember that failure and success are both temporary visitors. Neither defines you. But how you respond to them might.”

He stood, offering Amal a hand up, which she accepted despite clearly not needing the assistance. As they walked back toward the garage, I couldn’t help but contrast this Alexander with the one I’d first met years ago. The precision and focus remained, but they’d been tempered with something new. A wisdom that came not just from achievement but from loss, connection, and the gradual integration of all his experiences.

As the group began gathering their things to leave, I made a final note in my journal: “The perfect line doesn’t exist as a destination. It exists as a direction.” Perhaps that was true not just for racing, but for storytelling. And for life itself.

[END]