Riccione is a beach town an hour and a half south of Bologna, and for the first two days it was a rainy ghost town with nothing open. Then the sun arrived and so did everyone else.
The big day on the bikes ran about sixty kilometres inland through the hills, hilltop castles as checkpoints, one real climb, and a casual pedal home. I had not seen the sun in six months and came back burnt to a crisp.
Then Imola, an hour and a half away, where nobody speaks English and everybody speaks Formula 1. We arrived four hours before the race, which is about the right amount of time. The circuit runs through what feels like an amusement park – restaurants, a countdown clock, orchards, and people who actually live inside the track. Beer is bought with tokens.
The day before, from seats at the start line, Leclerc passed Verstappen on the first lap and the place lost its mind. Race day was wet, Sainz went out, Leclerc put it into the barrier, and the result was not the one the Italians wanted. The cars are still faster than your eyes want to process.
Saturday night back in Riccione, with the town finally awake, was thick-crust pizza and the square.