dreams
It’s August 28th and I’ve finally done it.
To be honest I have not been waiting a lot of time for this moment; though that depends on how you look at it. Like everything.
It has taken me a little more than two months to finally be walking among the trees in the Castellaccio Park, but considering I’ve been into Ayrton for barely four I guess you could call that slow. Or not.
I am riding shotgun in the car, as this is far too important for me to just gaze at it from the backseat. I take pictures of the signs announcing the village and a few other of the ones marking the way towards circuit of Imola, just to make sure that it’s all happening and it’s real and yes I’m really there.
The first real thing I see from the circuit is a picture of him. It’s the Ayrton Senna grandstand and there he is waving in his Williams outfit, which leads me to think that there’s a 30% chance it was taken right here in this same venue in which he had the misfortune and we had the misfortune of him losing his life.
It is August 28th and I am walking in silence through the empty grandstand homonymous to the greatest F1 driver that has walked or will walk this Earth. In a way this situation reminds me of the past glorious years of the 80s and 90s seasons. Back to when the Tamburello was a normal corner. Lots of stickers are torn and sometimes the chairs are missing, even for rows. There’s also a normal car going around the circuit.
After a while I go to another grandstand in a different part of the circuit. I can imagine the engines roaring, I can imagine Ayrton driving through this corner with his hand raised in a sign of victory, maybe holding a Brazilian flag high up too.
It is August 28th and we’ve already asked two different people about where the monument is. The sun is slowly setting when I see the chicane.
I have no real way of knowing which chicane this is as I am not really aware of the circuit layout, but I know.
My heartbeat speeds up the moment I see the Tamburello. It’s the first time I’ve really felt like crying.
As I walk along the exit of the corner I’m looking to the right and there are flowers and messages and pictures hanging there fifteen years later.
And, suddenly, there he is between some bushes. Tears spring to my eyes as I contemplate th cold metal copy of the one and only reason I am here. There are flower between his hands and I can’t help but notice that he is facing towards the corner that claimed him.
I have my picture taken, but I no matter how hard I try I really can’t bring myself to smile some twenty meters away from the spot in which Ayrton Senna lost his life. His intense but all too short life.
I snake between the bushes and grasp the metal fence. More pictures, flags, letters in Portuguese or English that I’m sure he has read some way or another. I haven’t brought anything and I really want to leave before I break down in the middle of the park.
Some of the messages are hanging limply after much time being hung up there; a graffiti Brazilian flag has its colors slowly wearing out. Fading, like all the memories do.
On the other side of the asphalt there are more small tributes like these. And, again, somehow I know it was there. And I want to cry again.
As we leave I try to sound light and cheery but there’s some sort of knot in my throat and some tears that need to be shed. Later, I tell myself.
We are looking for a parking spot in the streets of Imola to go have dinner. We find one relatively easily and I spot a restaurant’s sign in the outside of a small square encircled by buildings.
And it is the Gilles Villeneuve square. It couldn’t be any other way, could it?
We barely speak about Ayrton through dinner, just a few F1 related comments and that’s it. I’m still replaying all of it in my head.
That night we have booked in the Castello hotel in the nearby town of Castel San Pietro. I can’t help a big smile when I’m told my room number is 204, only 4 rooms away from where Ayrton Senna slept for the last time.
It’s August 28th and yes, I’ve finally done it.