We made it.

All safe.

All sound.

All back in our respective hotels,
    the weekend finally loosening its grip
                             one wristband,
                               one shuttle,
                 one tired laugh at a time.

Tomorrow,
         everybody starts peeling off
                   at different hours.

Flights.

Bags.

Checkout math.

The small logistics
    of leaving a thing

    you’re not quite ready to be done with.

Ron,
    naturally,

    is staying until Tuesday.

Bonus day in Montreal.

Because of course he is.

And Taha,
    local advantage,
    does not have to leave at all,

    which feels unfair but geographically sound.

The race gave everybody something to carry.

Mari’s driver won.

Kimi.

Nineteen years old
         and already driving
         like somebody forgot to tell him

         how nervous he should be.

Victorious.

Phenomenal.

Rude, honestly,
      in the way youth can be
      when it shows up fully formed

      and starts collecting trophies.

My papaya went rotten early
         and only got worse.

One DNF.

One might-as-well-not-have.

The kind of McLaren day
    that makes a new jacket
    feel less like merch

    and more like evidence of poor timing.

Still wore it.

Obviously.

Sharesa,
    Ron,
    Lih-sia
    got Lewis in second,
    which meant smiles were distributed
    to the Hamilton delegation

    with appropriate ceremony.

Everybody had a reason
          to point at the track
            and claim something.

Even me, eventually,
         if only the right to complain

         in coordinated orange.

Then Gino’s.

Negroni & Lasagne.

Mile End.

The most notoriously Montrealish
            way to end the night
   any of us could have invented,

      except we didn’t invent it.

We just sat down
   and let the city
   keep being ridiculous

   in our favor.

Amazing tacos.

Fabulous authentic lasagne.

Negroni doing
        exactly what the sign promised.

And Lih-sia approved focaccia,
    which is not technically
    a governing body,
    but might be the closest
    we came all weekend

    to a reliable steward’s decision.

Puerto Vallarta
       would have recognized
         the taco confidence.

Italy would have had notes,
                  probably,

         but friendly ones.

Montreal just shrugged
        and put it all
     on the same table.

Of course.

Why would the finish
       be normal now?

That was never the operating mode.

This weekend had
   broken planes,
  wrong shuttles,
   perfect seats,
       wet track,
      clean line,

      new friends from Alabama,
      old friends from everywhere,

      and enough unexpected moments
      to make the whole thing feel

      like a gift.

I could not have asked
  for a better group of people
      to spend my bucket-list budget on.

That’s the part I keep coming back to.

Not the cost.

Not the chaos.

Not the schedule
    that tried repeatedly

    to become a crime scene.

The people.

The table.

The way a trip like this
       starts as an idea
                and ends
             with a crew
        you would defend
      from seat vultures,
            airport math,
          bad directions,

            and possibly…
your own better judgment.

Montreal isn’t quite over.

Not until the last bag zips shut.

Not until the last person
     finds the right gate.

Not until the thread
    does its quiet work
         after everyone scatters.

But the checkered flag is out on this part.

Mile End finish.

Good food.

Good people.

Papaya bruised,
       but still standing.

And CDMX
    already louder in my head
    than it has any right to be.

(we’ll keep a seat for Ron)