WHEN YOU CHOSE THE WRONG MOTOR TO SPEED
Romance
*This story is inspired in Sophie Kumpen, the queen of karting and Max Verstappen's mom, who was forced to quit her dreams by her ex husband, Jos Verstappen. This story is modified and the characters are fictional representation, and has no purpose of offending. The following story may have sensitive content for some readers*
Part I: The engine's echo
“My name is Dyanna Janssens, I'm 21 years old, and I have a love for racing.”
That phrase is etched in my memory, and it's true; but I relived it because of a terrible mistake.
All my life I've been considered odd because while girls my age dreamed of being mothers, doctors, actresses, and singers, I grew up with a dream: to be a race car driver. And well, everyone made fun of me, saying it was something for boys, but I didn't care… I WANTED TO GRAB THAT STEERING WHEEL AND MAKE HISTORY!!!
My father didn't hesitate to support my dream, and when I finished my studies, he bought me a kart and I entered local competitions, being the only girl in the place.
At first, I was the slowest; but then I was seventh, then fourth, and finally I won; I became a global phenomenon. I was pampered by several sponsors, then I reached international karting, becoming a multi-champion, and I was about to take the next step; I couldn't choose between hundreds of options: Formula 1, Rally, Gran Turismo, IndyCar… I would have been happy with any of them. So much so that I started breaking thousands of hearts during the experimental practice sessions. Racing is my true love!
Until… I met him…
Adolf Hermann, known as the worst Formula 1 driver of the decade and the teammate of my former karting rival, Marcus Scherman.
I don't know where to begin, but I'll just say that meeting him was the worst decision of my life.
We got married, and if we wanted a good life together, we had to see each other more often. But since Adolf was in F1 and his career was crumbling amid criticism and accidents, his frustration turned to control. He looked me in the eye and, with manipulation disguised as love and family sacrifice, forced me to make the worst decision: to give it all up. I turned off my engines to ignite his.
I could say the story ends here, but it's only the beginning.
Part II: The Weight of the Crown of Thorns
Adolf was obsessed with success, with redeeming his family name through an inheritance he couldn't build. He pressured me into having a child. We tried three times, and after two daughters, the longed-for son arrived: Franz.
For Adolf, Franz wasn't a baby; he was a redemption project. Just seeing him was enough for him to put him in my go-kart without my permission.
He started at three years old, and the training was inhuman. Franz raced even in the bitter cold, his fingers frozen on the steering wheel. It broke my heart to see Franz staring out the window of the team trailer and touching the glass, while other children played or went to school. I had become a ghost in my own home, paralyzed by fear.
The breaking point came at a go-kart track in Italy. The first time Franz lost a race, finishing second, Adolf's fury erupted in the pits. Before the astonished eyes of mechanics and rivals, Adolf struck him on the head with his helmet. The sharp impact of the polycarbonate startled the other children, who recoiled in horror.
Marcus Scherman, who was also there, approached me, his eyes wide with terror, and told me so. My maternal instinct, suppressed by years of submission, awoke with a start. I ran to Franz, pulled him from the kart, and comforted him against my chest, listening to his muffled sobs.
Seeing my trembling hands, Marcus forced me to confess what was happening. In the middle of that noisy paddock, I told him everything for the first time: the shouting, the threats, the isolation, and the real reason I abandoned my dreams.
Marcus's face shifted from disbelief to a deep, protective anger. Without hesitation, he took my arm, led us to an office at the circuit, and called the police while I stood beside him, hugging Franz.
Just as the operator was entering the information, heavy, metallic footsteps echoed outside. The door burst open. Adolf stood in the doorway. His face was pure hatred, distorted by madness, and in his right hand, he held an emergency axe he had ripped from the wall of the corridor.
Marcus was startled to see him, but he stepped between him and us. He raised his hands and tried to reason with him, demanding that Adolf hand over the axe. But seeing his old rival defending his family only enraged Adolf further. Just as he was in front of him, Adolf elbowed him so hard that Marcus lost his balance and fell heavily to the floor, hitting a filing cabinet.
Then those bloodshot eyes looked at me.
“Run, Dyanna!” Marcus yelled from the floor.
I ran from the office toward the back corridor of the complex, my heart in my throat. I could hear Adolf’s heavy footsteps behind me, the scraping of the axe against the concrete walls. I reached the end of the corridor: a locked emergency exit. I was cornered. I turned around, shielding my son with my body, bracing for the worst. Adolf raised his weapon, but before he could unleash his fury, the sirens Marcus had summoned materialized. Four officers burst through the side corridor, tackling Adolf to the ground and arresting him immediately.
The next day, the divorce was swift. The media frenzy was deafening. Knowing my mind was completely broken and that I wasn't capable of caring for my children in that state, I made a painful but necessary decision: my sister temporarily took custody of the children. I needed to rebuild myself from the ashes.
Part III: The Long Road to Healing
The healing period was intense. The first few months weren't about racing, but about therapy, about long, silent nights where the slightest noise resembling an engine made me tremble. I felt like a stranger in my own body, a champion who had forgotten how to pilot her own life.
But I wasn't alone.
Marcus Scherman began to appear, not as the Formula 1 driver, but as a friend who extended a helping hand without expecting anything in return. At first, his visits were quiet: he would bring me coffee, sit with me on my porch, and we would talk about everything except cars. Over time, Marcus helped me understand that I wasn't to blame for Adolf's madness, and that loving motorsports didn't make me a bad mother, but a woman with my own identity.
Little by little, fear transformed into confidence. One day, Marcus took me to a private track, far from the cameras. In the pit lane, there wasn't a single-seater race car, but a standard sports car.
"You don't have to break any records today," he told me, offering me a new helmet, painted in the colors I used in my karting days. “Just do a lap. Feel the asphalt.”
When I put on the helmet and started the engine, the roar no longer terrified me. Feeling the vibration in my hands brought back the memory of who I was before the storm. Marcus climbed into the passenger seat, looking at me with a smile full of genuine admiration, a pure and unrestrained love I had never experienced before. Beside him, I laughed again as I took the corners. His love healed my wounds because he didn't seek to possess me, but to see me shine.
With therapy complete and my stability restored, the court returned custody of my children to me. Franz went back to school, to playing with blocks, to being a normal boy; go-karting was banned at home until he was old enough to decide for himself if he really wanted to get back in.
Two years after that night of terror, the lights of the Spa-Francorchamps circuit came on for the qualifying round of one of Gran Turismo's most competitive categories.
In the main garage, my sister held my daughters, while Franz, smiling, wished me luck. Marcus approached me just before I put on the HANS device and helmet. He gave me a tender kiss, an anchor that reminded me the storm was behind me.
"Make history, Dyanna," he whispered.
I climbed into the car, adjusted the harnesses, and closed the visor. I looked at the steering wheel, looked at the main straight, and smiled.
My name is Dyanna Janssens, I'm 27 years old, I'm back in motorsport, and I can finally say that I'm the master of my own destiny.
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