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He was small and delicate, that unknown young Canadian who had hurriedly boarded a flight to Italy. He had thought of a joke when they told him that Enzo Ferrari had summoned him to Maranello to propose that he replaced Niki Lauda, the champion who had left slamming the door.
Thus began, by bet and almost by chance, the legend of Gilles Villeneuve, who had the face of a poet and almost disappeared inside the passenger compartment.
From the beginnings on snowmobiles to the fateful ride of Zolder. In the background, the beautiful and damned Formula One between the end of the seventies and the beginning of the eighties, where mechanics had not yet given the dominance to electronics and a handful of absolute champions gave life to epic duels on the circuits of all the world.
Suddenly among them, from the endless nothingness of the Canadian snows, the melancholy smile of Villeneuve peeped out, fast among the fast: moving the bar of risk a little higher, to write a story that was already a legend, between the din of the pistons and the beating of a heart born for the asphalt.
