Chapter thirteen Cole
Chapter thirteen
Cole
Washington Moto
Ethan fucking Bowers. I couldn’t believe they let him in the Motocross Nationals Championship series after he’d been banned from Supercross.
That fucker, Parker Shannon, had paid him to fuck up Tate—off the track.
That had been too far for me. Ethan didn’t deserve to ever get on a bike again, but there he was.
I couldn’t do anything to him, except beat his ass—on the track.
He wouldn’t be finishing ahead of me for sure.
Shifting up, I prepared for the whoops which were coming fast. He wasn’t as good as me in that section.
My legs and thighs had been trained on much tougher tracks than this one.
My tires skimmed over the tops of the mounds, and for a moment, we rode side by side.
Then I passed him. This track was longer, more stretched out, than a Supercross track, so when the straightaway appeared, I took off, leaving Ethan Bowers to eat my roost, dirt flying behind my bike.
Finishing second in the first moto meant I had a shot at getting a podium.
These races took the best of two motos to win, so I had to have a good finish in this second one.
Since passing Ethan, I was running in fourth.
Not good enough. I had to have third or better, and I couldn’t see any of the racers in front of me.
Dropping the gear, I laid into the throttle, gaining traction and speed.
Ahead of me, I saw another racer go up the hill and disappear over it. I didn’t know if he was a lapped racer or someone ahead of me. Probably the later, but on this track, it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was chasing him down.
Dirt flew behind me. The bike cut through the gnarly track and up the hill with ease.
Fischer and his team had this bike purring.
I was ready for the step up jumps ahead.
The series of jumps went uphill, a higher landing with each one.
Then around a series of curves and back down.
I’d be able to pass going down if nothing else. I’d keep that throttle pinned.
My heart pounded overtime in my chest, adrenaline flowing freely. The clean earthy scent of the dirt rode on top of the oil from the bike. It smelled like home. My wrist felt fine. This was what I was meant to do, and I was going to prove it.
The rider in front came into view. The number 91 of Robin Owens was outlined in white on the back of his Jersey.
Robin raced Supercross, too. Like me and a few others, racing the Nationals series off season kept us on a competitive track.
But he wasn’t as good as me. I practically growled as loud as my bike as I shortened the gap between us.
He rode just out of reach, my front tire following his back.
Zeke had been preaching time management on the track.
This was what he meant. I had plenty of time to pass Robin, but what about the guy in front of him?
I ripped a tear-off from my goggles so I could see better.
Then I moved to the inside and pulled up beside him.
He fought to keep pace, but when we came to the next turn, I got a little close, scaring him off, then pulled ahead.
I didn’t have time to fool around with this.
I had to get in a better position. To get a win, you had to finish well in both motos.
I pushed hard. Maybe harder than I ever had. I’d had a long career, but for most of it, I’d been on the top. I progressed up the leagues fast and was racing and winning a 250 Supercross championship at seventeen years old. It wasn’t enough. Never enough. I could taste the win along with the dirt.
Nothing else mattered.
The white flag was waving, indicating the last lap, when I passed over the finish jump. Now or never.
I managed to pass one more racer before the checkered flag, but then I looked over at Fischer to see how I finished. He gave me the thumbs up. I hoped it was good enough.
It turned out that I finished second, placing second overall.
Perry Schmidt finished first in both motos, so he beat me for first place with two points, while I had four with second in both.
I had to be happy with that. It was my best finish since I hurt my wrist. I rode well and the bike was supreme.
I hadn’t been in enough races this season to actually place in points, but the podium would go a long way with Gavin and BikeMax.
Gavin ran up and hugged me. “Knew you could do it. Hell yeah.”
My smile spread across my entire face, so big, I thought it might break my cheek bones. “That was almost perfect.”
Zeke took the bike from me as I made my way up to the podium for the required interview. “It was pretty damn good, Cole. Considering everything. You’re back on the right track.”
“Agreed. That bike was perfect, too. Thanks. You know that’s everything.” I clapped Zeke on the shoulder.
Gavin smiled, knowingly. He was all about the good attitude. It was a hell of a lot easier to keep that going when I was winning. Or at least coming in second.
The day had been amazing. I had to hold onto that. It could have been better. I could have been first, but second was outstanding. Also…Nix could have been there.
I thought he was going to come to the race, but he hadn’t been able to show. I missed him a lot more than I wanted to admit.
Two weeks later
Six phone calls later, and I thought I had my manager narrowed down to two choices.
Brandi Madden, a nice lady who seemed to get me.
She also knew about PR and how to deal with shitty press as well as being connected to a network of sponsors that might want my face, or my bike, associated with their products.
Plus, she knew Gavin and had worked with him before he’d started up BikeMax. It felt like a win.
The second guy wasn’t as connected. He was new and hungry, trying to make a name for himself, and I liked that.
I felt like he’d be more aggressive, but I wasn’t certain how that would be received around the industry.
I might not be the best client for him with my bad reputation.
Jeremy Fleet had more to concern himself with than me, but I liked him more than the rest. If Brandi didn’t work out, he was my second pick.
It seemed settled, but I kind of wanted Nix’s opinion on it. I shot him a text asking him to come see me at Zeke’s training camp. I was due there the next day and had an early flight out. We needed to get three good days in on his track before the next moto.
I wanted Nix. I hoped he’d come.
Zeke’s camp was outside of a tiny town called East Bend in North Carolina.
It wasn’t the biggest training camp I’d seen, but he did have two tracks on the property, one for his own trainees, and the other open to the public.
The facilities weren’t terrible, either.
He had six RV hookups in a campground configuration, along with a bath house/laundry mat and a swimming pool.
There were also a few vending machines, but I wouldn’t be eating that junk.
I opened the door to my RV, provided by BikeMax, and tossed my bag under the table at the front.
I’d put some stuff in the closets and drawers later.
I barely had time to get situated. My appointment with this new mental coach was up at the main administrative building that the car had passed when I was dropped off.
It was a round building that looked more like a modern hay barn to me, but I wasn’t knocking it.
“Cole! You ready?” I peeked out the small window to see Gavin sitting in a golf cart.
I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know if I’d ever be ready for someone poking around in my brain, but I’d agreed to this bullshit, so I huffed and sighed and made my way out the door, shaking the RV as I walked down the stairs.
I plopped down in the seat next to Gavin. “You playing chauffer now? Afraid I’d skip this little soiree?”
“Since when do you use fancy words like that?” He jerked his head up, posturing, but his wicked smile let me know he was kidding. But I wasn’t.
“What exactly do you know about me that would make you think I didn’t use fancy words?”
“Touché.”
“Can we just get this over with?”
“Yep.” Gavin scowled while he turned the cart around and headed out of the campground area and up to the main road that led to the admin building.
We pulled into the parking lot and parked right up by the front door in a reserved spot. “Let’s go, kiddo. I promise it’s not going to be painful. Well, maybe a little.”
“And are you participating in this session?” I raised my eyebrows. If I had to expose my inner self, I didn’t want Gavin around to see it. Or anyone else for that matter. “This guy is a certified shrink, right? Everything is confidential?”
Gavin chuckled as he put his warm hand on my shoulder.
His build wasn’t too different than mine.
He was about the same height, but he had weight on me.
I could tell he used to ride but probably hadn’t been on a bike in a while.
“He’s not a psychiatrist, Cole, but he does have a lot of training, and yes, everything you say is confidential.
I’m going to introduce you, then take off.
I’ll see you again at the track in the morning.
” He pointed at me then opened the glass door. Reluctantly, I followed him in.
There was a large front desk, but no one manned it, and Gavin passed right by. He led me down a small hallway and tapped on a door.
“Come on in.” The voice had a slightly southern twang as if the guy had been raised in the south but tried not to show it. I had a similar accent.
“Hey Brian. This is Cole. Cole, this is Brian Knapp.”