F1: The Speed Legend

Straight to the point. Lines drawn from the start.

Jean Todt made his position clear early, and Marchionne wasn’t surprised in the slightest. He smiled.

”Of course. I know. I won’t put you in a difficult position.”

”I’m not Helmut Marko. I just need to remind the Super Licence Commission that, ’hey, Jean and I have been friends for years.’”

The subtext was obvious: Ferrari and the FIA had been intertwined for a very, very long time.

Todt chuckled. Naturally, he understood every twist in that sentence. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have come downstairs personally to greet Marchionne today.

”Don’t misunderstand,” Todt said. ”You know what I think of that kid. I’m just curious why the hurry?”

”In yesterday’s Budapest Sprint, the baby didn’t keep winning, did he? Waiting a little longer, observing a little more… doesn’t that seem reasonable?”

The Hungarian weekend was over. In the GP3 Sprint Race, Kai who had dominated the Feature was surrounded and hunted down. No conspiracies, no fouls, no crashes, just pure, textbook team play from Trident.

Four against one.

Trident boxed him in with ruthless coordination, proving that motorsport wasn’t just about the driver, but the team.

They swept the podium and finally redeemed themselves for the Silverstone disaster.

Kai, with only two hands and one car, could not beat four. He finished fourth his first time this season off the podium.

For the first time since his rise, he had truly ”hit the wall.” From Britain to Budapest, his dominance had visibly loosened. The easiest metric: his Sprint Race results. P1, then P3, now P4. The noise returned in waves doubt, mockery, ”exposed” thinkpieces pushing him back under the harshest lights.

People had never stopped questioning him. He had no roots in the paddock; one ripple could become a storm. Now, with two Sprint Races below the insanity of Spain and Austria, the noise was deafening.

In that context, if Marchionne chose to wait steady the ship, let things cool down a little it would’ve been understandable.

He didn’t.

Instead, he flew to Paris immediately, to fight for Kai’s Super Licence himself.

That was the difference between a boss and a warlord.

Marchionne didn’t answer directly. He countered.

”Do you think Kai’s form has dropped off, that we need more time to ’observe’?”

Todt blinked. ”No. Of course not.”

He paused.

”In fact, I think his performance is still trending up. The pressure and attention around him keep rising, voices inside and outside the paddock keep getting louder. For a seventeen-year-old, that’s the perfect recipe for distraction.”

”But he’s stayed focused. I’m still impressed.”

”Honestly, I like his Sprint Races at Silverstone and Budapest even more.”

”But.”

”Sergio, we’re talking about a power game here. It’s not that simple. You know exactly what your move implies.”

A faint smile touched Marchionne’s eyes. ”If you want to talk about power and interest, then let’s talk about it.”

”Your commission meets in August. I’ve already heard they’re planning to tighten the Super Licence rules again.”

Todt didn’t flinch. ”No, you misunderstand. Not ’tighten’ guide. Help young drivers take a structured path to F1.”

”And if I can’t wait?” Marchionne asked.

That stopped Todt cold.

He tasted the words carefully. A thought sparked in his mind. His eyes widened a little as he looked at Marchionne, seeking confirmation.

Marchionne only smiled and said nothing.

A wave broke inside Todt’s skull. His heart hammered. His ears rang. Not because he was naive, but because he understood exactly how big this would be if it happened.

”Does Maurizio know?” he asked quietly.

Marchionne only shrugged, calm as ever, and patted him on the shoulder.

”Mr. President, would you be so kind as to show me the way?”

To understand what was happening, you had to go back to Verstappen.

In 2014, Max Verstappen burst onto the scene. Helmut Marko saw him and went hunting immediately. In Marko’s eyes, Verstappen was Red Bull’s future.

There was just one problem: Verstappen wasn’t even seventeen yet. A minor. Forget a Super Licence there were countries where he couldn’t even get a road licence.

But Marko studied the FIA regulations line by line, found a loophole, and shoved Verstappen through it.

The rest is history.

Youngest F1 debut. Youngest points scorer. Youngest race winner. Every record with the word ”youngest” in it might as well have his face engraved on it. He became a storm that swept through the paddock and reshaped how teams thought about junior talent.

The FIA took that blow in silence, then scrambled to patch the hole. They changed the rules, and in 2016, the new Super Licence system arrived.

Now, the criteria were detailed and strict, with three core pillars.

First: Age.

You had to be at least eighteen. Hard rule. No under-18 driver could even apply for a Super Licence.

Second: Points.

You needed forty Super Licence points over three seasons. F2 champion: 40, runner-up: 30, third: 20. European F3 and GP3 champions: 30, runner-up: 20, third: 15. Each series added its own ladder, but the math was the same get to forty.

Third: Mileage.

Three hundred kilometers in an F1 car, within 180 days either in FP1 sessions or FIA-sanctioned tests.

And that wasn’t all. There was a theory test. A requirement for at least two seasons of single-seater experience. Pages and pages of fine print.

At the end of the day, F1 is dangerous. It can and has killed. The FIA wrote those rules not to make things hard for fun, but to keep drivers alive.

On paper, Kai checked none of the boxes.

He didn’t have enough points. He didn’t have enough single-seater seasons. And most crucially, he wasn’t even eighteen.

From any angle, Kai had no business applying for a Super Licence. That was the whole point of the system: force young drivers to spend at least two seasons gaining experience before they got anywhere near F1. Otherwise, their hormones would write cheques their hands couldn’t cash.

It was, quite literally, a ”Verstappen Law.” All of it was fallout from Red Bull and Max.

Even if you ignored this year and just looked at next Kai’s odds of jumping straight into F1 were slim.

And worse news was coming.

Verstappen had spent 2016 and 2017 bouncing between brilliance and disaster, earning more penalty points on his Super Licence than almost anyone. Since the penalty system was introduced in 2014, he’d been one of its most frequent visitors.

The FIA decided enough was enough.

They planned to tighten the system again. The Super Licence Commission was due to meet in August to discuss further restrictions.

For Marchionne, this was a bolt from the blue.

He had to move. Before that meeting, before the last sliver of possibility disappeared.

No hesitation. No waiting.

It was all about timing.

Yes, Marchionne liked Kai. That first offhand, inspired decision had turned into something far more explosive than he’d imagined.

But liking him was just a thought. A seed. A blueprint. He hadn’t planned on tearing up Ferrari’s roadmap overnight. F1 wasn’t the academy you couldn’t just yank pieces around. Every move tugged at a dozen interests. Every step needed careful planning.

”Leclerc to Sauber, Kai to Haas” it wasn’t so much a plan as a daydream.

Fun to picture. Safe to leave in your head.

But then Kai kept refusing to obey the script.

From Feature to Sprint, from Spanish sun to British rain to Hungarian heat, he kept clearing every test. On track, under pressure, in chaos, he didn’t crack. He grew.

One step at a time, he was dragging Marchionne’s wild fantasy closer to reality.

Heroes are never made alone. Every miracle in history needed timing, circumstance, and allies.

This was no different.

When Marchionne learned that the Super Licence Commission was going to tighten the rules yet again, something clicked.

This was it.

Maybe Kai would live up to expectations, step onto the F1 grid next year.

Maybe he’d stumble in F2, swallowed like countless ”future stars” before him, never setting foot in F1.

Maybe even if Ferrari secured a Super Licence early, there would be no immediate seat for him in 2018.

Everything was still up in the air.

But if Marchionne didn’t move now, if he didn’t pry open a window while there was still any leverage

Those possibilities would vanish.

He’d lose the initiative completely.

That wasn’t his style.

That was why he’d flown to Paris. Not to guarantee an F1 seat, but to win Kai a window. A chance.

What Kai did with that window was up to Kai.

Yes, on paper the rules were ironclad. Kai didn’t qualify for anything.

But there are always exceptions.

Just like Red Bull had once found a loophole for Verstappen, the very fact the FIA was still discussing changes meant the current system still had cracks in it.

Marchionne never fought a battle he wasn’t prepared for. And he always found a way to tilt the odds in his favor.

In the meeting room.

Dominic Keller’s jaw had dropped. He forgot to push his glasses up, letting the gold frames slide down his nose as he stared, blue eyes full of disbelief.

”Mr. Marchionne, you know this is impossible.”

”Absurd. Completely absurd.”

Jean Todt had already left. No help, no interference. The room now belonged to the Super Licence Commission alone.

Keller, a Frenchman, was the current chairman. For the past two years, he’d been under fire for Verstappen’s every incident, blamed publicly for ”green-lighting” the loophole that let Max in early. Red Bull had sold the story; Keller had eaten the consequences.

So today, he didn’t hesitate. From the very first second, he slammed the door.

But Marchionne didn’t blink.

”Dominic, racing cars are dead. People are alive. We should judge things case by case, based on actual performance.”

”I thought the original quote was, ’rules are dead,’” Keller muttered, rolling his eyes.

Then his tone sharpened again.

”Either way, eighteen is non-negotiable. That rule doesn’t bend. For anyone.”

”What if he’s one day short?” Marchionne asked mildly.

Keller: …

”A week?” Marchionne continued. ”A month?”

”Mr. Marchionne, I never knew you were so slippery,” Keller said through his teeth.

Marchionne let it go with a small smile. ”My point is: there’s room to discuss.”

”And besides, Kai isn’t racing in F1 this season. I’m talking about next year. He gets the Super Licence this year, and races after his birthday. In November, he turns eighteen.”

”All I’m asking is that you approve the application.”

Keller’s brows knotted themselves together.

”And the points?” he pressed. ”You know we have to follow the rules. The GP3 season isn’t over. Yes, he’s way ahead, and yes, he’s likely to win the title. But even as GP3 champion, he only gets thirty points. That’s not enough.”

”Not just ’not enough’ he’s a full quarter short.”

Marchionne turned to the younger man sitting quietly at the side.

Henry Rheims.

FIA junior programme coordinator. His job covered the entire ladder, not just F2 and GP3, but every FIA-authorized series worldwide. If you were a minor in a single-seater with an FIA stamp, you were on his radar.

”Henry, as I understand it, F1 test mileage also counts for points, correct?”

Rheims nodded. ”Yes. One point per hundred kilometers. Up to a maximum of ten.”

With that confirmed, Marchionne faced Keller again.

”Kai has already started testing the Ferrari F1 car, within all regulations. We can complete the mileage before the season ends. Getting to forty points won’t be an issue.”

Keller stared at the ceiling. ”So you’re planning to have him do a full thousand kilometers for Ferrari?”

Marchionne shrugged, utterly calm.

Keller drew in a deep breath. When he spoke again, his tone had softened. Even his wording changed.

”Sergio, I’m not trying to be difficult. I understand what you’re aiming for. But have you forgotten? We require at least two seasons of single-seater racing. This… Kai, how many races has he done now? Four rounds?”

”Isn’t that too little?”

Marchionne could hear the sincerity behind the words. He knew they’d finally reached the real crux.

”Of course I remember,” he replied. ”How could I forget?”

”But Dominic, I also remember this if a top team is willing to guarantee a driver, the FIA can make exceptions.”

Casually, almost lightly, he dropped the bomb.

He was right. If a major team officially vouched for a driver, the FIA had leeway. If something went wrong, they knew exactly whose door to knock on.

That was how Red Bull had pushed Verstappen through.

Ferrari wasn’t Red Bull. Ferrari was Ferrari. The biggest, most historic name in F1. Their badge carried a completely different weight.

If Marchionne signed that guarantee in Ferrari’s name, the FIA could not pretend it meant nothing.

Keller was stunned.

He hadn’t expected that card. But the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Marchionne had flown to Paris himself, with Todt smoothing the way. Of course he’d come armed for victory.

Still, Keller couldn’t help his shock. He leaned forward.

”Sergio, are you sure?”

The air thickened just a little. For a moment, you could almost hear the tide of history rushing outside the walls. A seemingly simple decision, with the power to reshape the paddock again.

Marchionne didn’t answer directly.

”The track is the only answer that matters,” he said. ”You’re asking the wrong person.”

Keller followed his gaze to the other side of the room.

Simon Jenkins.

An independent F1 technical consultant. No ties to any team. No direct contact with junior drivers. Purely neutral. His job was to provide technical evaluations for the FIA. He didn’t get a vote.

Noticing the attention, Jenkins remained unruffled.

”Over long runs, no lock-ups, no missed braking points. Tyre degradation controlled extremely well. In attack and defence, his lines are clean, timing precise.”

”Yes, there’s been contact, but none of it was his fault.”

”Over four rounds and eight races, his stability has been outstanding. His car control is top-tier. In GP3, he’s operating at a level above the rest.”

Calm. Measured.

Jenkins was only judging the driving. Nothing to do with titles. Limited to GP3. No predictions about F2 or F1.

Maybe that was why it landed so hard.

Because it was emotionless, it made the potential stand out even more sharply.

Unconsciously, Keller glanced back at Marchionne.

There was no smugness there. No urgency. Just a steady, quiet confidence, radiating from the inside out.

Keller hesitated, lost in thought.

Rheims, who’d been silent until now, spoke up carefully.

”At the moment, it’s all on paper,” he said. ”There’s no F1 race data.”

”Maybe we could allow him to run in one FP1 session. If his performance is convincing, we can sit down and discuss details.”

GP3 was still just GP3. Not F1.

Yes, Kai had already tested Ferrari’s car in Maranello. But a private test was still a different world from an official Grand Prix weekend.

Could he bring his GP3 qualities up with him? Or would they vanish under the weight of an F1 car and an F1 track?

Better to stop guessing and put him on track.

In fact, Rheims wasn’t speaking randomly.

The upcoming rule changes the Commission wanted to push through in August also involved FP1.

Current regulations pushed teams to run young drivers in some FP1 sessions to help them gain experience.

But this year, the FIA had noticed that once those ”future stars” actually made it to F1, many of them still looked raw. Leclerc, Russell, others they were good, but not yet F1 good. And the Verstappen pattern aggression, borderline moves kept repeating.

F1 was still F1. Different from everything below.

So the Commission wanted to reinforce the ”ladder” structure the path step by step, make sure drivers met proper standards before promotion, and force teams to give rookies proper FP1 mileage every year. No more shortcuts.

And now, before that system was fully in place, here came another ”exception”?

You couldn’t blame Keller for being cautious. At the exact moment the FIA was planning reform, Marchionne had walked in, timed perfectly, to squeeze through the last open crack.

Still, Rheims’s suggestion opened a door.

If Leclerc, Russell, and the rest couldn’t convince anyone with their FP1 outings what about Kai?

If he didn’t deliver, the FIA could refuse Marchionne with a clean conscience, then pass the new rules with even more justification.

But if he did deliver…

Keller’s thoughts churned. He looked at Marchionne again.

”Sergio, are you really sure?”

The second time he’d asked the same question.

This time, Marchionne didn’t sidestep it.

”Yes,” he said simply.

No big speeches. No promises. Just one word, solid and heavy.

Once he was sure Keller had heard him, he went on.

”Dominic, you know how much Ferrari has struggled these years. We thought Sebastian was our future, but clearly… what we hoped would happen still hasn’t.”

”So maybe it’s time to take a risk. Before it’s too late.”

Short. Simple. Loaded.

Keller almost couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Everyone thought Marchionne was doing this to replace Räikkönen.

Now it sounded like he was thinking beyond that.

Instinctively, Keller looked around. Rheims had his head down. Jenkins was staring somewhere into space. Both of them were doing their best ”I heard nothing” impression.

Keller held his breath.

He could feel Marchionne’s resolve. That was enough.

He straightened, regaining his composure.

”Fine. You can run him in FP1 at Spa,” he said. ”But I’m warning you, Sergio he gets one chance. If he fails, he’ll be a punchline for both the FIA and Ferrari. We won’t give him a second shot.”

Marchionne’s smile stayed soft, unshaken.

”Then let’s look forward to it together, shall we?”

No grandstanding. No guarantees.

Just a quiet certainty that seemed to wrap the whole board in his hands.

He hadn’t walked out with a Super Licence.

But he was very satisfied.

First, he’d laid the groundwork shown Ferrari’s commitment, made sure Keller felt the weight of their intent.

Second, he’d earned Kai exactly what he’d come for.

An FP1.

A chance to decide his own fate.

Now, left or right that was up to Kai.

By the time F1’s official social media dropped the bomb, summer break had just ended.

After nearly a month away, with nothing but rumors and clickbait to chew on, the paddock and the fans were starving. People were counting down the days to the next race weekend.

The first piece of news hit like a flare:

At the 2017 Belgian Grand Prix at Spa, two young drivers would make their F1 debut in FP1.

One: Lando Norris, driving Fernando Alonso’s McLaren.

The other: Kai Zhizhou, driving Kimi Räikkönen’s Ferrari.

Boom.

The internet exploded.

Social media went feral. Feeds flooded instantly.

Ferrari?

Ferrari? That Ferrari?

Kai was going to drive that red car?

What kind of treatment was this?

Night.

Deep and quiet, cicadas and crickets scratching away outside the window. A little room wrapped in warm, pale light, floating like a bubble in the dark.

Time slowed down.

Kai’s phone buzzed, shattering the calm.

Caller ID: Zhou Guanyu.

He picked up, but before he could speak, the line nearly shattered his eardrum.

”AAAAAH!”

”FERRARI! AAAAAAAAH!”

It went on and on, a high-pitched siren of pure joy. Kai hung up cleanly, set the phone back down, and returned to his math problem.

He’d barely written two numbers when the phone buzzed again.

As soon as he answered, Zhou’s wounded voice came through.

”Did you just hang up on me?”

Kai couldn’t help laughing. ”Lando said you’re shy and introverted.”

Zhou Guanyu: …

Deep breath.

”That’s Ferrari, Zhizhou. Ferrari! Aaaah !”

The shriek ramped right back up. Kai pulled the phone away from his ear and still heard every decibel of Zhou’s hysteria.

And with that, his own carefully-suppressed excitement started boiling again.

”Zhizhou! Once-in-a-lifetime chance! Absolutely insane!”

”Ahhh! You’re going to be the first Chinese driver to step into F1! How are you not losing your mind right now?!”

Kai pictured him literally hopping around the room, gasping for air, and smiled.

”Sorry. Beat you to it.”

Zhou burst out laughing. ”It’s fine, it’s fine. I’ve already started browsing sneakers. I’ll send you some links later. Just order something nice and ship it over.”

”That’ll heal my broken heart.”

Kai grinned. ”Don’t pick limited editions. I’m not lining up overnight for you.”

The joking faded. Zhou’s voice turned serious.

”You’re a step ahead now. Looks like I need to pick up the pace.”

Kai leaned back in his chair.

”Right now, none of us are chasing alone,” he said. ”We’re a group, side by side. We sprint together.”

”And we cross the finish line together.”

The casual words hit Zhou like a punch.

He clenched his fist, swinging it through the air twice, the weight that had pressed on his chest for years suddenly feeling lighter. Somewhere ahead, the darkness thinned, and a faint light appeared.

For years, drivers from across Asia not just China had tried to reach F1, the Everest of motorsport. It wasn’t just an ”Asian problem” North and South America, Oceania; everyone outside Europe fought uphill.

Before Kai and Zhou, Chinese drivers had made attempt after attempt, always falling just short.

In this generation, Zhou carried an impossible weight.

Not just his own dream. The dreams of thousands of fans, all on his shoulders. In a sport as lonely as this, a seventeen-year-old could only grit his teeth so long.

On sleepless nights, doubts festered.

Maybe the dream wasn’t real.

Maybe only fools believed in it.

Maybe some things really were decided by fate.

Run in the dark for long enough, alone, and you start to lose sight of yourself.

Until now.

Now, he wasn’t alone.

On the road to the summit, there was someone running beside him.

They could push each other. Catch each other. Prove to each other that the light ahead wasn’t just a mirage.

Because of Kai, Zhou realized the dream wasn’t just a fairy tale or a miracle five galaxies away.

It was real. It was there.

Maybe even within reach.

Yes, this was ”just” FP1. No guarantees. The future was still a fog.

But Zhou knew how much work, pain, and sacrifice it had taken just to get here.

Words couldn’t capture the joy.

He let out a long breath, and his smile finally broke completely free.

”The whole world’s gone insane,” he said. ”But you sound weirdly calm.”

Kai’s lips quirked. ”Guess my acting’s decent.”

”To be honest? I already ran ten kilometers tonight. Now I’m sitting at my desk doing math, trying to drain all the noise out of my head.”

Zhou Guanyu: …

”Pfft.”

He couldn’t hold it in. ”Math? Hahaha. Only you would use math problems to calm down.”

Kai shrugged. ”If they knock me out and put me to sleep, that works too. But right now they’re making me more awake.”

Zhou: ”Hahahaha!”

Laughter boomed down the line.

Kai leaned back further, balancing on the back legs of his chair, rocking gently as he and Zhou chatted and joked, their laughter overlapping.

Outside, just as Zhou had said

The world had gone insane.

The storm rolling across social media was volcanic. Kai was absolutely right not to open any apps.

”Shortest junior ladder in history? GP3 kid jumps straight to F1?”

”Money wins again. Even Ferrari’s fallen.”

”Gamble or PR stunt?”

Clickbait headlines dominated the feeds. Half-truths, twisted logic, chaos. It wasn’t just racing fans screaming it had already spilled into the mainstream. People who’d never cared about F1 were now arguing about this Chinese teenager and a red car.

Yes, Kai had stunned everyone in GP3.

But the cold fact was this: he was still a newcomer. Not even a year in single-seaters. From any angle, he was a complete rookie more extreme than Verstappen had ever been.

And Ferrari had decided to throw this rookie into an F1 car on one of the most dangerous, punishing circuits on the calendar

Spa-Francorchamps.

A newbie who hadn’t even cleared the ”starter village” jumping straight into hell mode?

If that wasn’t insane, what was?

Was this about merit?

Sure, Kai was impressive. But GP3, F3 Europe, F2 there were more than a few young talents who’d earned consideration. Kai had taken a shortcut, cutting across traffic and pulling ahead of everyone to grab an FP1 seat.

Was that fair?

Or was this about politics?

Everyone saw the same thing: the flag next to his name.

Was this Chinese capital making a move?

Or Ferrari targeting the Asian market ahead of everyone else?

Or was there another, deeper play no one had spotted yet?

Whatever the answer, the fact was undeniable:

Ferrari had made an outrageous move.

Was it a serious test?

Or a show?

So absurd it almost felt like a joke.

Speculation exploded from every corner.

The wind was rising.

The storm was coming.

And no one in the paddock could pretend they weren’t in its path.

~~----------------------

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