Page 2 of Over & Out

Except Dirtface. I still don’t know who the hell he is. No one in town talked about him last year. Sometimes I wondered if I made him up.

Clearly not.

I peer over my shoulder. He’s definitely real.He’s going slow and easy, almost lazily grasping his handlebars. Somehow this pisses me off even more.

I don’t know why I hate him so much. At first it was because he was in my special place. But mostly, he stayed out of my way. It’s not like he treated me like some of the dicks at the races, who heckle me with innuendos. He’s never criticized my bike or my driving.

But he’s never deigned to talk to me either. Except when I demanded he tell me who he was and what the hell he was doing on my track every single morning.

Then it was just one asshole line.

“Not your track, is it?” he said.

But he never took off his helmet, which covered more than most. I didn’t even get to hear his real voice to identify him.

Fucker.

Now his engine roars behind me.

My stomach flips. He’s catching up.

Not today, Satan.

I gun it to take the next jump, adrenaline pumping through my veins. Fuck if I’m letting him get by me this morning. He can’t just be in my face all summer, disappear out of nowhere, and randomly come back.

His engine roars louder. He’s right on my tail.

I speed up. The next jump is a double, and I’m going to take them both at once.

I’ve done it a hundred times.

I approach and angle my tire straight, and Betty and I take off.

Just like I knew it would, the moment I leavethe ground, the feeling of being in the air makes all thoughts in my brain vanish.

I take in a long breath, closing my eyes against the open sky, just for a moment. It’s the best part of racing, these jumps. When, for just a few seconds, I feel like I can fly.

Being in the air like this stretches time out like taffy, so a few seconds feels like forever.

That is, until I open my eyes.

Time moves faster when the ground is coming at you.

Terror grips my chest as a giant rut in the dirt rushes toward me.

I do a last-minute panic rev, trying to get my rear wheel to descend.

My motor screams, but I’m not readjusting fast enough.

Shit, shit, shit?—

My bike hits the ground, front wheel landing hard. For a minute, I think I’m going to be okay. My body presses downward.

But then my rear tire comes up and I’m slung forward.

Without Betty.

For the second time in as many minutes, I’m flying. Only this time, it doesn’t feel like freedom. This time it’s terror. I’m going too fast, limbs dangling like a rag doll.

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