Chapter 2
The neon demon broke a little too late into the corner. She leaned a little too hard and low-sided the bike, losing grip. She slid right into me, taking the wheels out from under me.
In an instant, we were no longer going around the corner. Caught up with one another, we slid straight into the gravel trap, kicking up dust, crunching across the gravel.
Say goodbye to my right mirror.
My shiny new bike wasn't so shiny and new anymore. At the least, I’d need a new engine cowling on that side.
Crunch.
Scrape.
Snarl.
We finally ground to a halt, along with the bikes.
The fourth-place rider whizzed past us, followed by the pack of 12 other riders.
From first to last in the blink of an eye.
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 hit me!"
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 of conversation 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?"
"Bill Wimbley. Wimbley Racing,” he said, extending his hand. “Helluva show you put on today. It's too bad you got clipped on that last corner.”
I shrugged and smiled. “What can you do?”
"I understand this is your first race.”
I nodded.
Bill smirked. "Impressive. Damn impressive.”
"Thank you.”
"I don't see many people ride like that. Most people are tentative. Uncertain. Afraid. The young kids… Fearless. They still bounce. They’ve got too much testosterone and not enough sense.
It's the thing that makes them push it to the limit without fear of going over.
With a certain level of maturity comes an appropriate sense of caution.
That's the downfall of riders as they get older.
They make a little money, get a wife, a kid, and responsibilities.
Pretty soon, laying it all on the line for a bit of glory doesn't make much sense.”
"Are you saying I lack good judgment?" I teased.
Bill laughed. "I think there's a little bit of crazy in all of us. Especially when we decide to get on something with two wheels and fly down the track at 160 miles an hour, wouldn't you agree?”
I laughed. "Indeed.”
"I find that life is most interesting when lived on the edge. One wrong step. One oversight." He snapped his fingers for dramatic effect. "It's over."
"There are pros and cons to living life at the limit," I said.
Bill smirked again. "How will we know who we are if we don't ever push ourselves to the limit?"
“True.”
"Most people sleepwalk through life, going from one day to the next, repeating the same thing ad infinitum until they step into the grave. I often ask myself, ‘What is it all for? What is the purpose?’”
"Have you found it yet?”
"To make experiences. Create relationships. To leave a mark.”
I couldn't disagree.
He squinted at me and sized me up. "I look at you and I see a man who wants to make a mark.”
With a grin, I said, "How do you know I haven't already done so?"
"I have no doubt you've left several indelible marks in your short time on the planet. But how would you like to make one on the racetrack?"
"I think I left a pretty big skid mark today.”
He laughed. "Fair enough. But I'm talking about a mark on the podium. On the leaderboard.”
I figured I'd indulge Bill for a moment. "I'm listening.”
"How would you like to come and race for me in the 600 class?”
I lifted a curious brow.
"I'll cover the bikes, the pit crew, personal training, everything.
We tour the circuit, going around the country.
It's not a full-time gig. A dozen races throughout the season. I can't pay a lot, but it's a hell of a lot of fun, you’ll meet a lot of great people, and if you keep riding like that, you’ll have quite a few moments on the podium.”
"Something to consider. My schedule is pretty tight. But I certainly appreciate the offer."
Bill pulled a card from his pocket and slid it across the bar counter.
"Give it some thought. My team is doing a practice session in two weeks.
Come out, hop on a bike, and see what kind of times you can put on the board.
You don't need to bring anything other than your leathers, helmet, and what other personal items you require.
I've got everything else covered. Think of it as a free track day. No obligation. See what you can do on a track-tuned bike. Win, lose, or draw, it will be a lot of fun.”
I shared a look with JD. He seemed enthusiastic.
"Sounds like a good time,” I said. “I'm in for a track day.”
Bill smiled. "Excellent. If I'm right about you, you’ve got potential."
"And if you're wrong?"
"Then we both walk away from the day with an interesting experience. No harm, no foul.”
I thanked Bill and shook his hand again.
By that time, our burgers had arrived. Bill left us to eat in peace and continued to mix and mingle throughout the bar. No stranger to the track, Bill was the kind of guy who knew everybody in the paddock.
Jack muttered, "Well, that was interesting.”
"I'll take a free track day,” I said.
We stuffed our bellies, and I washed it all down with a cold brew.
My nemesis pushed into the bar as we were finishing up. As far as nemeses go, she wasn't a bad one. Stunning blue eyes, classic features, full lips, and a svelte little figure that had more curves than the switchbacks on the track. I couldn't stay mad at her for long.
She spotted JD and me, hesitated, then made a beeline for us.
"Uh oh. Here comes trouble," Jack muttered.