On the ice, speed turns into a sensory score of infinite meanings and just as many unknowns. Short track is a discipline where chaos and calm converse, where collective symbiosis meets personal will, where delicate intimacy merges with full physical expression.

Imagine an ancestral ritual, driven by the pursuit of adrenaline. A futuristic video game, where bodies and choices collide and blend without pause. A board game played on blades: thin, razor-fine metaphors of the boundary between overtaking and falling. Between glory and failure.

The short track rink is no ordinary stage. Still too little known to the wider public, this sporting art form, akin to the greatest feats of motorsport, yet performed through human architecture alone, enchants both those who live it and those who watch it. It hypnotizes. It excites.

Because within the tangle of trajectories and Machiavellian decisions, made in the blink of an eye, lies the essence of a sport rooted in raw power and technical precision, yet sustained by lucid reasoning: by thoughts and decisions, actions and reactions, fate.

‘A Primal Emotion’ is the special production we have dedicated, together with AQuest, to the magnetic human vortex of Azzurri short track. The short film is accompanied by an exclusive photo gallery, inspired by the Italian athletes who embody this discipline: Pietro Sighel, Alessandro Loreggia, Elisa Confortola, Luca Spechenhauser, Arianna Sighel, and Thomas Nadalini. 

Their own voices guide us into the discovery of short track: its speed, its depth, its poetry on ice.

Pietro Sighel

“I grew up on the ice. My father used to skate — he was a world champion, the first Italian to do so in long track — and my grandfather skated too, though in another era. It’s always been a family thing, so stepping into skates felt almost natural to me. I fell in love with short track, the smaller oval. I followed my instinct, and I’ve never regretted it. I think it was the combination of speed and adrenaline that drew me in: that mix of control and risk that captured me from the start. It’s a complex sport. Strength and explosiveness aren’t enough; you need instinct, tactical awareness, cleverness. You have to make decisions fast, because in half a lap everything can change ten times. You must be mentally flexible, ready to adapt. 

Of course, you can train certain things, but only up to a point. Some are born more explosive, others more endurance-oriented, and every tactic has to adapt to your body. The mind, though, is what truly makes the difference. You have to stay sharp, read the race, change plans in an instant. Falling is something you learn to live with as a kid: it’s part of the game. You fall, get up, go again. You accept it, even if when it happens at key moments, it hurts. But that’s short track. Its unpredictability is part of its charm. In some ways, it’s like MotoGP. We don’t have an engine, but the dynamics are similar: the lean into the corner, the risk, the acceleration coming out, the body following the line. There are moments to attack, to defend, to overtake. You need trust: you have to dive in even when you’re not sure you’ll make it through the curve. That’s where the difference lies between those who reach the top and those who don’t. Many athletes never take that final step because fear holds them back. But you have to learn to erase it. Short track is a reflection of my personality: impulsive, reactive, instinctive. The way I respond on the ice is the way I respond in life. And I think that’s why I love this sport so much.”

Alessandro Loreggia

“When I first started skating, like many kids, I did it just for fun. My father skated too. But when I put on short track skates for the first time, everything changed. I immediately felt at home. From that moment, I never stopped. Short track fascinated me because it wasn’t ordinary. It’s an unnatural discipline: you have to bend into uncomfortable positions, be aerodynamic, learn to push sideways instead of backward like you would when running. Those peculiarities drew me in. Something few people know is that when we touch the ice with our hands in the corner, it’s not really to keep our balance. It’s an instinctive movement, a reflex. You don’t even put weight on it. But it’s part of the essence of this sport, even psychologically. 

Over time, short track has educated me beyond the ice. Managing variables, accepting unpredictability… In this sport, you can prepare everything, be in top form, know you can win: and still find yourself on the ground moments later, maybe for no reason. The key, for me, is understanding that you can’t control everything. As I’ve grown, I’ve realized that going into a race with a warrior’s mindset doesn’t work for me. It’s the opposite. If I get too hyped, I perform worse. I need calm to perform well. Speed rhymes with slowness. When I skate all out, time seems to slow down. That feeling comes with experience. At first, you’re at the mercy of the speed. Then everything becomes clearer. You start to see the curve approaching, to shape it as you want. That, for me, is real speed: not the feeling of flying, but the feeling of being in total control. It’s a delicate balance: you have to be powerful, but also precise. Strategy, race reading, intelligence… They all intertwine. You must know when to overtake, how to take a corner, study your opponents, weigh risks and rewards. Personally, I’d rather fall trying than leave the ice with the regret of not having tried.”

Elisa Confortola

“I fell in love with this sport almost by accident. I live in Bormio, where winter sports are everywhere. At first, I didn’t even like skating: I kept falling. My family used to tease me about it. But I kept going, mostly because my friends were doing it. I started for them, maybe a little for myself too. Then, somehow, I fell in love. Something clicked. Because short track isn’t just skating: it’s speed, contact, strategy, tactics, technique. It’s a sport that demands many things from you, all at once. That mix completely captured me. Last year I started getting real results, and that’s when I realized I might actually have a shot. My mom says I’ve developed a kind of good, healthy ‘aggressiveness’: that mental edge that lets you say, ‘now I push, now I shift gear.’ I only discovered that recently. Anxiety helps me. Paradoxically, the more nervous I am, the clearer I become. It helps me get into the moment. I start thinking sharper: ‘Look who’s overtaking. Take that line. Go now.’ 

Strangely enough, the harder the race, the more alert I feel: like a hundred lights switch on in my head. I’m there, completely present, aware of every move. Of course, there are things you can’t control: the ice cracks, you lose footing, someone passes you. It happens, and it will keep happening. But you don’t dwell on it, because it’s outside your control. It’s scary, yes, but also beautiful, it’s what makes this sport unique. Nothing is predictable. That uncertainty, in a way, comforts me. Because I know I don’t need to be perfect, I just need to be ready. The real speed: I feel it in the race. Something switches inside me. A flood of clear thoughts: ‘Close here. Look there. Stay compact. Keep the line clean.’ Everything lights up. It’s a moment of technical euphoria, when you truly feel what this sport is about. You play everything in an instant. Technique, for me, is a form of art. There’s a ‘standard’ way to skate, but everyone does it differently. Some are graceful, others more chaotic. Two athletes can be equally strong yet move in completely different ways. It’s about sensitivity: how you use your balance, your blade, your body in space.”

Luca Spechenhauser

“I started skating relatively late. At first, I was a cross-country skier. Then, in 2010, the World Team Championships took place right here in my hometown, Bormio. My father coaches kids in the local club, and he took me to watch the races. Something clicked. I’ve always been competitive, and seeing those overtakes, the shoulder-to-shoulder contact, that mix of physicality and precision at high speed, it lit something inside me. Short track teaches you to be present: sharp-minded, but relaxed. You have to think and act in a heartbeat. It’s a game of reflexes, strategy, instinct, and control. The level today is so high that anyone can win. The difference lies in who reads the race best, who can adapt, stay calm while everything around them changes. It’s a constant blend of technique, instinct, risk, and trust. Trust, yes, because beyond your line and your opponents, even the ice isn’t always perfect. It can be soft, hard, unpredictable. But you have to trust it anyway. 

Even when you feel the blade slipping, you trust what’s under your feet, adjust the pressure, read the surface. It’s almost a tactile sensation, a kind of ‘skin feel.’ I always plan my race, but the truth is, you have to be ready to throw that plan away in a second. When things get really tough, I anchor myself to my breathing. The breath brings me back into the moment. Some situations can make you lose your head, but staying present is the only way to find a way out. It takes time to start winning, even if you’re a great Junior. You need experience, awareness, and a lot of mistakes to learn from. Short track has shaped me as a person. In life, like on the ice, unexpected things happen — good or bad — often beyond your control. You have to react. You have to stay in it, always. And then there’s something I can’t quite explain: when I skate, I feel free. Thoughtless. Just the motion of the curve, when the blade bites perfectly, the ice responds… it’s incredible. Short track is art, too. Especially today, it’s all about lines, trajectories. In a curve, you have to be creative, you have to draw. No two turns are the same. That’s why I compare it to Mario Kart, a complex, beautiful, unpredictable game.”

Arianna Sighel

“It was speed that made me fall in love with short track: especially the speed in the curve. That feeling of control and risk… it’s something even those who’ve never stepped on the ice can somehow understand. It’s the simplest thing to explain, yet the truest. My father played a fundamental role. He was always there: on the ice and beyond. He coached me until I joined the national team. Training with him was never monotonous: we cycled, climbed mountains, did everything. That variety shaped me. Short track is a score of actions and reactions. A thousand dynamics, a thousand split-second decisions. It’s a technical dance, made of centimeters and timing, that becomes pure art in competition. The true artistic side of short track lies in the late-ins: those last-moment overtakes. You throw yourself in, right at the edge: the blade grazing the ice, the body tilted, centrifugal force pulling you the other way… Yet you stay balanced, and you feel like you’ve drawn something perfect. Absolute precision within chaos. 

Even the relay, in its own way, is a form of art. The way power and speed are transferred from one teammate to another is incredible. When the exchange is done right, the acceleration feels fluid: the push is one continuous, harmonious movement. It’s not just power; it’s energy transmission. And when you manage to pass on your speed, that’s when you understand what ‘harmony’ truly means. It’s almost impossible to find two people who skate the same way. The blade is our paintbrush. We usually adjust its curvature depending on how the ice responds, though sometimes, the ice itself changes from morning to night. The truth is, you have to adapt. Everyone does. The best races are the ones I finish without realizing it: when I feel like I’ve been a spectator of my own race. It’s a strange, beautiful feeling. It means I was completely present, focused, guided by instinct. Representing my family in this sport is something I carry with pride, never as a burden. My father and brother are part of my story, something that lives within me with deep pride.”

Thomas Nadalini

“It all started by chance. Growing up in Trentino, where the lakes freeze over, it was normal to put on skates and glide across the ice. It was a way to be together: kids from nearby towns, just having fun. I’m from Pergine Valsugana, and my family spent a lot of time at the local ice rink. I still remember when my brother and I would crawl across the ice before we could even skate. Then we learned, and never stopped. We both played hockey, and eventually, short track arrived. My brother discovered it at school. The first time I saw him race, something lit up inside me. I thought, “That’s what I want to do when I grow up.” It was too beautiful: the speed, the mix of individual and team competition in the relay. Since then, I’ve been drawn to the pure adrenaline of this sport. That feeling of full speed, knowing you have just over a second to decide: overtake? wait? risk? It’s a surge of pure energy where you must stay sharp. Because clarity, in the end, makes the difference. 

On the ice, it’s like having a high-powered machine with no brakes. If you can’t control it, it’s useless. And that’s what fascinates me: the delicate balance between power and control, between decision and risk. Entering the rink not knowing what will happen. For me, that’s freedom. In a world where everything must be planned, precise, and controlled, that uncertainty feels almost liberating. When I think about my sport, I think of Interstellar: short track, like space, is a web of actions and reactions: where individual choices, events, and conditions constantly interact in a kind of loop. Every decision we make, every change around us, shifts the flow of what happens next. Decisions have to be quick, often adaptive, because the ‘space’ is always evolving: small variations can trigger massive chain effects, changing the course of entire systems. Every choice has a consequence. And there’s something artistic about it too. We’re always in contact with the ice. We touch it, we feel it. We leave traces: the blade draws, every lap saying: ‘I was here.’”