My Formula 1 System-Chapter 601: Captain Italy

Davide DiMarco’s Official Recovery.

Long, stubborn, and humiliating months had passed, in which the season roared forward without him.

While the circuits lit up with summer heat and championship rumors, Davide DiMarco had been locked inside the quieter world of recovery rooms and physiotherapy halls. The cameras had forgotten him, the points table erased his importance, and the paddock celebrated new contenders rising in his absence.

However, none of that mattered now. Today, after all those weeks of petrifying silence and muscle-rebuilding pain, he believed he would finally have his say.

If the results aligned, he would reclaim what injury had put on pause.

The FIA High-Performance Medical Institute, 20900, rose ahead of him as his SUV swerved off the main expressway of Milan’s radial route to Monza.

The facility’s structure remained very impressive despite his many visits. It was an asymmetrical complex with sophisticated highs and lows, made up of nothing but glass and steel. Its facade and location made it look like the headquarters of some avant-garde research dynasty.

Palm trees tracked the perimeter as DiMarco’s ride rolled through. He felt a breath of relief. This was where careers were given permission to continue.

He started coming here two months after the incident with Luca in Bahrain, diagnosis after diagnosis, then evaluation after evaluation. Each visit upset DiMarco, but he knew he was hopeless to quicken or evaporate the process.

He’d had two official tests approved by the FIA. The third test was left, this decisive morning.

Once the SUV rolled up the private access lane and slowed under an overhang, a handful of corporate security confidently waddled out to address the visitors.

The rear door opened, and out stepped a very polished brown Prada. No crutches. No cast. Captain Italy stood tall, his blond hair flowing to the Mediterranean breeze as he adjusted his jacket and turtleneck.

His entourage was his personal team: a personal physiotherapist, a performance coach, a manager, two security, and a PR assistant. Their presence was familiar enough to the facility to be given a very smooth procession.

"Get back on track, captain!"

DiMarco only smiled halfway, but did not acknowledge the greeter’s salute.

The staff of the facility were usually frightened whenever DiMarco and his team arrived for his appointments. Their opaque presence was intimidating because of how tall everyone was. DiMarco himself was the shortest there, and he was 5’11".

"Good morning," he was greeted by a woman whom he paid no attention. "We’ve been expecting you. Let’s begin today’s sequence as prepared."

~~~~~~

The deadly crash that broke DiMarco’s midsection and cracked his ribs back in February had also tried shattering Velociata’s championship campaign prematurely. Though he was pretty selfish, Davide didn’t like the team being weakened, but he was grateful they were strong again.

He faced the early health complications with family for weeks while watching races and warm-ups, and qualifiers from several clinic beds.

After that, the next three weeks were spent on acute care to begin preparation for his return, as directed by all hands on deck. He conducted X-rays, CT scans, and respiratory exercises under professional medical supervision, with improvements coming quickly but in trickles

When his physiologists noticed the small increments, they began rehab. Carefully controlled physiotherapy strengthened his ribs, bringing back movement and removing stiffness. While Jimmy Damgaard was crowned the new pilot of the MkII, DiMarco followed his routines, whispering he would be back.

At week 10, his strength, control, and then his entire confidence returned. He didn’t need crutches or bandages or any sort of medical equipment for help anymore. In fact, it was confirmed he was in good condition to attempt simulations.

Ever since week 14, FiA-linked tests began for him. Starting from basic fitness to stress testing, then to cognitive reaction baseline. Everyone wanted the Italian maestro back on track, but safety had to be adhered to.

So far were green lights after green lights. Today was the last of the final clearance phase. Passing meant returning to racing action; failing meant another 2-4 weeks or more required.

In the HPMI’s biometric corridors and conditioned doors, the physicians had composed all that DiMarco was programmed to undergo.

A full cardiovascular stress test was taken to match race-length strain. The machine simulated elevation, humidity, G-strain, and long-duration tension meant to reflect a full Grand Prix’s continuous load. DiMarco’s heart thudded like it should, and he sweated in time. But he wonderfully lived through the duration, sat in a manner that entailed he could’ve handled more.

It seemed Bueseno Velocita’s champ had fully recovered. It didn’t look like there were any internal haste and shade to speed his return. The physicians expected his ribs to remember the pain they once experienced, and probably shackle under the pressure. But just like he passed the cardio test, DiMarco was 100% in torso-expansion verification.

The strength-symmetry analysis followed, and this was where he felt the competitive snarl inside him flare. DiMarco gripped the digital dynamometers, pulled, pushed, and twisted through torque exercises, envisioning himself ripping Ferrari machines apart.

The values his left and right sides displayed indicated almost identical strength, which was basically a vital license in handling an F1 car. Everyone who conducted the test was impressed because this was the same man who was unable to sit upright without bracing his abdomen.

Then came the reflex and cognitive test. It was the easiest because DiMarco still had the muscle memory of a professional formula driver. Finally, he was permitted to the high-impact simulator for a 45-minute race, programmed with mishapen rules and aggravated rivals.

Mr. Maiorana, DiMarco’s head physiotherapist, had a whole group of his own that had already predicted the chronology of the FIA’s set evaluations and tests from trusted sources. So, DiMarco had been superconditioned before arriving, and they knew they’d be having a positive judgment.

An hour later, while DiMarco changed out of the leather suit, speaking to his assistant, the lead physician left the lab and entered the consultation room where his manager, Aido Martino, waited alone.

It seemed the lead physician was personally happy to break the news that Italy’s golden boy was back to racing. And also, Martino didn’t look like he was expecting any less.

"He’s cleared," the former said.

"Good," DiMarco’s manager replied simply.

~~~~~~~~

Word of DiMarco’s return reached everyone in due time. The sentiment leaned toward relief and happiness for DiMarco rather than a negative reception. Everyone understood what a six-month hiatus was, so social media went all out for him.

Rivals were also happy for him and not afraid because this wasn’t his season anymore. The time was way gone. He had no points at all on the board. Maybe next year, they’d see Captain Italy as the threat he is.

"Uh-huh? Uh-huh?" Someone was on the phone, smoke from his cigar curling up lazily toward the ceiling. "Ah... grazie per la notizia," the man finished.

He tapped his ash, exhaled, then turned to the window, watching sunlight glint off the city. It was the same day DiMarco had conducted his final test, the day of clearance, in fact—it had only been an hour past, and this man had gotten the news.

He was Enzo Ricci, Jimmy Damgaard’s manager from the very beginning, growing alongside him till the juggernaut became what he was now.

Seated on a couch in the office was Jimmy himself. A deck of cards was scattered around him while he cracked nuts in groups before tossing an entire bunch into his mouth. The quiet tap of shells punctuated the faint hum of air conditioning.

"Your big brother," Enzo blurted, looking at him, "is all healed. Confirmed."

Jimmy Damgaard, who had been focused on his solitaire and cracking nuts, froze mid-motion. The faint click of a shell hitting the marble floor was the only acknowledgment of the news.

"You know what that means," Enzo said.