The "Pit Lane Chef" nickname stuck. What started as a joke became part of my identity in the F3 paddock. Other teams heard about the dinner at Nürburgring, and suddenly I was known for cooking as much as racing.
At the next race weekend at Zandvoort in the Netherlands, a Dutch journalist actually asked about it during a press conference.
"Lance, there are stories circulating about you cooking for your team. Is this true?"
I glanced at Lando, who was trying not to laugh beside me. "Yes. I cook sometimes. It's a hobby."
"A hobby that includes restaurant-quality Italian food, apparently."
"I've had good training. My cooking teacher was a Michelin-starred chef."
George Russell leaned into his microphone from the other side of the table. "Can confirm. I wasn't at the dinner, but I've heard from five different people that Lance's carbonara is legitimately excellent. The Pit Lane Chef is real."
The room laughed. What could have been embarrassing instead became humanizing. I wasn't just another junior driver—I was the kid who raced and cooked.
[Media attention: Positive and personality-focused]
[Reputation: Multi-dimensional and interesting]
[George Russell: Supportive, building friendship]
Zandvoort qualifying went well—sixth place, solid position. The race was harder. I finished fifth after a tough battle with multiple drivers, scoring 10 points. Consistent but not breakthrough.
Lando finished fourth, extending his points advantage over me. George won again. Louis was second.
[Race: P5, 10 points earned]
[Current Balance: 63 points]
[Progress: Steady but not spectacular]
The frustration was building. I was consistently finishing top six, which was good for a rookie. But "good" wasn't enough. I wanted wins. I wanted to fight at the front.
"You're being too hard on yourself," Thomas said after Zandvoort. "P5, P3, P7, P5—these are excellent results for a fourteen-year-old in F3. You're learning, improving, scoring points."
"But Lando's doing better. George is dominating. Louis is winning races."
"Lando's exceptional. George is generational talent. Louis has two years more experience. You're comparing yourself to outliers."
"Those outliers are who I need to beat to reach F1."
Thomas had no response to that. Because he knew I was right.
[Self-assessment: Harsh but accurate]
[Top-six finishes good, but not enough]
[Need breakthrough performance]
Between Zandvoort and Monza, I spent time at home in Canada. Marcus and I gamed together, but the conversation kept drifting to racing.
"You're on podiums now," Marcus said during a session. "That's insane. You're fourteen, racing in Europe, getting podiums."
"One podium. Singular."
"Still counts! Most people never get any podiums ever."
"Most people aren't trying to reach Formula 1."
Marcus paused the game. "Dude, are you okay? You sound stressed."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're beating yourself up over being slightly less fast than literal geniuses." He pulled up F3 standings on his phone. "You're seventh in the championship. As a fourteen-year-old rookie. That's actually incredible."
"Seventh isn't winning."
"No, but it's not failing either. Give yourself credit."
[Marcus: Providing perspective]
[Friendship as grounding force]
[Reminder to appreciate progress]
I also cooked with Chef Beaumont, who immediately noticed my mood.
"You're frustrated," he observed while we prepared duck confit together.
"I'm not winning."
"Are you learning?"
"Yes, but—"
"Then you're succeeding." He trimmed the duck with practiced precision. "Lance, I've trained many chefs. The ones who became great weren't the ones with the most natural talent. They were the ones who learned from every dish, every mistake, every success. Racing is the same."
"But I need to win. I need to prove I can compete at the highest level."
"And you will. But mastery takes time. You're fourteen. You have years to develop." He smiled. "Besides, you just earned a podium and cooked a meal that impressed Italian mechanics. That's not nothing."
[Chef Beaumont: Wisdom about process]
[Cooking as perspective-building]
[Reminder that time matters]
Monza was the next race—the legendary Italian circuit known for high speeds and dramatic racing. The "Temple of Speed" where history was made and careers were defined.
I arrived determined. This would be the breakthrough race. Monza suited my smooth driving style, and I'd studied the track obsessively.
Friday practice went well. Saturday qualifying was perfect.
My qualifying lap felt transcendent—Perfect Instinct guiding every input, Racecraft Genius showing optimal lines, Consistency Master keeping it all precise. The lap flowed like music, each corner a perfect note.
When I crossed the line, the time flashed: P2.
Front row. Second place on the grid behind George Russell.
[Qualifying: P2]
[Front row start!]
[Best qualifying position of career]
The paddock buzzed. The Pit Lane Chef had qualified on the front row at Monza. Media wanted interviews. Prema was ecstatic. Lando—who'd qualified fourth—congratulated me but with competitive fire in his eyes.
"Front row," he said. "Now you have to convert it to a win."
"That's the plan."
"George is fast. You know that."
"I know. But I'm fast too. Tomorrow we find out how fast."
[Pressure: Maximum]
[Opportunity: Clear]
[Everything aligned for breakthrough]
Race day brought perfect conditions—sunny, warm, ideal for racing. I barely slept the night before, adrenaline and anticipation keeping me awake.
In the garage before the race, I went through my pre-race routine. Visualization, breathing exercises, mental preparation. Thomas talked through strategy, but I was barely listening. I knew what to do.
Get a good start. Stay with George. Pressure him. Wait for an opportunity.
The formation lap felt eternal. Grid position two, George ahead on pole, the field behind us. Everything I'd worked for since karting came down to these next twenty-five laps.
Lights out.
Perfect start. Stayed with George through turn one. We pulled away from the field immediately—this was a two-car race for victory.
[Lap 1: P2, gap to George 0.3 seconds]
[This is it. Fighting for the win.]
For ten laps, I was glued to George's gearbox. He was fast—supremely fast—but not pulling away. I was matching him, learning his lines, finding where I could be faster.
Lap eleven, into the first chicane, I dove to the inside. Aggressive move, committed fully. We went through the chicane side-by-side, neither giving ground.
Into turn four, I had the inside line. He defended brilliantly but I'd committed. Made the pass stick.
[Position: P1]
[Leading an F3 race]
[Fourteen laps remaining]
[WIN IS POSSIBLE]
The next three laps were perfect. I pulled a one-second gap on George, managed tires, hit every apex precisely. This was the performance I'd been chasing all season.
Then, lap fifteen, disaster.
Going into Parabolica at full speed, I felt something wrong. The rear of the car stepped out—not a driving error, mechanical issue. The rear suspension had failed.
The car spun. I fought to control it, but at 180 mph with a broken suspension, control was impossible. Spun across the gravel trap, impacted the barrier hard.
[INCIDENT: Mechanical failure]
[Suspension failure, not driver error]
[Race over]
[Dreams crushed]
I sat in the destroyed car, smoke rising, and wanted to scream. Leading the race, driving perfectly, first win in sight—stolen by a mechanical failure that was entirely beyond my control.
The marshals helped me out. Medical check confirmed I was physically fine—no injuries thanks to the safety equipment and my Physical Peak skill absorbing the impact forces.
But emotionally? Destroyed.
I watched the rest of the race from the medical center. George won, naturally. Lando finished third after a brilliant recovery drive. The race I should have won, could have won, ended with me in the wall with zero points.
[Result: DNF]
[Points Earned: 0]
[Current Balance: 63 points (unchanged)]
[Emotional State: Devastated]
In the paddock afterward, everyone offered condolences. Raffaele said it wasn't my fault. Thomas confirmed the data showed mechanical failure. René promised the team would investigate and prevent it happening again.
None of it helped. I'd been leading. I'd been driving the race of my life. And it had been taken away by something I couldn't control.
Lando found me sitting alone in the Prema garage, staring at nothing.
"That was brutal to watch," he said quietly. "You were driving brilliantly."
"Doesn't matter now."
"It does matter. Everyone saw you could win. You passed George Russell, built a gap, were managing the race perfectly. That matters."
"I didn't win though."
"No. But you proved you can. Next time you're in that position, you'll know you have the speed." He sat beside me. "Want to hear something that might help?"
"Not really."
"I'm going to tell you anyway. My first time leading a race in F4, I crashed on my own, no mechanical issues, just pushed too hard. At least your failure wasn't your fault."
"That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"No. But knowing you're not alone in crushing disappointment helps sometimes."
[Lando: Attempting support]
[Shared pain of racing heartbreak]
[Friendship deepening through adversity]
That evening, I couldn't face cooking or celebrating or anything. Just sat in the apartment, replaying the race in my mind, watching the moment the suspension failed, the moment everything went wrong.
Chloe video-called. Took one look at my face and didn't ask how I was.
"That really sucked," she said simply.
"Yeah."
"You were winning."
"I know."
"It wasn't your fault."
"Doesn't make it hurt less."
She was quiet for a moment. "You know what this means though? You're fast enough to win. Next time you'll finish what you started."
"What if there is no next time? What if this was my shot?"
"Lance." Her voice was firm. "You're fourteen. You have years of racing ahead. This wasn't your only shot. It was just the first one. There will be more."
[Chloe: Wise beyond her years]
[Providing perspective and hope]
[Family support crucial during setback]
The System, which had been quiet for weeks, chimed in with a message.
[Monza Result: Painful but Educational]
[You proved capable of leading and winning at F3 level]
[Mechanical failures happen. They're part of racing.]
[Character is built through how you respond to setbacks]
[Next race: Opportunity to show resilience]
[The difference between good drivers and great drivers is how they handle heartbreak]
I knew the System was right. I knew Chloe was right. I knew Lando and everyone else trying to help was right.
But knowing didn't make it hurt less. I'd had a win in my hands, and it had been stolen by circumstances beyond my control.
That was racing. Cruel, unfair, beautiful, and brutal in equal measure.
The question was: how would I respond?
[Monza: Defining moment of character]
[First major heartbreak in car racing]
[Response will shape future trajectory]
[Per outline: "Dozens of near-wins, heartbreak, mechanical failures"]
[This is the first of many hard lessons]
To be continued...