Isaac stared down the track at the first corner, visualizing sweeping around the corner at the front of the pack, imagining where he’d have to position his bike to get the holeshot. Vince started across the row on pole, meaning Isaac would have to cut across Fabiano’s path to shoot to the front.
All three riders on the front row typically started well, so Isaac needed to pay attention to Fabiano’s Ducati or risk crashing. He amended the picture in his mind. He might need a couple of corners to let his tires warm up, and then he’d pass the Duc. And his brother. The surge of adrenaline hit him hard as he waited intently on the starting grid.
The flagmen came out on track, but he didn’t watch their movements—they were irrelevant. He kept his gaze locked on the starting lights. When each one had gone out, it would be time. The bike mattered, the track mattered, but the lights were key. He needed his start to be perfect.
Isaac clenched all his muscles as the last light disappeared. He sprang forward with faultless timing. Fabiano’s Duc roared on his left and they left Vince behind. Over the years, there’d been the odd time when his brother had had mechanical trouble or mistimed the start. Not often. But today, it must have happened again. Isaac surged ahead of Vince.
Heart racing, Isaac ignored his senses that screamed to brake for the first corner as they thundered toward turn one,all twenty-eight riders on the track braking for the hard right. Waiting a fraction longer to slow the bike, he aimed for the inside of the lane. He leaned hard, squeaking by on the inside, sitting Fabiano up, slowing his rival for a split second. It was enough.
Isaac darted ahead and took the holeshot, rocketed around the Struben corner, powered down the back straight, flicked through the quick left-right-left-right, through the Timmer chicane, and wound onto the start-finish straight still in the lead. His pit board registered P1, L26, and #16 0.1. Fabiano was still the closest rider. Isaac put his head down and forgot everything in his quest to have a flawless race.
Isaac’s concentration never wavered from hitting his exact speed, angle, and braking mark for each corner, curve, and each straight. Starting from the front of the grid and riding alone made it easier to stick to the line he wanted on the track for the best drive and to reduce the wear on his tires. Too bad he’d never qualified well before this year. For most of his MotoGP career, he’d spent the early laps fighting through the pack for position while the leaders escaped. Not since his final year of Moto2 had he had this kind of clear track.
He spared only a fraction of his attention for the sounds of other bikes or the feel that another rider was close. Vince should be on his ass, but the sound of multiple bikes not far behind grew fainter and fell into the distance. His pit board flashed at the edge of sight each lap. P1, L10, #16 6.5 sec. Exhilaration ran through him; he’d left them in the dust. This race was his to win. He just needed to keep his mind sharp, not let it wander. Focus.
Every twist and turn, Isaac led, but he didn’t let up. Lap after lap, he maintained his rhythm and groove. He’d left the pack far behind but couldn’t afford to let his concentration waver, or he’d be picking himself out of the gravel. Flying through the start-finish straight, this time his pit board read P1, L3. Threelaps to go. Partway around the first corner section, something broke through his intense concentration. The race had been red-flagged. Stopped.
His brain whirring, he ran through scenarios as he slowed his pace. Would they call the race finished as they were more than two-thirds the total race distance, a rule used in the Moto2 and Moto3 levels? Would they restart the race, a three-lap sprint? His time advantage would be gone, though he’d start at the front.
Sitting up as he rode slowly back toward pit lane, he glanced at his dash. Maybe there would be a team communication to explain. Nothing came. He waved at the cameras and at the stands full of spectators as he continued the lap at a slow pace. A few other riders cruised past, looking as confused as he felt; they too acknowledged the fans in the packed grandstands. Nobody congratulated him because nobody else knew what was going on. Had he won?
Many of the fans stood on their feet. They weren’t looking toward the track, but staring at the gigantic screens displaying the race feed. Maybe he needed to check out the same information.
Isaac flipped up his visor and slowed further to watch one of the giant screens. The race was over, and they’d declared him the winner.
He fist-pumped the sky, jubilation roaring through him. His gaze flipped to the scoreboard. Isaac Vasquez, MotoGP race winner. He’d done it. Tears trickled down his cheeks, soaking into the lining of his helmet. He’d actually won. It didn’t seem real yet. After almost ten years at the top level, he’d given up on seeing this day arrive. One thing marred the exhilarating moment. Why had the race been called? It hadn’t been the weather. Somebody must have crashed. His blood chilled. For the race to have been stopped, it must be serious.
That’s when the realization hit like a hammer blow. Vince’s name wasn’t on the official scoreboard. Coming to a complete stop, Isaac vaulted off his bike, ripped off his helmet, and ran toward one of the TV screens where everyone had been staring. He skidded to a stop as the broadcast replayed the accident.
Behind him, five riders had been vying for position, and they all wanted the podium—Luka, Vince, Fabiano, Yoshi, and Spencer. From the drone camera angle, even in real-time instead of slow motion, the accident seemed inevitable.
Spencer had fallen behind and become desperate not to be left by the others. He’d tried to pass from too far back with a dangerous move and clipped Yoshi’s wheel. They both went down. Yoshi landed on his back and his bike bounced across the track, pieces raining down. The bike catapulted into a Honda rider on the track around the corner in the next section, knocking the rider over. The second Honda rider had ridden into the gravel trying to avoid pieces of the accident but continued, as had Fabiano. There was no sound on the screen. Isaac had trouble breathing. Had the flying motorcycle smashed into Vince?
Isaac needed to see the incident again to be certain. Willing the outcome to be different. He watched while it replayed from several angles and sank to his knees, his helmet forgotten. Vince had been the rider taken out by the careening motorcycle. The replay continued, and Isaac struggled to comprehend. Vince lying motionless, surrounded by marshals who’d placed the medic sign, signaling they needed trackside medical. This was the nightmare they all avoided thinking could be reality.
Motorcycle racing was a dangerous sport. People died.
No matter how many times they showed the replay, in the end, Vince remained motionless.
The wail of an ambulance got Isaac to his feet, struggling to see the ground through his blurred vision. When he looked up,he didn’t recognize the sobbing person on the massive screen. Then he realized it was him. He was the man sobbing. What had happened to Vince? Was he dead? Paralyzing fear shot through Isaac as his blood turned to ice. Over the years, he’d seen half a dozen riders die, even lost a friend in Barcelona in 2016. But he’d always thought Vince was invincible.
It was several minutes before Isaac pulled himself together. The ambulance had already left the stadium, and the cameraman had moved on while the network showed a subdued celebration in parc ferme as Luka and Fabiano arrived. No smiles and jubilation today. Isaac couldn’t look at the screen anymore.
His legs shaking, he returned to his bike, which was no longer running. Without a starter, he had to abandon it. He pounded the bike’s tank in frustration and headed to the nearby paved path that ringed the far outside of the track, behind the safety fence. He looked down the length of the fence. Where were the marshals? This was going to take too long. Not knowing his brother’s condition was choking him.
He hadn’t gone far when a marshal rode up behind him. “Want a ride back?”
Isaac nodded and, without a word, hopped onto the small bike behind the orange-clad race volunteer. Dread settled in his chest. What would he find when he returned to pit lane?
His heart clenched as Angel and Anna met him wearing serious expressions. Tears streaked her face. It must be serious.
“Vince?” Isaac hopped off the bike, patting the marshal’s back in thanks. Isaac stared at Anna and Angel, waiting for their words as he held his breath, bracing himself for the worst. Please, let Vince be alive.
“Alive, but unconscious,” said Angel, holding up his hands as though to prevent Isaac from chasing down the road after the ambulance.
“Is it critical?” Isaac clutched Anna’s icy hand in his, needing her support. Vince was alive. He needed to get to the hospital. Isaac would rather do that than conduct post-race interviews or sign autographs. He needed to be there for his brother.
“I don’t know if I can talk to the media.” His throat ached with worry. A camera crew had already trained their lens on their conversation. Vultures. He kept his back turned and his voice low. “Any news from the med center?” His voice shook, and Anna squeezed his hand again. He’d forgotten that he was holding hers. His knuckles were white, so he forced himself to relax his grip.
