Chapter 2
2
GUY ‘FOSTER’
‘Feeling good?’ Matty asks. He’s my trainer – a guy with graying hair, a solid flavor savor of a mustache, and a slightly growing retirement gut proving his wife really is the cook she claims to be. (She is, I eat there all the time. We live like five minutes away from each other.) He pats me on the back.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been in Oregon – five years to be exact. A refreshing crisp breeze has the recently dropped leaves dancing around the track and swirling through our tent as I sit on a stool inside with the rest of my team. Honestly, it feels exactly like what I remember a late West Coast summer day feels like. The September heat and humidity of Florida isn’t something I miss right now, that’s for sure.
‘Are you kidding?’ Travis, one of our mechanics, asks. ‘I’ve never seen Foster anything other than calm, cool, and collected. He makes this sport look like a party game.’
I chuckle. ‘I don’t know about that,’ I say, appreciating the compliment.
Years of hard work is how that happened. I’ve been a motocross and Freestyle Motocross Rider (also known as FMX) since I was a kid. I won my first trophy at the age of four, and my first big title at fifteen. After that, I’d caught the bug for extreme sports. Backflips off a ramp on a motorcycle, love it. That time I skydived, I’ll never forget it. Extreme sports and me, we jibe. I’m addicted to the adrenaline. To me, cutting through the air on my motorcycle, hitting the power band at just the right moment toward a ramp that will launch me forty to fifty feet in the air so I can do some insane flip, is what life is about. I love the smell of gasoline and engine oil. And the ringing in my ears at the decibel of some of these supped-up engines excites me to my core.
‘Dude…’ Matty, an ex-motocross and FMX superstar, says, ‘I’m telling you, Jeff’s trying it. He’s been landing it and if he does, you’ve got to up your game.’
My riding rival, yet frenemy, Jeff Hunt, is currently making his way up the track to the start. This is his final chance of the day to outdo me, and I can feel the tension building. We’ve taken the top two spots according to the announcers and now it’s up to us who will take first and second places.
‘Nah,’ I say, not even looking up while the announcers ramble off Jeff’s stats as he rides the track, working the crowd up with wheelies and ground tricks we could all do in our sleep. ‘He ain’t trying it. At the last minute he’ll do a California Roll, guarantee it. Jeff will come in second just like he always does.’
‘You cocky son of a bitch,’ Matty toys.
‘Yeah, yeah… I learned from the best,’ I say, shooting him a finger gun.
Matty rolls his eyes, turning to face the track once again.
I’m not entirely paying attention to Jeff’s run because honestly, I can’t. That kind of pressure has been known to stress me out; instead, I’m scrolling social media, trying to focus on myself when Facebook reminds me of a memory.
Holy shit. September 27. I tap over to my main screen to verify the date, then back into Facebook. I almost forgot this year. I can see this photo with my eyes closed (and often do). The woman to my right has never truly left my mind – or my heart. My favorite daydreams are being transported back to when we were young and in love. In the picture, she’s wearing a white veil draped over her light blonde wavy bob, and I am wearing a black T-shirt with a tuxedo print. Classy, I know. Even so, we look ridiculously happy, and if my memory is correct, we truly were in that moment.
Despite her still owning a part of my heart, things didn’t work out. I messed up – I’m not afraid to admit it. But she didn’t exactly do the right thing either. Without notice, I came home from a gig one day and she was just gone. It destroyed me, if I’m honest. Our break-up was the one time I was heartbroken and lost, but I bottled it all up inside because that’s what I do. Is it healthy? Not even a little bit. But I’m not from one of those ‘talk out your feelings’ families so I’m honestly not sure how to get over it. I truly don’t think I ever could. But that’s only because if I could go back and change it, I’d still choose to follow my heart and marry Eve. After all, that’s who I am – I take extreme risks. Marrying a woman thirty days after you meet is extreme. But God, was it worth it when it was good.
How can it already have been five years? I rub my hand across my chest, my heart beating a tad erratically right now – like I’m in the middle of a trick or back in that moment of our wedding day. Those two events felt the same.
I’m not even in her presence, so how on earth can a photo of her gorgeous face have my heart topsy-twirly? Eve and I haven’t spoken in years, yet I could never bear deleting her from my phone altogether. And this anniversary post always gets me. I glance at the comments, which are all written by me, and tap the reply button. I’ve done this yearly, and with each comment, I pray she says something in return. Please, God – any words this time. Hello. Go away. Not if you were the last man on earth. Fuck all the way off. Anything. But so far, it’s never happened, and her reply is only ever a ‘like’, moments after my comment has been posted. A simple thumbs up, acknowledging that she is still alive.
I wonder if her heart flutters in the same way mine does when she’s notified of this memory. I hope I’m not the only one feeling that. Well, why let this year be any different than the four before? Here goes nothing. Maybe this will be the time she finally responds. Fingers crossed.
I type out my comment, then hit send before glancing up at Matty who’s now getting loud.
‘No hands!’ he yells from the edge of the tent. ‘I told you!’ He points my way. ‘I fucking told you!’ Both of his hands are now clasped on the top of his head as he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, his eyes on the track.
I follow Matty’s gaze and see Jeff performing an impressive trick called the Bundy, which involves executing a backflip above the front of the bike while holding onto a handlebar with one hand, usually. But Jeffy boy has let go completely and the crowd is ecstatic about it. Cheering and roaring with excitement as he maneuvers through the air like it’s easy. Even I stand from the stool I’m on, watching as he repositions his hands on the bike to maintain balance before landing it without even a wobble.
‘Ho-ly shit!’ I yell to Matty, patting his back this time. ‘Clinton Moore himself would be impressed!’ The trick was made famous by Clint, a legendary rider, and it’s widely regarded as one of the most technical tricks in FMX history.
‘I can’t believe he landed it. Yes!’ Matty cheers, throwing a fist into the air proudly.
‘Wooo!’ I holler with him. The moment’s thrill is palpable, and the excitement from the crowd is infectious. Jeff and I may be rivals on the track, but I know a well-done stunt when I see one. He killed it.
Matty glances at me, his gaze meandering to the phone in my hand. ‘Get off your phone and get ready,’ he yells. Comp days tend to stress him out. He wants all the guys he works with to win – but not all of us can, so he will settle for two out of the three ‘places’ given at each event, and usually that pans out.
‘Relax,’ I say to Matty, as if saying that ever helped anyone. ‘You know I got this.’
I hand him my phone, then the single earbud from my ear, taking my helmet from him and hanging it off one handlebar so I can do my entry ride, working up the crowd because the more adrenaline involved, the better I ride.
‘Volt?’
‘Probably,’ I say somewhat confidently. But not for my first run. For that I’ll go with the Double Superman Seat Grab, during a backflip. Backflips are my ‘thang’. Basically, I’ll let go of the handlebars mid-air, holding on only to the back fender Superman-in-flight style, then remount the bike and land solidly.
Double Superman for my first run. Volt for my second. Pep talk time: You got this, Fost! Beat Jeff. Kill it! Also: Stop. Thinking. About. Eve.
I ride the track, rocking my head back and forth, trying to shake her memory out so I can think clearly. I was still deciding if I’d do this stunt today, but with the success of Jeff’s last run, I’ve probably got to pull out the big guns of FMX trickery to beat him. I’ve done Volts in our foam practice pit over the years, but I’ve only landed my twist on it about fifteen times on solid ground (out of hundreds). Now it’s time to do exactly that for the first time in a competition in front of a crowd.
The Volt is a 360-degree turn next to my mid-air bike – no hands. As I spin back around, I’ll catch the bike and mount it from the side before landing. Only in my usual style, I’m doing it in the middle of a backflip.
‘You got this, Foster. Take the energy from the crowd and nail it.’ Matty talks me up, patting me on the back hard and then clapping his hands loudly. ‘Famous 15! Get it!’
Matty and my crew watch as I ride toward the track, impressing the crowd with little stunts – no hands, wheelies, the Captain Morgan – shit I taught myself as a kid when I was still considered an amateur – while riding the track slowly. At one point, I stop altogether. The fans yell louder as I get off my bike and do my ‘Famous 15 backflip’. I don’t remember exactly when my gymnast floor routine started, but I get the best reaction, proving my thirty-five-year-old ass can still do a backflip from the ground without my bike and not kill myself. Thank you ten years of gymnastics my uncle insisted I did as a kid to help with my balance.
The announcers ramble off my stats over the loudspeakers. ‘Number fifteen, Guy Foster, thirty-five years old, has decades in the business and is an X-Games superstar…’ Yada yada yada.
I lift a fist into the air, allowing the track’s energy to sink into my soul. I scan the stadium seating before putting on my helmet as I ride to the start. It’s always fun to see if someone stands out. Maybe an old friend showed up? You never know unless you look.
Stopping at the flag guy, I let go of the handlebars, balancing my bike with my feet on the ground. I shake off the nerves that are always a part of this at first; that never goes away. I’m well aware this gig is dangerous, I just try not to think about the risks.
Just like Matty said, You got this, Foster. You’ll be popping that champagne cork after accepting first place, and then – my gaze stops on a woman who looks vaguely familiar as I give myself my usual internal Win this! speech. I squint, trying to see her better. My eyes – and possibly my heart – have got to be playing tricks on me though, because there’s no fucking way she’s keeping up with the sport her ex dominates. When she said she never wanted to speak to me again, she meant it. That much I’m sure of.
‘Yo!’ the starter yells, earning my attention, waving the signal to go again. ‘Go, man!’
Fuck. I hardly have the time to daydream when seconds are eating away at my possible score. I don’t even have my helmet on yet. I slide it on, patting it hard on the top to wake my ass up, then with a twist of the throttle, my head returns to my job and now it’s time to give my fans what they came here for and win this event. I’ll figure out the Eve thing after.