What do you need for a track day?

The idea

Early November. I've just fitted a set of four Pirelli Trofeo R on the 718, and I'm itching to try them. I've got that weekend off from flying, and my Google searches are on fire with track days. I find one at Mugello. At first it seems crazy - it's a circuit near Florence, and over a long weekend it's not easy to pull off. I think about settling for the rainy Serres circuit instead. But something keeps gnawing at me. I look up ferries, and because of the time of year the prices are reasonable. I call Giorgos. A serious petrolhead too, a BMW guy, an M2 owner. I met him years ago, back in the Mini Coopers, at eighteen, inside the Rysio drive park, where we'd wrestle our "karts" trying to set identical lap times. I tell him the plan: we leave Thursday night from Igoumenitsa, land in Bari on Friday morning, drive to Florence with a stop in Naples, sleep in Florence. Saturday we wake up, track day at Mugello, Rome in the afternoon. Sunday morning, Rome-Bari, ferry back to Greece. - You're crazy. Properly crazy, he tells me. Silence for a few seconds. - Let's go, he says. Book it and come pick me up Thursday. What more could you ask of a petrolhead partner in crime?

Igoumenitsa, Thursday night

Thursday, I land from a flight at 16:30. The ferry to Bari leaves Igoumenitsa at 23:00. I load up the car, get changed, grab my helmet, and I'm at Giorgos' shop. We end up staring at the car down in the ship's hold, saying to each other: "mate, what are we doing?"

Bari, Friday morning

Luckily we had a cabin. At 09:00 we reach Bari. - Mate, I need a coffee, I tell him. We've got a long road ahead. Nowhere in Italy, though, a freddo espresso - my favourite. Hold that thought.

Naples

A few hours later we reach Naples. Giorgos had been before; I hadn't. As we enter the city, I ask him: - Should I drop it? - meaning the roof. - Are you out of your mind? he answers. Worst case, they lift us along with the car. Best case, they throw us out. Anyone who's been to Naples probably gets what he meant. He was set on going to one specific pizzeria, and Google Maps kept routing us down roads closed for roadworks. So we ended up lost in narrow alleys and pedestrian streets - thankfully with the roof up. One more upside: we didn't speak Italian, so we couldn't even understand the passers-by cursing at us. In the end, a random pizzeria. We savoured the Neapolitan dough while keeping an eye on the car. We had absolutely no hotel booking - for any night of the trip. - Come on, drive, Giorgos tells me. I'll look for where we're staying tonight.

Florence

Late in the afternoon we reach the incredible Florence. For anyone who hasn't been - it belongs on the bucket list. For me, the most beautiful city in Italy. We take the Porsche up to Piazzale Michelangelo, which looks out over the whole city. We parked up there, looking - instead of at the city - at the car. - So, what do you make of it? I ask him. - We'll see tomorrow on track. I'm curious, he says. Despite the tiredness, that night I watch onboard-camera clips, trying to learn the circuit as much as I can. In the morning I wake up before the alarm goes off.

Mugello

Just before nine, at the circuit. Already from the petrol station outside Mugello we start seeing the entries. The track is used officially by MotoGP too - the paddock, the pit lane, all the buildings are at a level I'm seeing for the first time. The 718, from the very first laps, shows what it's capable of. And how could it not? It's a mid-engined car with a low centre of gravity, a superb driving position, and a sense that in every corner, however you throw it in, it'll turn. On the brakes, you feel it will listen to your steering instantly and change direction. No - it's even more immediate than that. It's as if it lines itself up for the next corner on its own. And that's when you wonder how it knows where to go. Honestly, you feel useless - its balance does everything. That day at Mugello we put in 25 laps, among GT4s, GT3s, GT3 RSs, McLarens, and classic Italians - plenty of Ferraris.

The highlight, though, was neither the car, nor the track, nor the Trofeo Rs. I'll personally guarantee you that even if you turn up in the humblest hot hatch, you'll have just as good a time as the guy driving the GT3 RS. Because the highlight of the day was the people. From the kid with his girlfriend in a little Abarth 500, to the sixty-something gentleman with his Ferrari 308 GTB. Crews with Mini Coopers, with 4Cs, with GT4s, with GT3s. And all of them, one big group. Everyone talks to everyone, everyone chats with an espresso in hand, and every car is a good car to everyone. There are no stopwatches, no badges, no silly convictions that one brand is better than another. At one point a black 718 Spyder RS rolls in - GT4 RS underneath, but a convertible. To me, a dream car. Two friends around fifty are driving it. I freeze, just staring at it. At some point they come over and strike up a conversation. - Good morning! Nice car, they tell me. I look behind me, in case they're talking to someone else. Nope. They mean me. - Buongiorno, I answer. And I explain that I never expected someone with a car like that to come and compliment mine. Before I know it, we're deep in conversation about where we came from and about our trip. They tell me they'd just taken delivery of the car, and it was their first track day. As we talk, more people gather, all with espressos in hand - and me still hunting for my beloved freddo espresso. I'll leave you with one line and a few images. A gentleman with a 4C told me this is their hobby - the way others play tennis or padel, they spend their time at open track days. There were people who simply showed up, jumped into one of the day's six fifteen-minute sessions, and left straight after. Like a habit. Like a devout ritual. This is motorsport in Italy. And we, sadly, are far behind on it. The average Italian has a circuit within a two-hour radius.

Futa Pass, towards Rome

Time passes, and a whole tank of fuel burns away in Mugello's corners and its climbs and descents. We set off on the road to Rome. We pass through the Futa Pass - one of the Mille Miglia's mountain passes, and home to the largest German military cemetery of the Second World War in Italy.

Rome

It was sunset when we drove into Rome, where just beforehand we'd booked the hotel. The weather was made for a convertible. We didn't miss the chance. Somewhere around there came the realisation of what this car really is. Giorgos said it out loud, and I agreed. The 718 had carried us comfortably from Greece - over 1,500 kilometres in two days - had done a track day, and that same afternoon took us for a top-down drive through Rome's narrow streets. And though it isn't Italian, it drew every Italian's eye. I parked it in the hotel garage. I'm sure you've felt it too: I felt the need to talk to it, to say thank you for all that company, in exchange for a few litres of petrol. I let it rest, and we headed out on foot for dinner in Rome.

The road back

The next morning we woke up early, to catch the 14:00 ferry from Bari. Conversations along the way - about cars, and about how romantic a man's love for the simple things can be: a friend, and a car. Me, wrecked from the early start, concluded that the only thing that gave me any trouble on this whole trip was the lack of a freddo espresso. Not the car, not the kilometres, nothing else. And yet without them - the kilometres, the laps, the tiredness - I'd never have gained the experiences, the images, and above all the people we met.

We won

There's a kind of love that doesn't fit in a snapshot. It isn't the stopwatch at the end of the lap, nor the number on the engine's plate. It's a friend beside you at the wheel at three in the morning, a car that hears you before you've even spoken to it, and a stranger who tells you "good morning, nice car" as if he'd known you for years. I'll remember Mugello for its corners, Florence for its light, Rome for the night we walked full and happy. But what I'll carry with me most is Giorgos' silence on the phone, before he said "let's go." Because in the end, you don't remember trips like this for the kilometres you covered, but for who was sitting beside you while you covered them. Somewhere between Igoumenitsa and Rome, I understood that the 718 wasn't just a car carrying two friends. It was the excuse. The real journey was the one we made ourselves - and that, no circuit in the world can put a time on. Safe travels. And if you find a freddo espresso in Italy, do tell me where.