Page 38 of Broken Trails
Always the same rhythm.
Left glove first, snug at the wrist. Then the right. Chin strap clicks once, then again. A tilt of my neck, side to side. Palms flat against my thighs. A slow count backward from ten—not that it ever fully works. But it calms the chaos just enough.
I shift slightly, adjusting my grip on my helmet, gaze fixed on the shimmer of heat lifting off the asphalt ahead. From behind the grandstands, the sound starts to rise—a rolling wave of chatter, shouting, the unmistakable screech of a burnout in the distance. It’s familiar and comforting in its own wild way.
“Oi, Mikey!”
I know that voice. I don’t even need to look to know. I turn in the direction of where it came from, and of course, Harrison’s already halfway over the railing, landing with a solid thump beside me just as some poor staff member jogs over behind him, flailing a clipboard like it’s going to stop him.
“You can’t be back here!” the guy yells.
Harrison just tosses him a lazy thumbs-up without even turning. “Relax, mate. I’m his emotional support sibling.”
He strolls up with his arms folded across his chest, chin tilted like he owns the place. His grin is the same as always. Wolfish and boyish all at once.
“You good?” he asks, dropping the bravado just long enough to sound like my brother.
I wipe the back of my glove across my brow. “Bike’s ready. Just gotta make sure I don’t fuck up turn four again .”
“You won’t. You’re more patient now. Smarter.” His tone shifts with weight behind it. “You’ve got this.” He leans in a little closer, voice dropping. “Oh, and uh… just so you know, she’s here.”
I glance up, pulse ticking in my ears. “Who?”
He shrugs, already stepping back. “You know who. Don’t act dumb.”
And just like that, he turns, whistling low as he hops the fence again, completely unfazed by the official still chasing him down.
The tension at the start line wraps tight around my shoulders, but I keep my grip steady. The Ducati hums beneath me, engine purring low and confident as I guide it into place. My eyes lock onto the track ahead, sunlight bouncing hard off the asphalt, heat rising in slow, uneven waves.
I flick my visor down, and the world dulls. It’s just me now.
Me, the bike, and the road ahead.
The marshal steps forward, raising the flag without fanfare. There is no dramatic pause. No cinematic buildup. Just a quick lift, a flash of green—and we’re off.
The pack launches forward as one. Engines scream to life, tyres squeal against the hot concrete, bodies lean hard into the first bend. My focus sharpens, cutting through the noise. I don’t look to either side. No point.
I already know who’s pushing ahead and who won’t last more than a lap.
The Ducati handles exactly how it should—smooth through the curves, steady on the throttle. I lean into the turn, shifting my weight low and tight. The edge of my boot kisses the track, but I hold it. One corner down. Dozens to go.
The first lap flies. I quickly find my pace, breathing steady, body falling into that familiar rhythm. Once I’m in it, there’s no room for second-guessing—just clean lines, smooth shifts, and sharp focus. Every lean. Every flick of the wrist. It’s all got to be tight.
The second and third laps blur together. Heat builds under my gear, sweat sticking at the back of my neck and between my shoulders, but I don’t ease up. This is the part where most ridersstart to fade. You push too early, you burn out, but I don’t make that mistake. I know how to hold pressure, how to wait for the right moment to strike.
By the fourth lap, I’m closing the gap. First place is still a few lengths out, but I’ve got eyes on him now. He’s close enough for me to study how he rides—where he eases, where he gets sloppy. He’s fast, yeah, but jumpy in the corners. He doesn’t hold his line well. I stick to mine. Keep the throttle where it needs to be.
Final lap.
I push the throttle hard out of the first turn, letting the engine open up fully. The Ducati responds with everything it’s got, the vibration running up through my arms like it’s part of me. We hit the straight and I’m right there on his tail, eating up the distance one corner at a time. Coming into the last bend, I see my chance. He leans wide. I cut in sharper, tighter, holding nothing back. For a second, we’re side by side—tyres spinning, engines screaming, the crowd a blur in my peripheral vision.
But he edges it out.
He crosses just before me. A fraction of a second.
I hit the finish line on his tail, the sound of the engine still roaring in my ears as we slow down, the rush giving way to the burn in my chest and the weight in my limbs.
Second place.
