Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Thanks.”
I tried hard not to look at the cane Mark kept off to the side. Injuries were an inevitable part of this brutal sport I loved, but seeing such stark proof always made me slightly nauseous. I answered Mark’s technical questions about the qualifying heat, which had indeed been a satisfying win for me. Despite the cold weather sweeping through the region, my bike had felt dialed in all day with good track conditions. The tricky layout was favorable to my riding style, and I couldn’t wait to get back out there.
“Always a pleasure to hear from you, Declan.” Mark nodded as the interview wrapped, and we waited for the signal that filming was complete. As soon as the camera operator set aside her equipment, Mark clapped me on the shoulder. Despite numerous hand surgeries, his pinky finger still had a weird angle to it. “Now, go make that gate drop.”
“You know it.”
Only too eager to move along, I didn’t need Stacey prodding me this time. I made my way back to my mechanics. My lead dude, Joey, was deep in concentration as one of his helpers revved the engine. I trusted them to have the bike ready, so I focused on getting myself in the right headspace as I located my gear. I found the perfect hype tune, an uplifting anthem from the ads for one of my favorite first-person shooter games.
I kept my big noise-canceling headphones on as I switched to my race boots and readied my goggles and gloves. A frigid breeze swept through the mechanics’ area, making me wrap my parka tighter around me. Needing my muscles to stay loose and warm, I did some jumping jacks. As riders headed to the starting line, I blocked out everything other than my music, visualizing the perfect race. My hands flexed, adrenaline starting to gather, body eager to ride.
At my gate, I removed my coat and handed over the headphones and my phone to Joey. Taking deep, slow breaths, I fastened my helmet and lowered my goggles into place to do my site lap and check track conditions.
Once back at the gates, I swapped goggles before Joey helped me engage my starting mechanism.
“Get ‘er done.” Joey gave me a solemn nod that hid his snaggle-toothed grin. We didn’t say good luck or anything like that. No empty praise between us. This was work for the whole team, and they all counted on me to do my job.
“Let’s go racing.” The announcer yelled as the engines revved, the last seconds of the countdown ticking away.
I’ve got this. As soon as my gate dropped, my good feeling from earlier became an utter certainty that the race would come to me. Rather than a chaotic rush of milliseconds fighting for the holeshot, the start unfolded in slow motion, a clarity of senses that allowed me the sort of precision I could usually only visualize over and over in the lead-up to each race.
This was real life, not a video game or a practice track, yet everything came easily to me. I had the first gate pick and used that to my advantage, seeking the easiest, fastest path to the holeshot. I jockeyed for position, finding the outside line my team and I had chosen after the qualifying heats.
Having the lead coming out of the first turn—the holeshot—was more than a point of pride. My team loved to drown me in stats, and their numbers were clear. When I got the holeshot, I won. A bad start tended to doom me to playing catch-up to the leaders and making stupid mistakes.
Getting the holeshot made my already revved adrenaline rush like shot-gunning three of my sponsor’s trademarked energy drinks. My whole body buzzed, hands tingling, but my track awareness had never been higher. We’d been at this track for the better part of a week, and I knew exactly which jumps I wanted to triple and how fast I wanted to hit the whoops.
My timing was a thing of beauty, and by the end of the first lap, I’d started pulling away from the field. Everyone else could fight for second place. No one could keep up with me. Not today.
Lap after lap, I flowed around the track, one with my bike, as though I were on my thousandth lap back at our practice track. Each obstacle came easier than the last. As I accelerated out of the corner toward the finish line jump, I was already anticipating coming around for another lap closer to victory. While approaching the jump, however, I lost traction and cross-rutted, my wheels falling into separate ruts, not allowing me to hit the face of the jump square. The second my tires left the track, I just knew.
I couldn’t save this one.
There was no time, no way.
I was falling.