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She had a billion reasons to kill her husband. But I’ll get to that in a minute. First, the fun stuff.
Danger.
Risk of death.
Insanity.
Count me in.
A shot of pure adrenaline to the heart, bypassing the veins.
Pulse-pounding madness. Skin slick with sweat, nerves sizzling, chest heaving for breath. At 160 miles an hour, the rest of the world blurred by. I hugged the tank, minimizing draft. My wrist kept the throttle pinned as I blazed down the straight, streaking past the grandstands and the paddock.
The wind howled through my helmet.
The engine screamed.
The 600cc sportbike might as well have been a cruise missile. A demon that promised thrills and chills and glory, if you had the guts to take it to the limit. Pain and misery if you overshot the limit by a fraction.
I was just trying to hang on.
This was my first club race as a provisional rider. The big red X on my back let everyone else know as much.Avoid the newbie. Avoid any unpleasant entanglements on the asphalt.
I had attended numerous track days in the past, each one becoming more and more addictive. It was a great way to find your limits and become a better rider. Far safer than doing stupid stuff on the street that could put you into a telephone pole or underneath a Super Duty. At least on the track, there are gravel traps and plenty of runoff areas should you make a miscalculation. Putting the bike down is never fun, but with a good helmet and a racing suit with airbags, it’s a lot safer than it used to be.
Despite my newbie status, I was in third place.
I blazed across the line to start the final lap.
All I needed to do was make it around the track one more time and hang onto my position for a podium place.
Not too shabby.
It didn't mean anything. I wasn't going to win any prizes. No cash. Just a nice trophy, some champagne, and the personal satisfaction of making it to the winners’ circle.
No small feat.
This wasn't MotoGP.
These weren’t 1000cc custom-designed sport bikes.
My bike was bone stock. One of the fastest production bikes in its class. I had taped up the mirrors to keep glass from littering the track in case of tragedy, as was the standard on track days.
JD was my makeshift pit crew.
We had a pop-up sunshade, a couple of lawn chairs, tire warmers, tools, a first-aid kit, extra parts, and a cooler full of cold beverages.
I braked hard as I entered the braking zone, then leaned the bike into the first turn, dragging a knee a fraction of a millimeter above the tarmac. I hit the apex, the red and white shoulder blurring by.
My wrist twisted, getting on-throttle coming out of the turn. I made myself one with the bike, reducing draft, and blasted down the short straight into the next turn.
The engine roared.
I gained ground on the second-place rider wearing a black and neon green livery. Her long blonde hair fluttered out of the back of the helmet.
She broke late and went a little wide. It was a dumb screw up for such a seasoned rider. Maybe nerves. It happens. You get in your head so close to the finish. She’d been rock solid up to this point. I’d been looking at her tailpipe for the last several laps, choking on her exhaust.
