As our jaunty little gelato-hued train of Vespa sidecars pulls centrifugally into the whirlpool of a Rome roundabout, I’m trying to yell something to my driver Matteo. It might be “Aiuto!” (‘help’ in Italian) or more likely, “I think that bus is about to hit my daughter!” as her canary yellow sidecar nimbly swerves across lanes like Valentino Rossi.
But my brain’s short-circuiting like an overstimulated octopus pulling multiple levers. With a quick flick of the throttle, we catapult out of the chaos, adrenaline glands shot, slightly traumatised, but gleefully hurtling towards the next adventure.
