I grew up in a dry suburb on the edge of Phoenix where the nights smelled like dust and hot steel. My dad fixed air conditioners and old cars. Our garage was a maze of sockets and belts and coffee cans full of bolts that never matched. The first time I heard a kart rip down the straight at the little track outside town I felt my ribs buzz. The sound climbed out of the asphalt and into my chest. It made sense in a way school never did. Numbers on a worksheet slid out of my head. A lap time carved itself in.

After that Saturday I lived for weekends. Dad bought a used kart from a guy who swore it only stalled when the moon was crooked. The seat was cracked. The chain chewed at my ankles. The paint peeled like sunburn. I wiped it down anyway and told it we were going to be fast. I named it Sparrow because it looked light and stubborn. We tuned it by ear. Dad would tilt his head and say give it a touch more fuel. I would listen and twist and try again. When the motor finally barked to life the whole street seemed to lean in and listen.

The first laps were ugly. I braked too early and then too late. I spun once and the tires thumped a stack of blue barrels. A marshal jogged over and asked if I was fine. I said yes and meant it. My hands shook and my cheeks hurt from smiling. I had found the door and I was inside. I could smell oil and rubber and sun baked rubber more than anything. The track was a loop but it felt like a road out of my old life.

School slowed me down. I stared at the clock while teachers talked about cells and clauses. At lunch I sketched corners in the margins. I would mark braking points with tiny Xs and note where a bump lived in turn four. Friends made jokes about prom and weekend games. I nodded and checked weather reports. If wind shifted out of the east the back straight picked up speed. I measured days by that wind more than by homework.

Mom worried in quiet ways. She taped my report card to the fridge and asked if I slept enough. I told her I had a plan. I would make it to F1. I said it like a fact. She looked at Dad and he shrugged and smiled and told her the boy has gears in his bones. She laughed and hugged me and then went to the sink because sometimes love looks like filling a glass of water and setting it where a kid can reach it.

I raced every cheap event we could find. We drove to Nevada in a borrowed van with a cooler full of sandwiches and a spare chain that did not fit. I learned to brake with my left foot so my right stayed ready. I learned to feel a tire losing grip not by sight but through a thin whistle that lived under the seat. I learned to breathe when a driver chopped my nose and left me in dirty air. I learned that anger wastes fuel and focus so I let it go and chased the next corner.

When the sun dropped behind the bleachers and the track lights came on I felt like I belonged to something bigger than myself. I cleaned Sparrow with a rag that used to be Dad’s work shirt. I placed my helmet on the seat like a crown. Before bed I watched old races on a tiny screen. Senna in the rain. Hamilton on softs. Alonso building a wall with a car that had no right to hold. I whispered along with commentators and traced each move with my finger in the air. It was practice for a life I had not earned yet but hoped to build with my hands.

On a quiet night near the end of summer Dad rolled the kart out onto the driveway. We listened to crickets and neighbors and the engine cooling from a late test. He asked me if I was sure. F1 is a mountain. We live in the desert. I said that mountains grow one step at a time. He snorted and said deserts have mirages. I pointed to my chest and said this one does not. He nodded. He told me that grit is love in motion. Then he set his hand on the steering wheel and said we begin again tomorrow at dawn.

I lay awake staring at the ceiling fan. The blades turned. The room hummed. I pictured the long road ahead like a line drawn across states and oceans. I felt fear sit beside it. I let fear sit. I did not push it away. I told it to ride along and stay quiet because I needed space for speed. I fell asleep with my fingers curled as if gripping a wheel and I dreamed about a checkered flag that kept moving just out of reach and how that was fine because the chase was the point.