“Morning, Jack,” Giovanni says without looking up from his screen. “We’ll start with the baseline setup, then make incremental adjustments based on your feedback. Standard protocol.”
“Sounds good,” I say, heading toward the garage area to get into my race suit. The familiar pre-drive routine settles over me.
I hear Lark’s distinctive Honda engine pulling into the parking area while I’m zipping up my suit. We’d planned this earlier in the week, figured it would be excellent Instagram content to have her at a track day, show the supportive girlfriend angle to the sponsors. But hearing her car approach makes me unexpectedly happy, this warm feeling in my chest that has nothing to do with social media strategy. Like the day just got significantly better.
“Give me five minutes,” I tell Giovanni, already walking toward the parking area.
“Take your time,” he replies, completely absorbed in his system checks. “I need at least ten minutes to finish the diagnostic calibration anyway.”
I head out to the parking area, where Lark’s getting out of her car. She’s wearing dark jeans that fit her perfectly, a burgundy sweater that makes her skin glow, and her long black hair is pulled back in a ponytail that shows off her neck. Sunglasses pushed up on her head, camera bag over one shoulder, large thermos of coffee in hand.
She looks fucking gorgeous.
“Morning,” I say, unable to keep the smile off my face. “You found it okay.”
“GPS is a wonderful modern invention,” she says, smiling back. “Plus you were right, the track is visible from the highway. Kind of hard to miss.”
“Thanks for coming out here,” I say, and I mean it more than the casual words suggest. “I know this is probably not the most exciting way to spend a Tuesday morning. Watching cars go in circles.”
“Are you kidding? I get to see behind the scenes of your actual job,” she says, looking around at all the equipment andpeople, curiosity lighting up her face. “This is fascinating. Plus, Instagram content.” She holds up her phone with a wry smile.
“Right,” I say, feeling that strange twinge in my chest again. “The content.”
Giovanni waves from the garage bay.
“I should get going,” I tell her reluctantly. “There’s a covered viewing area up on that hill, or you can hang out in the garage. They’re all friendly if you have questions.”
“Go do your thing,” she says, shooing me away with her free hand. “I’ll explore and try not to touch anything expensive.”
The first hour is methodical, technical work. Ten careful laps, come in, give detailed feedback to Giovanni about understeer in the low-speed corners. They make minute adjustments to the suspension geometry, I go back out and test again. I love this part of the job—the problem-solving, the collaborative process, the tiny adjustments that make huge differences. This is where racing becomes as much science as instinct, where engineering meets art.
Between my second and third session, I spot Lark chatting animatedly with Lorenzo, the lead engineer. Lorenzo is famously taciturn, barely speaks to anyone, so seeing him engaged in what appears to be an enthusiastic conversation is surprising. He’s using his hands to gesture at something on his monitor while Lark nods along, asking questions.
“Your girlfriend’s made friends,” Giovanni observes, following my gaze with an amused expression.
“She has that effect on people,” I say, watching her. She fits anywhere. With anyone.
We run three more intensive sessions over the next two hours, getting the car more dialed in each time. The understeer is completely gone, the balance feels perfect. Between runs, I keep finding myself looking for Lark. She’s moved aroundthe facility, talking to different people, taking photos with her camera.
“We’re done with the technical runs,” Giovanni announces after my final session, closing his laptop with satisfaction. “Really good data today. The team will be pleased with these results.”
I pull off my helmet, running a hand through my hair. “Can I take Lark out for a few laps?” I ask, the idea forming as I say it. “Show her what we’ve been working on all morning?”
Giovanni considers for a moment, glancing over to where Lark is reviewing photos on her camera screen. “Insurance covers it as long as she signs the waiver. Just be reasonable out there.”
“Always,” I say, already heading toward her with a spare helmet in hand.
“Want to go for a ride?” I ask as I approach. “See what it feels like from inside?”
She looks up from her camera, eyes bright. “In the car? Like, while you’re driving it fast?”
“Three laps. I promise I’ll be gentle.” I grin. “Mostlygentle.”
“Define gentle,” she says suspiciously, but she’s already standing, setting her camera carefully aside on a workbench.
“Gently terrifying,” I admit.
“Well, when you put it that way,” she laughs, taking the helmet from my hands. “Let’s do it.”
