Robert DeCuzzi

My family's racing story began in 1970, when my parents, Carol and Peter DeCuzzi, became involved in motorsports. I grew up with an appreciation for competition, craftsmanship, and figuring out how things worked. But some of my earliest lessons came from things that weren't working at all.

My first motorcycle came out of the trash. Someone else had discarded it. I brought it home, got it running, and discovered how satisfying it felt to bring something back to life. A minibike followed, and by sixth grade I had a moped. If it had an engine, I was curious about it. If I could improve it, I wanted to try.

I loved cooking just as much. My grandmother had an old recipe I thought was delicious, and I came up with a way to turn it into a school-lunch treat. I put it on edible paper, prepared it in three-by-four-inch sheets, and froze the sheets overnight. I made every batch myself, with almost no waste, and sold them in the cafeteria for twenty-five cents apiece.

I kept that little business going for about two years. For me, the reward wasn't just the money. It was watching someone enjoy something I'd invented. But the proceeds certainly helped: I bought my first Safari moped. I still smile thinking about the kid who made candy at night so he could ride a moped the next day.

Home wasn't always an easy place to grow up. My childhood included abuse, and I learned early that life could be unfair. I tried to make the best of it. Sports gave me places to go, goals to pursue, and people whose encouragement mattered.

At seven I began swimming and playing Little League baseball. Over the years I explored track and field, wrestling, gymnastics, and other sports, and I continued swimming through experiences that took me to Rutgers University and other organizations. Competition helped me develop discipline, but what stayed with me most was the value of a team: different strengths, shared effort, celebrating victories, and learning from the difficult days.

As a teenager I founded L & R Racing. Before online classifieds, I was reading the newspaper, finding cars and mopeds, negotiating purchases, fixing things, and moving on to the next opportunity. The interests kept expanding: Honda, Yamaha, Husqvarna, dirt bikes, ATVs, street motorcycles, and cars ranging from a 1970 Dodge Charger to a Porsche 944. Later, my adventures even included appearances on Rapid Turnover and Mag Rack.

Looking back, the candy, the rescued motorcycle, and the racing all came from the same place. I enjoyed having an idea, figuring it out, and sharing what I'd learned.

I still do.

I began racing go-karts in 1984. That passion would stay with me through 2020 and take me up and down the East Coast. I competed in karting, autocross, and local motorsports events, with memorable experiences at Pocono Raceway, Daytona, Virginia International Raceway, and many other venues. No matter where I went, Summit Point Raceway felt like home.

I faithfully returned to Summit Point for years, through the end of 2015, when my father passed away. Later, I continued competing at New Jersey Motorsports Park, in Delaware, and at Summit Point until the COVID shutdowns interrupted racing in 2020. I loved the machines, the competition, and trying to shave a little time off a lap. But I loved the people in the paddock every bit as much.

During the 1990s, recurring illness brought one of the hardest periods of my life. Eventually, I couldn't walk for approximately sixteen months. For someone who had always been moving—swimming, skiing, hiking, riding, racing—the loss of my mobility was devastating.

I kept working toward recovery. Sometimes that meant crawling. Sometimes limping. Eventually, it meant walking with a cane. I wasn't willing to let an expectation of a "new normal" become the limit of everything I might still accomplish.

One of the memories I treasure most is walking through Valley Forge National Historical Park with Anthony when he was a toddler. I'd lift him onto my shoulders and march through the park, building my strength one step at a time. We did that for years.

To anyone passing by, it was simply a father carrying his child. To me, each step was an act of determination, and the little boy on my shoulders was one of the greatest reasons to keep going.

As Anthony grew, we found ourselves sharing another kind of journey: racing side by side. We spent hours upon hours behind the wheel, learning our natural talents, refining our skills, and having an absolute blast. We earned several championships and built a reputation for fairness and sportsmanship. Winning was exciting, but I'd rather be remembered as someone who competed honorably and treated people well.

We also developed small parts for our karts to improve handling, grip, and balance. We'd imagine a change, build it, test it, and learn from the result. In the garage and at the track, Anthony wasn't just watching me work. We were learning from one another.

In 2001, after two years of racing side by side, we founded DeCuzzi MotorSports to create an identity of our own. Our family had a long racing tradition; this was the chapter Anthony and I would build together. What we gained wasn't only racing success. We formed friendships that remain with us today—people who helped us, challenged us, made us laugh, and became part of our lives.

The championships were wonderful. The time together was priceless.

Anthony loved Ferrari almost before he could speak. His fifth word was "Ferrari," and as a little boy he was already a Michael Schumacher fan.

Around the age of seven, he saw a gentleman at Summit Point Raceway with a beautiful new Ferrari 360. He was completely captivated.

My wife asked the gentleman whether Anthony could sit in the car. I'll never forget his response:

"I'll do you one better. I'll give him a ride."

Anthony was such a polite boy. When he realized he was actually going for a ride, the look on his face was so full of happiness that I thought he might cry. He climbed in, had the experience of a lifetime, and we thanked the owner for his kindness.

That man may have thought he'd simply made a child's afternoon. To us, he'd made a memory that would last decades.

Watching Anthony, I made him a promise:

"One day, we will get a Ferrari to share before I pass."

I didn't know how or when. We had work to do, a family to care for, and all the obligations that come with everyday life. But I meant it. Every time I remembered that day, I remembered my son's face.

Our lives kept moving. I worked in banking and finance and took part in businesses we built over the years. Health challenges continued, including a period when my medications left me feeling like a "boy in a bubble." I couldn't comfortably be around people showing signs of illness. The side effects and restrictions were difficult, but sitting out of life wasn't appealing to me.

To give ourselves more control over our schedules, we decided to open a dry cleaner.

What an adventure!

We had an incredible crew, wonderful customers, and more laughs and conversations than I could count. We discovered that treating people with respect, patience, and genuine appreciation wasn't just the decent way to do business—it made every workday better.

From there we moved into healthcare, where Anthony and I enjoyed working together for years. Helping people navigate hardships and supporting them when life was uncertain felt meaningful. My own experiences taught me how much a kind word, some patience, and someone willing to listen could matter.

And in the background, there was still the memory of that Ferrari ride, and a promise I hoped one day to keep.

In 2022, everything changed.

I was confronted with horrifying images and videos showing my mother being abused over a period of roughly two years. Seeing her slapped, smothered with a pillow, and robbed while she was incapacitated broke my heart.

The trauma and anxiety affected me profoundly. I felt sick from the outside in. My health deteriorated, and I became critically ill.

In the hospital, I faced an extraordinary combination of medical challenges, including tuberculosis, sepsis, kidney failure, COVID-19, and influenza.

I was in isolation.

Yet I still found joy in the people around me. The hospital staff were wonderful. We joked, talked, listened to each other's stories, and found moments to laugh even when the circumstances were frightening.

I was grateful for them then, and I remain grateful today.

One night, around 2:30 a.m., three doctors stood at the foot of my bed. An orderly wrote three enormous letters on the whiteboard beside them:

DNR.

I asked what they meant.

When I understood, I was horrified. I wanted them to know, without the slightest doubt, that I wanted every chance to live.

"Don't let me fucking die! Break my fucking ribs! Whatever you have to do, don't let me go!"

I had too much to live for.

My wife. Anthony. My family. Our friends. All the experiences and projects still waiting for us.

And somehow, in the middle of that terrible moment, my mind started making a list of the unfinished molding, the porch roof, the cars, and even the lawn.

I can laugh about that part now.

Apparently, even facing the end of my life, I still had a home-improvement schedule to worry about.

But beneath the humor, my heart was breaking. The thought of never again hearing the voices of the people I loved was unbearable.

A chaplain prayed with me. My doctors told me they were waiting for me to pass.

I remember darkness, silence, and an unsettling calm—and how desperately I wanted to stay.

Then I was out like a light.

The next thing I remember, I was sitting upright, pulling at my tubes and loudly demanding:

"Don't you let me die!"

Sometime that morning the doctor returned, and my medicines and equipment were connected again.

At about 10:30 a.m., Anthony called to say good morning.

Just a son calling his dad, the kind of ordinary moment people experience every day without a second thought.

Except I was still here to answer.

I stood up and started walking with my equipment attached.

I could walk.

There is much more to that hospital story, and perhaps another day I'll tell it. What matters most is that I survived, and that I was given another morning to hear my son's voice.

Cancer and further health challenges would follow. I knew that even surviving one crisis didn't mean there would never be another.

But I also knew something else:

I didn't want to keep postponing all the things we said we'd do "someday."

There was one promise I could no longer bear to leave for another day.

We sold the cars we'd been buying, rebuilding, and flipping. We drew from our savings. And we bought our first Ferrari 360, a beautiful Grigio Alloy car that we brought home to a household where it would be loved.

After all the years and all the uncertainty, the dream was finally in our garage.

I'd imagined Anthony's excitement for so long. But when he learned what we'd done, he said something that meant more to me than any car ever could:

"Dad, I want you here, not the car."

We went over the Ferrari together and enjoyed a few rides. I could still picture him at seven years old, looking at that gentleman's Ferrari with tears of happiness in his eyes.

And now, after everything we'd been through, we were sharing a 360 of our own.

About a year or so later, we met another remarkable gentleman with a Nero Ferrari 360. The car had lived an unusual life, once transporting visiting sheikhs and delegates to medical appointments, and it had sat for a long period during COVID.

It needed attention. We had enthusiasm to spare.

Anthony and I began taking it apart, rebuilding and improving it, discovering its engineering, and personalizing it.

There we were, a father and son, working together on a Ferrari just as we'd once worked on mopeds, karts, and countless other cars.

It felt like another chapter of our Italian heritage coming to life in the garage. The hours together were more valuable than the cars themselves.

And the best part?

We had become the gentlemen with the Ferraris.

We have never forgotten the stranger at Summit Point who gave a little boy a ride. Now we're fortunate enough to share our cars and enthusiasm with someone else.

A conversation, a photograph, a closer look, a kind gesture—any of those might become another person's treasured memory or the beginning of a dream.

Seeing that happiness brings us joy I can't begin to describe.

Our cars have also taken Anthony and me on epic journeys. We've traveled, explored, attended events, and met people whose stories have become part of our own. Sometimes the journey is unforgettable because of where we went.

More often, it's unforgettable because of who we met.

If you've spent any time around me, you may have noticed something:

I'm a hugger. A big, genuine, bro-hug kind of hugger.

There was a time when my prognosis was grim and I didn't know whether I'd ever see someone again.

I didn't want to miss the chance to give them one last caring moment.

Later, those hugs became a celebration of the wonderful people whose friendship and encouragement were helping me enjoy life.

Then I began thinking about what they might be going through.

You never know when someone else needs a moment of warmth or compassion.

Today, my hugs mean all of those things and something more.

Our paths may cross for a weekend, an afternoon, or only a few minutes. Travel and life can take us far apart.

If we never meet again, I want to carry a little piece of that person with me, and I hope they carry a little piece of me with them.

I genuinely wish the best for the people in our lives, and they remain in my thoughts and prayers.

I want them to remember that they mattered, that their story was worth hearing, and that someone was glad to know them.

I respect people's comfort with a hug, of course; it's the affection and appreciation behind the gesture that matter.

I don't hug people because I'm afraid of dying anymore. I hug them because I've discovered how wonderful it is to be alive—and how much better it feels to share that life with others.

In 2023, Anthony came up with another idea—one I never would have expected to grow into our next family adventure.

He knew I'd loved fragrances all my life.

After everything I'd experienced with my health, he wanted to develop something thoughtful for me: a cleaner fragrance, made with carefully selected ingredients and a process he could study and improve.

He approached it the way we'd approached machines together—learn how it works, pay attention to the smallest details, experiment, and keep refining.

Anthony's creativity and determination led him to develop our proprietary approach to clean fragrance formulation.

He wasn't content to simply put our name on someone else's finished product.

We wanted to conceptualize, design, make, refine, and finish our own creations.

We launched DeCuzzi Fragrance in 2024 and have continued expanding the original idea.

From scent concepts and formulation work to bottle selection, labels, filling, inspection, and finishing, the creative work happens in-house.

Each fragrance has its own personality and story, and we keep exploring new ways to improve what we make.

Our products are cosmetics, not medical treatments; our approach is about thoughtful ingredient choices, craftsmanship, and the enjoyment of fragrance.

Innovation and independence haven't kept us from facing challenges. We've encountered efforts to interfere with our identities, work, and goodwill.

We take protecting what we've created seriously, but we've also faced enough in life to know that a challenge needn't become the center of our story.

Our attention belongs on our customers, our ideas, and what we can build next.

It's funny, really.

The little boy who made treats from his grandmother's recipe grew up to make fragrances with his son.

The child who rescued an unwanted motorcycle eventually rebuilt Ferraris.

The man who once struggled to walk carried his son through Valley Forge—and years later, that son helped give him another reason to look forward.

I've had difficult times.

I've had wonderful times.

Today, the family I've built is what I cherish most.

I still love skiing, hiking, cars, racing, travel, listening to people's stories, and coming up with the next project.

And yes, there's probably still some molding around the house that needs finishing.

I believe everyone is a friend until they give me a reason to think differently.

I believe kindness comes naturally when you genuinely appreciate people.

I believe the happiness we give often finds its way back to us.

Don't waste your life among people who merely tolerate you. Spend it with people who celebrate you—and be someone who celebrates them in return.

One day, a stranger at Summit Point gave my little boy a Ferrari ride.

That kindness became a promise, then a dream we shared, and now an opportunity to make someone else smile.

In 2023, Anthony took another thing I loved and turned it into something we could create and share together.

Perhaps the next part of our journey will become part of someone else's memories, too.

I don't know how many more chapters life will give me.

I do know that I want to fill them with people, curiosity, laughter, compassion, and love.

Life is a blessing. Time is precious. Happiness is contagious.

Keep creating. Keep learning. Keep moving forward.

And whenever you can, bring someone you love along for the ride.

— Robert DeCuzzi

DeCuzzi Fragrance — Fragrance Reimagined.

Created with purpose. Inspired by life. Meant to be shared.