ninety-four The first of May I was nineteen years old and a girl who can run all weekend. On May ninety-four of life I could not understand why certain things run off the runway and we must not think too much when things are running stronger than you. If running stronger there must be a reason and nineteen years there is still a good reason to think fermarcisi.
May ninety-four The first was a great silence and my mother hugged me on the station platform. I am on that day, the eyes do not watched them because they were crying loud cries and a mother who is strong anything other than what is said. There was a silence because life only when one discovers the news broadcast, and then you take that cuddly when you're small you can not understand why all the silence of the world exists only in the perimeter of the bed of a child who dreams . Then the silence grows and eventually combines all the beds in the world, homes, families, situations, because the pain of the world is the strongest glue. Then on May 1 of ninety-four enough lean out the window of the Fiesta 1.2 to hear from the terraces the special edition of Tg1.
at 14:17 to Sunday, May 1, 1994, the Williams of Ayrton hits the concrete wall outside the Tamburello curve at a speed of 200 km / h. In the violent collision on the right side of the car is destroyed, the two wheels, wings, suspension and triangles, flying through the air like bullets bouncing off while the car slowly to the edge of the track.
Mom says it's not over yet, mom says quickly prepare a hot bath and throw you in dressed. It also says that the race will never be the same if it is true that the sample is missing
. I ask her what she was like a champion and that is something that you live your life better. I ask why things end up, and she says things never end if there is someone that if he dreams. I tell my mom if dreaming is a little 'how to grow up fast and she told me to never put your feet out of bed. Then he threw back my hair and wipes her cheeks and it is another thing that you said, the joy.
Williams exhausts its energy crawling and snug in the range of grass to a stop a few meters from the road. The helicopter resumed the merciless scene, the yellow helmet of Ayrton is tilted to the right, still, under the morning sun burns the asphalt. Then, twice, the pilot has a reflex and moves as if to straighten, but it is only a flash that lasts a very short, the first service men reached the car and realize the situation: the pilot is unconscious, the helmet is literally drenched in blood. Ayrton is extracted from the car and lying on the cement side, his heart is still beating when the doctors make a tracheotomy to leave the airways beneath him, lying on the concrete of the new Tamburello, expands a red unequivocal.
smell of spring, the smell of magnolia in waiting until the last car at the bottom of the third class. Smell of fresh, everywhere. I had just made love, I smelled his life and had wet her pants and his fly still open on pants. I could not understand all that silence, I was not done for the world and the world was a red matryoshka from drool to the bone. I was not the man who did the work, family, history. For me, life was the Indianapolis Motor Speedway without the Tamburello curve and the curves were words that if the mistakes can always use the whitebait.
The helicopter lands on the straight of the medical service of the Tambourine, Ayrton Imola circuit is transferred from a hospital in Bologna. Hope of the world while the sample is' repeatedly in cardiac arrest. Physicians are able to maintain activity in the heart until the patient in room 214 of the hospital Maggiore, but it is useless. The first bulletin issued is final, the pilot's brain scan is completely flat, only the machines have his heart in business. At 18:40 Ayrton was officially declared dead.
Mom, tell me again why things stop the run, ripetimelo until dawn and then again until things do not pass the tambourine and will already be too far away. How does it work when you lose or win, if appropriate for celebration or maybe a matter of running aground and spends his life in pain at all. What do I do with my load of dreams, I can still exchange them at the Market Street of Charmed or be already empty as clay pots? Maybe things are in a hurry to go to beat or maybe it's the road that is full of twists, I can not tell you, Mom, I wonder every night at that perimeter of bed but I'm still here that I train to tighten without the taste of catch them. Why do things run off the runway to you now that even in a hurry to turn off the light. At least tell me if you find it under your pillow or if today is already a bit less that he shakes my hand. And if you tell me some lies see that sooner or later understand that a champion closes his eyes and let go of things even when you cry. Why do things never end if there is someone that if he dreams.
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