Ryder
Chapter 1
I pull up to the starting gate. I take a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling deeper than ever before. This is it, my chance to make it. The white flag goes up, and we start the engines. The smell hits me first: the overpowering tang of fuel filling the air, followed by a hint of oil laced with testosterone and a side of aggression. Add to that the sound that overpowers it, the revving of the engines. I can feel the rumbles through my chest, spreading to my whole body, people screaming and cheering. It’s like electricity flowing through my veins, pricking at my skin alive in my nerve endings. The adrenaline starts to peak as the two-minute board is held up… turning to the one-minute board… fifteen seconds… the gate drops.
I lunge away from the line, ripping the throttle back as far as humanly possible, surging my way forward, trying to get ahead of the pack. Everyone aiming to get holeshot. I need to get as far in front before we reach the first corner. I hurtle into it in eighth place.
“Fuck!” I yell over all the noise.
Disappointed is a fucking understatement, but I don’t have time to berate myself. I need to push that aside and focus. Screwing the throttle back, the bike roars underneath me, and I power into the corner. Liftingmy leg high and forward but digging my heel into the floor as I bank hard, I manage to hit the first rut and dig in. It’s clean, turning on a six-pence, tight, precise, and I pull forward two places. The ruts are deep and unforgiving already.
“Yes! Go, go, go!” I yell to myself, taking the next corner tighter still, a few hitting the wide rut and having to ride it out through the berm. I manage to claim another place. “Fuck yeah!” The fucking rush has me pulsing forward. Running on the adrenaline that’s coursing through my veins, relying on pure determination, I grit my teeth and power through.
The adrenaline takes over, hyper-focusing on every rut, every crevice of the track in front of me, letting instinct kick in, and I can’t help but grin, the feeling of my bike vibrating through my knees to my thighs, shockwaves pulsing through my forearms. A grin spreads over my face as I take the jump, holding the throttle steady so I don’t loop out or nosedive into a crashing endo, weightless for what feels like an eternity, before slamming back down to the ground absorbing the shock through my wrists, my arms and eventually my shoulders.
I tear the accelerator back, but the dick at the side of me hits me and pushes me offline. I land hard, skidding in the dirt and losing four places.
“Fucking bastard!” I yell as I push harder and set off after the cunt.
I’m sure I hear the twat laugh. Number sixty-nine, fucking Archibald Bartholomew III, posh jumped-up prick. His reputation as an arsehole precedes him. I’ve been fucking warned, and I won’t be making the same mistake again.
I set off again, keeping my eyes trained on him. I can’t focus on anything but getting to him, getting closer to him, getting past him, and fucking crucifying him, leaving him in the dirt behind me.
Slamming up through the gears, I accelerate and head for the tabletop, hitting that sweet spot perfectly, soaring a good fifteen feet into the air before landing and sliding into the next bend. Hitting the whoops hard but accurate, I sail over the top, picking up speed and taking three places.
Taking the next turn, I sail wide, getting stuck in a rut and having to ride it out, losing a place, but I’m on the throttle quicker than the guy who took me. I scream past him, then the guy in front of him, past the pits. Derek hangs out the board with ‘FNIB’ on it, and I smirk. (Fucking nailing it, breathe).
Each moto is about thirty minutes, plus two laps. We have a way to go, and I need to make sure I make it count. This is my debut, after all, and I want to come out of this weekend with my name a whisper on all their lips. I’m going to be the one to watch out for this season. I will bet my life on it.
We reach the starting straight, and I have one circuit left to make it count. Reaching the corner, I cut it tight, digging it to the rut and using it like a mini berm to fire me out of it, shoving two guys wider and undercutting them. One hits a rut and endos over the handlebars as his bike digs into the softer dirt.
I accelerate harder this time. I give it everything I’ve got, powering into the next bend. I rip the accelerator back, full throttle, and pull behind the guy in second place, and the cunt Archi-fucking-bald is in first.
“Motherfucker!” I try and take second place, but the fuckers holding me off. I push harder, clippingwheels and causing the bike to jolt, almost losing a place, but I manage to hold my ground. We’re coming up to the last turn twat-face has already crossed the line. I come in third place, half a wheel behind the guy in front.
I pull off the track and into the pits, pulling up next to our van and dragging the bike onto the stand. I kick it. “Fucking clapped-out piece of shit!”
Derek places his hand on my shoulder. “You did good, kid.”
“I’m not a fucking kid, Derek!”
“Well, right now, buddy, you’re acting like one. Hose it down, and let’s check it over. We need to be ready for the next heat.”
Sighing, I say, “Yes, sir.”
I shake my head. I know he’s right. Derek is the nearest thing to a dad I’ve ever had. My bio dad was abusive and skipped out on us when Mum got pregnant with me. Derek is Mum’s ex-boyfriend—three boyfriends ago.
He met my mum when I was two, and they were together till I was nine when they split. He continued to show up for Mum and me, even after she moved on a few more times before deciding guys just weren’t for her and staying single.
He got me into bikes, motocross, and racing. He has a bike garage I’ve been hanging around in since I could walk. I’m sure my first word was sprocket. I now work there during the day fixing bikes, and I work nights at the local supermarket, stocking shelves, cleaning aisles, and doing whatever they need. I work my two jobs and spend every penny on my bike, my mum and my tattoos. My best mate Jay has a shop and gives me ‘mate’s rates’. He’s so fucking talented, and I’m hiswalking canvas, he’s done all of my tattoos, and I love every single one.
I’m sure if Derek hadn’t been around while I was growing up, I would have ended up in prison or worse. I have a temper. Unfortunately, I must get that from the sperm donor, and it doesn’t always serve me well. But I’ve been working on it over the years, and I’m… less likely to blow up—most of the time.
I never knew my real dad, and I have never even seen him, but Derek chose me, and he keeps showing up. I owe him everything. So, I do as he says and wash the bike down.
I hear a snigger behind me. “Ahh, Poundland pauper. Don’t wash it too hard. The piece of crap might fall apart. As if a heathen like you will ever get holeshot on that pile of junk. Keep dreaming, peasant.”
He kicks up some dirt as he walks past with his track slut groupies, a gang of jailbait girls barely legal, cooing all over him like he’s some fucking god, in skirts so short if they bent over, I could read their lips. I shudder.Gross.
