Monte Carlo unfortunately. Once again, with that old glamor that smells a bit like a dance hall, with that burnt pride that recalls the glories of an elsewhere, mythical and omnipresent. Cover faces to sprinkle the void, a sea of boats to hide the iridescent aquamarine of the waves. Everyone seems to be, while they claim to be: the devotees of the circuit, the drivers astonished in the presence of the most venomous snake in the championship.
Then there is Charles, with the colors of Monk tattooed on the helmet, with a Ferrari eager for a result: a driver demanding his first time, in the tortuous theater of many beginnings, in the beloved curves where he has paid far too many duties. The predestined on whom a cynical press feeds, the boy who matures, curve after curve, in an explosion of speed, while cradling a promise.
Forty years, decades that can still be counted on one hand. A necessary leap in time, in this month, in this round year, all aimed at telling the myth. There was a Brazilian boy, his name was Senna, Da Silva, or both, it doesn't matter. The cars of the time were almost like toy cars compared to the mastodons of today, light, hybrid but cumbersome, papier-mâché giants in a city gut.
Senna we were saying. At the beginning of a June very similar to today's spring of incessant rain. He was there, in a modest Toleman, ready to give driving lessons to veterans, without arrogance, yet without restraint. He discovered the world between walls of water vapour, so dense as to hide the closest vision, between guardrail walls made specifically to be caressed, sinuous and seductive like the song of the sirens. Yet he, the little-known Brazilian, gave us the first of his many spells.
Exactly twelve years, a budding adolescence, ready to be remembered by many nostalgic people. Monte Carlo and Schumacher: the return. Michael in the German uniform, although he finally spoke Italian, despite driving a silver star. There were few high notes, many mediocre results, nothing that could recall our beloved Kaiser in red. Then comes Monte Carlo 2012 and he puts his signature, in invisible ink, because his pole will be cancelled. The fault of a previous penalty to be paid, right there, at the most beautiful moment, when he returned to make us fall in love.
![Leclerc Monaco](https://www.formulacritica.it/wp-content/uploads/2024/05/Senna-1987-jpg.webp)
Now the time becomes shorter, adopt a light measure: one, two, five. Years imprinted in the memories of the very young, of modern but equally devoted fans. Bad luck like leitmotif, anger as a feeling to be put aside in view of the bright future, of that deserved compensation, of that honor paid. The Prince of Monte Carlo awaits the right moment, his recovery, the winning move.
Try to think of yourself as Charles – and no, please, without the echo of Chiara Ferragni – Think of yourself as a boy full of ambition and talent, who pushes and bustles with a dedication enviable only to a few. Look at him over there chasing his dream, trembling in the knowledge that it could have become impossible without help, since unfortunately being a champion is not enough without the damn money to push, to grease, to dab. A career saved in extremis thanks to a friend who is no longer here. A dream that began thanks to a father who will be there forever.
So here it is Monte Carlo 2024, Leclerc's first, the return of Ferrari. Charles' victory, perfectly poised between magic and perfection. He makes pole his own, in the terrain that is most congenial to him, that of the quick instant, which he has so much in common with his idol Senna. He manages the lead position like a seasoned driver, absorbing the concentration of Lauda, the mastery of Prost, the determination of Schumacher. And finally he returns to himself, in the most important moment, in the few laps before the checkered flag.
Tears that blur, but refresh, like providential glasses to make clear emotions dormant in a distant whirlpool. Transparent drops of life and exultation, of gratitude and faith, a new dew for the driver and for the team.
![GP Monaco Leclerc](https://www.formulacritica.it/wp-content/uploads/2024/05/LEC-4-jpg.webp)
There is a small piece of land between the rugged mountain and the sea, with a heart of asphalt that pulsates to the rhythm of the engines. But once the Grand Prix is over it is made up of sidewalks on which people walk, of streets traveled by ordinary cars, of common stories like that of a boy who wanted to win, to keep a promise. Well, perhaps this is precisely the true success, the one that needs time, self-sacrifice and defeats.
Monte Carlo fortunately. The yawn is always around the corner, it must be admitted, and pole continues to be a guaranteed victory. But certain stories have the power to reawaken ardor, to evoke memories, to inspire intentions. Thus, while Charles enters the legend, we all find ourselves inebriated, citizens of that indefinable little ancient and infinitely current world. Of that principality that still makes us believe in fairy tales.
Crediti foto: Scuderia Ferrari HP