Show notes
This past Tuesday, I was at the track getting acclimated to my Porsche GT4 RS Clubsport. This is not the kind of car you see on the street. There’s no interior, no bells and whistles, no conveniences to make the ride more comfortable. No stereo, no cupholders, not even door panels. Just a raw machine—engine, chassis, tires, steering wheel. A surgical instrument designed for one purpose only: to go fast, to compete, to live at the edge of what’s possible.
It was my first time in the car, and the learning curve was steep. Everything about it demanded precision—the braking points, the turn-in, the weight transfer. I was humbled, but I could also feel myself adapting, improving, step by step. By the end of the day, I was proud of the progression. Stoked on the car. Happy to be in that seat, doing something I love.
But that’s not really what this story is about.
Sometime in the afternoon, over the loudspeakers, came an announcement: the track was hosting a Make-A-Wish event. A young boy was coming for a ride in a Lamborghini. A dream come true for almost any kid—to sit inside one of the most recognizable exotic cars in the world, hear the roar of its engine, feel the speed from the passenger seat. A young boy’s wish, fulfilled.
The Lamborghini is beautiful, of course. All smooth leather, carbon fiber trim, and tech features designed to make the impossible accessible. But it’s still, at the end of the day, a street car. It has bluetooth and climate control. It’s made to dazzle as much as it is to drive.
I had the chance to talk with the boy and his family before his ride. I asked if they’d like to come see something different—not a car built for the road, but one built for the track. A car stripped of every luxury, every unnecessary ounce, every distraction, so it can do only what it was meant to do: race.
We walked over to the GT4 Clubsport. He stood there, wide-eyed, taking it all in—the roll cage, the fire system, the bucket seat, the massive slicks. It wasn’t polished or glamorous in the way the Lamborghini was. It was raw, exposed, unapologetically purposeful. And that’s exactly what made it special.
He was stoked. So was I. I don’t think he or his family had ever seen up close what a true race machine really looks like. We chatted for a bit, shared a few smiles, and then they went on to enjoy their day.
About 45 minutes later, I was strapped back into that very car, sitting at pit wall waiting for my next session. And there he was again—standing with his family along the fence. We made eye contact. His face lit up, and he raised his arm with a smile that said it all: Go fast. Please.
So I did.
But before I dropped the clutch, I sat there for a moment. Alone in that cockpit, helmet on, hands on the wheel, engine humming behind me. I gave thanks. Thanks for the day. Thanks for the car. Thanks for my life, for the fact that I get to do this. And most of all, thanks for that boy—for the gift of being placed in his path, even for just a brief encounter.
Because it was clear: his life has not been simple. He has been dealt something complicated, something heavy, something no child should have to carry. And yet there he stood—radiant, full of joy, present in every sense. He didn’t wear his hardship like a burden. He wore it like light.
That moment reached deeper into me than anything else I experienced that day. It reminded me, as it always does, that the greatest tragedy is not the cards we are dealt—it is living without cherishing them. It is forgetting how precious and fragile life really is.
I don’t know where his road leads. None of us do. But I know this: he gave me a gift that day. A reminder that life is not measured in years or miles per hour, but in presence. In gratitude. In grace.
So I drove for him. Every lap, every corner, every ounce of focus—I carried him with me. I don’t know if he felt the same, but I hope that moment was as meaningful for him as it was for me.
We all get these moments. A wave from across a racetrack. A chance encounter on a trail. A small gesture from a stranger that shakes us awake to the truth: life is short, but it can also be deep. These aren’t interruptions to the “real” work of living. They are the work. They are what makes life full.
That boy reminded me then. And now, I carry that reminder with me—not just to drive for him, but to live for him too.
That boy reminded me that life is fragile, beautiful, and worth cherishing. His joy became a gift, one I carry with me still—not just to drive for him, but to live for him too.
If this episode resonated, please share it with someone who might need the reminder. And if you haven’t already, make sure you’re subscribed on Substack, Spotify, or Apple Podcasts—wherever you listen and think.
Until next time: be kind, be great, and work hard.
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