Being seven years old and expected to win a championship carries a different kind of pressure than simply competing.
The winter before my third karting season was spent not just training, but managing expectations. Local karting publications had started mentioning me in their season previews. A six-year-old finishing second in Junior class made for good stories, and now everyone wanted to know if I could take the next step.
"Stroll Set for Championship Push" read one headline that Lawrence showed me over breakfast.
"Child Prodigy Aims for Title" declared another.
"Can the Youngest Contender Finally Win?" asked a third, which felt particularly pointed given I'd already won three races last season.
I pushed the newspaper away, focusing on my cereal instead. Claire had tried to make it special, adding fresh berries and honey, but I'd already mentally noted that the ratio was off. Too much honey, not enough berries. The balance was wrong.
"Does it bother you?" Lawrence asked, watching me. "The attention?"
"A little," I admitted. "People expect me to win now. Before, they expected me to lose."
"Which pressure was easier?"
I thought about it. In my previous life, I'd been on the other side of these expectations, one of the voices declaring what drivers should accomplish, criticizing when they fell short. Now I was the one carrying those expectations, and I understood how heavy they could be.
"Neither is easy," I said. "But at least now they think I can win instead of thinking I shouldn't be racing at all."
Chloe looked up from her own breakfast, her expression serious. "You don't have to win, Lance. You just have to try your best."
"Trying my best means trying to win."
"Sure, but you know what I mean. Mama always says we shouldn't let other people's expectations change who we are."
Lawrence smiled at that. "Your mother is very wise. Lance, Chloe's right. The expectations are noise. Focus on your driving, your improvement, your own standards. Everything else is just noise."
Easy to say. Harder to do when you had an adult consciousness that remembered every critical comment you'd ever made about drivers who failed to live up to potential, who wasted opportunities, who couldn't deliver under pressure.
I'd been one of the people creating that noise. Now I was living in it.
[System Note: Welcome to being on the other side of criticism.]
[In your previous life, you generated noise. Now you're learning to filter it.]
[Consider this karma. Consider this education. Consider this necessary.]
[Current Status: Favorite to win Junior championship]
[Pressure Level: High]
[Risk: Cracking under expectations]
[Mitigation Strategy: Focus on process, not outcome. Control what you can control.]
[Remember: You're seven. Give yourself grace.]
Marc had developed a comprehensive training program for the season that went beyond just driving. Physical training had intensified now that my body was developing rapidly. Swimming was up to five days a week, gymnastics three days, running and cycling incorporated into daily routines. We'd added reaction training, using specialized equipment to measure and improve my response times.
But he'd also added something unexpected to the program: mental training.
"Racing at the top level is as much mental as physical," he explained during our first session with a sports psychologist named Dr. Renaud. "You're carrying expectations now. We need to make sure you can handle them."
Dr. Renaud was a woman in her forties who specialized in youth athletes. She'd worked with hockey players, tennis prodigies, and apparently now racing drivers. Her office was comfortable, designed to put young clients at ease, though I found the whole setup slightly amusing given my actual mental age.
"Tell me about pressure," she said after the initial pleasantries. "What does it feel like when you're about to race?"
I considered how to answer honestly while maintaining my seven-year-old cover. "Like everyone's watching. Like I can't make mistakes. Like if I don't win, I'm wasting everyone's time and money."
She nodded, not looking surprised. "That's a lot of responsibility for someone your age. Do your parents make you feel this way?"
"No. They support me no matter what. It's more... I make me feel this way. I know what I should be able to do, and when I can't do it, I get frustrated with myself."
"Should?" Dr. Renaud leaned forward slightly. "That's an interesting word choice. Who decides what you should be able to do?"
"I do. Based on what I know I'm capable of."
"And how do you know what you're capable of?"
It was a trap of a question, one designed to make me examine my assumptions. In my previous life, I'd thought I knew what drivers were capable of based on watching them race. Now I was learning that capability was far more complex than it appeared from the outside.
"I guess I don't always know," I admitted. "Sometimes I think I should be faster, and I'm not. Sometimes I surprise myself."
"Exactly. Capability isn't fixed. It varies by day, by conditions, by countless factors you can't always control." She pulled out a notebook. "Let's work on separating outcome from process. You can control your preparation, your effort, your focus. You cannot control whether you win or lose. Make sense?"
It made perfect sense intellectually. Emotionally, it was harder to accept when you had years of Twitter criticism echoing in your memory, all the times you'd dismissed process and focused only on results.
[Mental Training Protocol Initiated]
[Focus Areas: Pressure management, expectation handling, process orientation, emotional regulation]
[Sessions: Weekly with Dr. Renaud]
[Goal: Build mental resilience for long-term career]
[Note: This is actually really valuable. Take it seriously.]
My weekly sessions with Chef Beaumont had become another form of training, though completely different in nature. Every Tuesday afternoon, I'd spend two hours in his kitchen, learning techniques that most culinary students didn't encounter until years into their education.
"Today we're making consommé," Chef Beaumont announced one Tuesday, gesturing to a pot of cloudy stock. "Do you know what that requires?"
"Clarification," I said immediately. "Using a raft made from egg whites, mirepoix, and ground meat to filter the impurities."
"Correct. And do you know why this is one of the most difficult preparations in classical French cuisine?"
"Because it requires perfect temperature control. Too hot and the raft breaks apart. Too cool and it doesn't clarify. You need patience and precision."
Chef Beaumont smiled. "You memorized the theory. Now let's see if you can execute."
The process took over an hour. Building the raft, introducing it to the stock, maintaining the exact right temperature, waiting as the clarification slowly happened. It was meditative in a way, requiring focus but not constant action. Just patience and trust in the process.
Much like racing, actually. You couldn't force speed. You had to build it through proper technique and patience.
When the consommé was finished, perfectly clear and flavorful, Chef Beaumont ladled some into small cups for his kitchen staff to taste.
"A seven-year-old made this," he announced. "Lance made this."
The tasting was met with impressed murmurs and a few looks of disbelief. One of the sous chefs, a woman named Marie who'd been skeptical of my abilities initially, shook her head in amazement.
"I've been cooking professionally for twelve years," she said, "and my consommé isn't this clean. How?"
"I just follow the technique," I said, which was true if incomplete. Following technique was easier when you had Eishi Tsukasa's complete culinary knowledge downloaded into your consciousness by God.
But I couldn't explain that part.
"He has a gift," Chef Beaumont said simply. "Multiple gifts, apparently. Racing and cooking. An unusual combination."
"Do you ever think about cooking professionally?" Marie asked. "Instead of racing?"
"No. Racing is what I want to do. Cooking is just... something I enjoy. Something that makes sense to me."
"Well, if the racing doesn't work out, you have options." She smiled. "Though from what I hear, the racing is working out pretty well."
[Culinary Skills: Advancing Rapidly]
[Current Level: Professional competency in classical French technique]
[Recognition: Earning respect from industry professionals]
[Time Investment: 2 hours weekly]
[Value: Therapeutic, skill-building, reputation-enhancing]
[Primary Focus Reminder: Racing remains priority. Cooking is supplementary.]
The first race of the season arrived with perfect spring weather and a grid full of drivers who'd spent the winter preparing specifically to beat me. I was the marked driver now, the target, the one everyone measured themselves against.
I qualified on pole position. It felt like validation until I realized it also meant I'd have a target on my back throughout the race. Everyone behind me would be gunning for the lead.
"Expect aggressive racing," Marc warned before the race start. "You're the favorite now. They'll take risks to beat you that they wouldn't take against each other."
He was right. The start was chaotic, multiple drivers diving for position, forcing me to defend harder than I had in previous seasons. I maintained the lead through the first corner but by turn three I had two karts side by side behind me, both looking for opportunities to pass.
The race became a defensive masterclass. I positioned my kart to close off passing opportunities, used the entire track width, forced other drivers to take the long way around. It wasn't the fastest racing, but it was smart racing.
I won, but only by two-tenths of a second, with three other drivers right behind me at the finish.
"That was more stressful than it looked," I admitted to Marc afterward.
"Welcome to being the favorite. Every race will be like that. They're all trying to knock you off the top step." He checked his timing sheets. "But you handled it. Mature racing. You didn't try to run away and make a mistake. You managed the race."
Race two went similarly. Pole position, aggressive defending, narrow victory. I was winning, but it felt harder than it should be.
Race three was when things got complicated.
A driver named Thomas, nine years old and in his fourth season, had decided I was his rival. He'd finished second behind me in the first two races and was determined not to let it happen again.
During qualifying, he blocked me on what should have been my fastest lap, forcing me to abort. It cost me pole position. He qualified first. I qualified second.
The race became a battle. Thomas defended aggressively, sometimes too aggressively, pushing the limits of what was legal. I tried multiple times to pass, but he'd position his kart to force me wide or make contact.
On lap eight, going into the hairpin, I tried a move up the inside. Thomas came across late, and we made contact. Both karts spun, dropping us to eighth and ninth respectively.
The race officials reviewed the incident and deemed it a racing incident, no penalty for either driver.
I finished ninth. Thomas finished eighth. We'd both lost.
In the pit area afterward, Thomas came over, his father behind him looking angry.
"That was your fault," Thomas said. "You came in too hot."
"You moved under braking. That's not allowed."
"I was defending my position. You were too aggressive."
His father put a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back before things escalated. But the message was clear. This was personal now. This was rivalry.
Marc pulled me aside before I could respond. "Leave it. Don't engage. Focus on the next race."
"But he—"
"I know what he did. The officials saw the replay. They know too. Let your driving do the talking."
It was good advice, but frustration bubbled inside me. In my previous life, I would have taken to Twitter, written a detailed thread about how Thomas's move was dirty, rallied support, created a narrative. Now I had to just... let it go. Trust that the driving would speak louder than words.
It was harder than it sounded.
[Rival Identified: Thomas Mercier]
[Age: 9]
[Experience: 4 seasons]
[Style: Aggressive, physical, win-at-all-costs]
[Championship Standing: Currently 2nd]
[Your Standing: 3rd after Race 3 incident]
[Status: This is now a rivalry. Handle it with maturity.]
[Recommendation: Beat him on track. Don't engage off track.]
Dr. Renaud had told me to focus on process, not outcome. But after the race three incident, all I could think about was the outcome. I was third in the championship now, behind Thomas and another driver. The narrative was shifting from "Can Lance win the championship?" to "Is Lance cracking under pressure?"
The headlines confirmed it.
"Stroll Struggling Under Championship Pressure"
"Young Prodigy Hits Rough Patch"
"Is Seven Too Young for Title Fight?"
I tried to ignore them, but they were everywhere. Other parents would be reading those articles. Other drivers would see them. The noise was getting louder.
Claire noticed my mood darkening. One evening, after a particularly frustrating practice session where nothing had felt right, she sat with me in my room.
"Talk to me, mon chou. What's bothering you?"
"Everyone thinks I'm going to lose. Everyone thinks I can't handle the pressure."
"Do you think that?"
"No. I know I can win. I know I'm fast enough. But everything keeps going wrong."
Claire was quiet for a moment, then said something I wasn't expecting. "You know what I see? I see a seven-year-old boy carrying the weight of expectations that would crush most adults. And I think maybe it's okay to struggle sometimes. Maybe it's okay to be seven."
"But I'm supposed to be better than this."
"According to who? Lance, you're racing against kids who are older, more experienced, and you're still competitive. You've won races. You've proven yourself. If you don't win this championship, that doesn't make you a failure. It makes you seven years old racing against nine and ten-year-olds."
It was a perspective I needed but found hard to accept. I had an adult consciousness, adult expectations for myself. But I was racing in a seven-year-old body, with seven-year-old physical capabilities, against drivers who had years more experience.
Maybe Claire was right. Maybe I needed to give myself more grace.
[System Note: Your mother is wise.]
[You're treating yourself like you treated drivers in your previous life. Harshly. Critically. Unforgivingly.]
[Learn from this. Be kinder to yourself. Be kinder to others.]
[This is part of why you were given this second chance. To understand what it actually feels like to be on the receiving end of judgment.]
[Current Championship Standing: 3rd]
[Races Remaining: 9]
[Mathematical Status: Still in contention]
[Mental Status: Needs recalibration]
[Recommendation: Talk to Dr. Renaud. Process this properly.]
My next session with Dr. Renaud focused on exactly what I was struggling with.
"You're being too hard on yourself," she said after I explained the situation. "You're holding yourself to standards that aren't appropriate for where you are."
"But I know I can do better."
"Can you? Or do you think you should be able to do better? There's a difference." She leaned forward. "Lance, you're seven years old. You're racing in a junior class against drivers significantly older than you. The fact that you're competitive at all is remarkable. The fact that you've won races is extraordinary. But you're acting like anything less than dominating every race is failure."
"That's what champions do though. They dominate."
"Sometimes. But more often, champions persevere through difficult periods. They adapt. They learn. They grow." She pulled out her notebook. "Let's talk about Thomas. He got in your head, didn't he?"
"He crashed into me. The officials should have penalized him."
"Maybe. But even if they had, it wouldn't change the fact that he's affecting how you race. You're thinking about him instead of thinking about your own driving. That's exactly what a rival wants."
She was right. I'd been so focused on Thomas, on proving him wrong, on beating him specifically, that I'd lost focus on just driving well.
"So what do I do?"
"You race the track, not the driver. You focus on your performance, not his. You let the results speak for themselves." She smiled. "And you remember that you're seven. Give yourself permission to be a kid who's learning, not a champion who's failing."
It was the same message Claire had given me, delivered from a different angle. Maybe I needed to hear it multiple times before it sank in.
[Mental Adjustment: In Progress]
[New Focus: Personal performance, not rivalry]
[Goal: Return to process orientation]
[Expected Result: Better racing, less stress]
Race four was my reset race. I didn't qualify on pole. I started third. And I decided that was okay.
The race start was clean. I maintained position through the first few corners, didn't try to force anything. Just smooth, consistent driving. The leaders pulled away slightly, but I kept them within reach, learning their pace, studying their lines.
By mid-race, I'd found extra speed. Small improvements in corner entry, better lines through technical sections, cleaner exits. The gap started closing.
With five laps remaining, I was on the leader's gearbox. With three laps remaining, I passed him cleanly into turn one, no drama, just better positioning and execution.
I won the race. Not because I'd been desperate to beat anyone specifically, but because I'd driven my race, focused on my performance, and let the result follow naturally.
The relief was immense.
"That's more like it," Marc said, timing sheets showing I'd also set the fastest lap. "Clean driving, smart racing. That's the Lance I know."
Thomas finished fourth. We didn't make eye contact in the pit area, but I noticed his father talking animatedly to the officials, probably complaining about something.
Let them complain. I'd beaten him on track. That was all that mattered.
[Race 4 Result: 1st Place]
[Championship Standing: 2nd, 8 points behind leader]
[Mental State: Improved]
[Confidence: Restored]
[Status: Back in the fight]
The championship battle intensified over the next several races. Every weekend was crucial, every point mattered. I won race five, finished second in race six, won race seven. Thomas had a mechanical failure in race five that dropped him out of contention, but the current championship leader, a ten-year-old named Philippe, was consistent and fast.
By race ten, with three races remaining, I was tied with Philippe for the championship lead. We had identical points, which meant the tiebreaker would be number of wins. I had five. He had four.
But more important than the math was something else. I was enjoying racing again. The pressure was still there, the expectations hadn't disappeared, but I'd learned to carry them differently. To focus on the aspects I could control and accept the rest as part of competition.
Chloe had made it her mission to keep me grounded. She'd started a ritual before each race where she'd tell me something ridiculous to make me laugh.
"Hey Lance," she said before race ten. "What's the difference between a race car driver and a pizza?"
"I don't know. What?"
"A pizza can feed a family."
The joke was terrible, but I laughed anyway. "That's awful, Chloe."
"I know. But you're smiling now instead of looking all stressed." She grinned. "You're welcome."
Lawrence had also adjusted his approach. Instead of discussing championship points or standings, he'd started asking simpler questions.
"Did you enjoy the race?"
"Did you drive your best?"
"Did you learn something new?"
If the answers were yes, he was satisfied. The results would follow or they wouldn't, but the focus was on the experience, the growth, the journey.
It helped. It all helped.
[Race 10: 1st Place]
[Championship Standing: 1st by 4 points]
[Races Remaining: 2]
[Scenario: Control your own destiny. Finish ahead of Philippe in the final two races, win the championship.]
[Mental State: Focused, calm, ready]
[Physical State: Peak condition for age]
[Team Support: Strong]
[Status: Everything you've worked for comes down to two races]
Race eleven was wet. Rain had fallen throughout the morning, and the track was soaked for our afternoon session. Perfect conditions for someone who'd won their first race in the wet, but also conditions where anything could happen.
I qualified second behind Philippe. The wet track was an equalizer in some ways, making experience less dominant than adaptability.
The race start was treacherous. Everyone was cautious through the first corner, nobody wanting to be the driver who crashed out in championship-critical conditions. I maintained second place, watching Philippe ahead, studying how he handled the wet track.
He was good. Very good. But I'd spent the winter studying wet-weather racing, watching countless hours of onboard footage, learning from masters of rain driving. This was where preparation met opportunity.
Lap five, I made my move. Philippe took the traditional line into the fast sweeper, the one that would be fastest in the dry. I took the wet line, the one with more grip in the rain, carried more speed through the corner and got alongside him on the exit.
We raced side by side through the next section, wheel to wheel, neither giving ground. Into turn eight, the hairpin, I had the inside. He tried to defend but couldn't make it stick. I had the position.
Now I just had to bring it home.
The rest of the race was about consistency. Not pushing too hard, not making the mistakes that wet conditions punished so severely. Just smooth inputs, perfect lines, managing the gap.
I crossed the line in first. Philippe finished second, right behind me.
Which meant going into the final race, I led the championship by twelve points. Even if Philippe won and I finished second, I'd win the championship on the tiebreaker of most wins.
I had control of my own destiny.
[Race 11: 1st Place (Wet)]
[Championship Standing: 1st by 12 points]
[Races Remaining: 1]
[Scenario Analysis:]
If Philippe wins and Lance finishes 2nd or better, Lance wins championship.
If Philippe wins and Lance finishes 3rd, Philippe wins championship on points.
If Lance wins, championship is secured regardless of Philippe's result.
[Strategy: Finish 2nd or better. Don't need to take unnecessary risks.]
[But also... you want to win. You want to take the championship with a victory, not cautious point-protecting.]
[Your choice. Choose wisely.]
The week before the season finale was simultaneously the longest and shortest week of my life. Time seemed to crawl during school and practice sessions, yet flew by whenever I tried to prepare mentally for the race.
Everyone had opinions about how I should approach it.
Marc said to race smart, protect the points advantage, prioritize finishing over winning.
Lawrence said to trust my instincts, drive my race, let the championship take care of itself.
Claire said to stay safe, remember it's just a race, that she'd love me regardless of the result.
Chloe said to win because winning was cooler than finishing second, championship or not.
Dr. Renaud said to focus on the process, control what I could control, and release what I couldn't.
Chef Beaumont, surprisingly, had his own take when I visited the kitchen that week. "In cooking, sometimes you have to know when to be bold and when to be cautious. A championship dish isn't always the most complicated one. Sometimes it's the one executed perfectly, without flourish. But sometimes boldness is what's required."
Everyone had advice. Everyone meant well. But ultimately, I had to make the decision myself.
Did I race conservatively, protecting my championship position? Or did I race to win, accepting the risks that came with that approach?
[System Note: This is your moment. Everything you've worked for comes down to one race.]
[Conservative approach: Safe, smart, logical. Finish 2nd or better, guarantee championship.]
[Aggressive approach: Bold, risky, emotional. Go for the win, accept the possibility of losing everything.]
[No right answer. Both approaches have merit.]
[What kind of champion do you want to be?]
[Choose.]
The morning of the race, I woke early and found Lawrence already awake, sitting in the kitchen with coffee and the sunrise.
"Couldn't sleep either?" he asked when I came downstairs.
"Too excited. Too nervous. Too everything."
He poured me a glass of orange juice, and we sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the day begin through the kitchen window.
"Papa," I said eventually. "What would you do? Conservative or aggressive?"
Lawrence considered the question seriously. "I'm a businessman, Lance. In business, I usually play conservative. Protect assets, minimize risk, build steadily. That approach has made me successful."
"So you think I should race conservative?"
"I didn't finish. In business, I usually play conservative. But occasionally, there are moments where the opportunity requires boldness. Where playing it safe means missing something that won't come again. Those moments are rare, but when they appear, the risk is worth taking."
"How do you know which moments are which?"
"Instinct. Experience. Understanding what you're capable of and what the situation requires." He smiled. "You're seven years old, about to race for a championship. You've already taken bold approaches to get here. Maybe that's what got you to this moment, and maybe that's what will carry you through it."
It wasn't a clear answer, but it was an honest one. And maybe that was what I needed to hear.
[Race Day: Season Finale]
[Weather: Clear, dry, perfect conditions]
[Championship Status: Lance leads by 12 points]
[Mental State: Ready]
[Decision: Made (though you haven't told anyone what it is yet)]
[This is it. Everything comes down to this.]
The atmosphere at the track was electric. Everyone knew this was a championship decider. Media had shown up, more than usual for a junior karting race. Parents and families filled the spectator areas. Even some local racing professionals had come to watch.
I was the story. The seven-year-old competing for a junior championship against drivers up to twelve years old. Win or lose, it would make headlines.
Philippe approached me in the pit area before qualifying. He was ten years old, tall for his age, had been racing since he was six. This was his third season in junior class. He was the favorite by age and experience. I was the favorite by current points.
"Good luck today," he said, extending his hand.
I shook it. "You too."
"I'm going to try to win. You know that, right?"
"I'd be disappointed if you didn't."
He smiled. "You're weird, Lance. Most seven-year-olds would be terrified right now."
"I am terrified. But I'm also ready."
"Then let's make it a good race. May the best driver win."
"Agreed."
[Respect established. Rivalry, but clean rivalry.]
[This is what competition should be. Not Thomas's dirty tactics, but Philippe's honorable approach.]
[Win or lose, this will be decided properly.]
Qualifying was intense. Philippe set a fast time early. I went out after him, knew what I needed to beat, and pushed hard. Every corner at the limit, every input precise, every meter of track used.
When I crossed the line, the timing screen showed me ahead by one-tenth of a second.
Pole position. Starting first for the championship race.
Philippe would start second. We'd race wheel to wheel from the drop of the green flag.
Exactly how it should be.
In the pit area, Marc checked over my kart one final time. "Everything's perfect. The kart is fast. You're prepared. Just drive your race."
"Which race? Conservative or aggressive?"
Marc looked at me, really looked at me, and smiled. "You've already decided, haven't you? I can see it in your eyes."
"Yeah. I've decided."
"Then trust that decision. Commit to it fully. Doubt is what causes mistakes, not the approach itself."
Chloe ran over, her banner even more elaborate this time. "LANCE STROLL - CHAMPION" it declared, as if saying it made it true.
"Not champion yet," I said.
"You will be. I know it." She hugged me. "Drive fast, stay safe, win the race."
"That's the plan."
Claire was crying again before the race even started, overwhelmed by emotion. Lawrence stood beside her, arm around her shoulders, both of them watching me with expressions mixing pride and anxiety.
This was my family. These were the people who'd supported me, believed in me, made this moment possible.
I wouldn't let them down.
More importantly, I wouldn't let myself down.
[Pre-Race Final Status:]
Pole position secured.
Philippe starting 2nd, will attack immediately.
Weather perfect, track conditions optimal.
Kart performing at peak.
Mental state focused and clear.
Decision made regarding approach.
Family supporting from sidelines.
Everything that could be controlled has been controlled.
Now it's time to race.
[Green flag in 5 minutes]
[This is what you've trained for]
[This is what you claimed you could do]
[Time to prove it]
The grid formed up. I sat in my kart on pole position, Philippe beside me in second. Behind us, the rest of the field lined up, all of them knowing they were witnessing something special regardless of who won.
The marshal raised the starting flags. My heart pounded, but my hands were steady on the steering wheel.
This was it.
Everything I'd worked for over three seasons. Every practice session, every training day, every race, every lesson learned. All of it came down to the next fifteen laps.
I'd made my decision. Aggressive. Not reckless, but aggressive. I wasn't going to settle for safe. I was going to race for the win.
Because that's what I'd told myself I could do. That's what I'd criticized other drivers for not doing when they had the chance.
Now it was my turn to put ambition into action.
The green flag dropped.
I launched off the line, perfect reaction time, wheels spinning briefly before finding grip. Philippe was right there beside me, both of us accelerating hard toward turn one.
We entered the corner side by side.
He had the outside. I had the inside. Neither of us willing to lift.
This was racing.
This was championship.
This was everything.
To be continued...
Author's Note: Chapter 7 covers the emotional and mental challenges of Lance's age 7 season, dealing with expectations, rivalry, pressure, and ultimately the championship finale. The chapter ends on a cliffhanger at the race start. Next chapter will resolve the championship battle, explore the aftermath, and begin transitioning toward the next phase of his racing career. We're building toward the eventual move beyond local karting.