That's racing.
Adrenaline surged, and my pulse pounded. Surprisingly, nothing hurt. That was a good sign.
By the time I started to peel myself off the ground and gather my wits, the neon demon stormed toward me. She pulled off her helmet and shook out her flowing blonde hair, looking like a shampoo commercial in slow motion. At least, that's the way I saw it.
Her face twisted with a scowl, and she shouted at me.
With my helmet and the noise, I didn't really hear what she said. She bitched and moaned and somehow turned it into my fault. I'm not quite sure how she came to that conclusion, since she was the one who lost grip and slid into me.
"You shouldn't even be on this track!" she snarled as I pulled off my helmet.
I couldn’t help but laugh. "You're the one who hitme!"
She glared, huffed, then spun around and marched back to her bike. At 418 pounds, it wasn't an easy thing to lift. She pulled on her helmet, squatted, and tried to right the bike, but it wasn't happening.
I jogged over and lent a hand. Together, we got the bike upright. I held the bike steady for her as she tried to restart it, but she waved me away.
Fine. Whatever.
I jogged back to my bike, got it upright, and fired it up.
The track was clear. The race, over.
The handlebars, cowlings, fairings, and chassis were a bit scuffed. It would need some TLC, but the bike would be fine. I puttered back to the paddock and pulled into the pit. I pulled off my helmet and parked the bike.
Jack was livid. "That's criminal! You had that.”
I shrugged.
"It's part of racing."
"It's bullshit, if you ask me."
We walked around the bike, surveying it for damage. Jack continued to grumble a few obscenities. He was pissed. Perhaps more so than me. It’s hard to watch friends get a raw deal. And JD and I were like brothers. But at the end of the day, it was just a bike, a podium place, and everybody was okay.
We packed up the gear, broke down the tent, and loaded it and the bike into the small enclosed trailer we had rented. Track days weren’t cheap, and this one had gotten more expensive than most.
There were pats on the back and condolences. Compliments on my first outing.
"Better luck next time."
I peeled out of my leathers and was in desperate need of a shower. We decided to grab a quick snack and a drink at the paddock bar, Brolly Dollies. My race was over, but there were several more scheduled.
The bar was packed. Large flatscreen displays captured the on-track action. Forks scraped against plates, and the murmur ofconversation filled the air. The menu was full of overpriced pizza, expensive hamburgers, sandwiches, nacho platters, burritos, you name it.
Seabreeze Springs was a state-of-the-art facility with fresh asphalt, private garages for track toys, and luxury condos for those who wanted to be close to the action.
JD and I ambled up to the bar and found a seat.
Off my bike and out of my suit, nobody knew who I was. I didn’t have a number or the big red X on my back. No helmet with a crazy design. I was just an ordinary person.
JD and I both went with the bacon double cheeseburger, a basket of sweet potato fries, and I opted for a cold beer to wash it down. Jack was driving. We’d hitched the trailer to the Wild Fury van. With the logo emblazoned across the side, it was free advertising for the band and Jack's brand of whiskey, which was now just about everywhere on the island.
We sat at the bar, shooting the breeze, watching the race on the flatscreens, already planning for the next club race. It was something that got into your blood quicker than I had anticipated. I could see this becoming a regular, expensive hobby—tires, engine cowlings, a backup bike, leathers. There was no end to the expenses.
A rather jolly fellow took a seat next to us at the bar. He was mid-50s with graying hair, a bit of a belly, and an affable demeanor. He smiled and said to me, "You're Tyson Wild, aren't you?"
I smiled back and said, "I could be. Who wants to know?"
