Here we are, the living, our numbered days ticking away like the sweep second hands of finely built watches. Some of us walk as if we will walk forever, a slow, sleepy, loping gate that seems to presume an endless stream of tomorrows . . . and that is fine, it is good . . . and it is quite unlike me. I am the Nuvolari, and I was born with the tireless, insistent, chrome-plated heart of the racer. I don’t walk, I don’t even run; I race. I race my days, chasing every minute of them, every second, pushing them to their limit. I may never quite catch them, never make each one known, but they know I am there. They can feel my breath on their neck. My days, I push them, I race them, and I will do this till the stopwatch of my life finally clicks and I claim the sky as my final trophy.