Page 2 of Revved up & Ready

“That’s one way to cut drag.”

“Do you see that guy?”

The camera pans to reveal a sixth racer speeding across the starting line. He’s wearing leather boots, a black helmet—andthat’sit. A handful of tattoos scatter his lanky frame, and a bright yellow smiley face has been edited into the video to cover the most interesting parts of his nudity.

“Do you think the smiley needs to be that big?” I whisper to Devon—as if I’m afraid the guy on screen will hear me.

“I’msureit’s an exaggeration,” she answers.

The sound of sirens grows less insistent with each shot of the naked guy as he passes racers and puts distance between himself andthe fuzz. I snort another laugh.The fuzz.

The video cuts to a view of the finish line from a rooftop. The six racers appear—two at the front, naked guy in close third, and the other three trailing behind.

Voices from around the camera take notice as naked guy gains on the lead duo.

“Oh shit. Is that guy?”

“Fuck’s sake. That’s Hacker.”

“Show us the goods!”

Naked guy—Hacker—brings his front tire up behind the lead racers’ rear tires and—using some kind of racing magic I don’t understand—forces his way between them.

“How the—” Devon whispers as he pulls ahead at the last second.

He and his yellow smiley cross the finish line first, his front tire lifting into a wheelie.

On the rooftop, a girl with black space buns wearing a pink top and double-fisting red plastic cups runs to the edge and yells in a slurred voice, “No, not yourwheelie. We want to see yourwilly!” When Hacker disappears off-screen, she steps in front of the camera, yelling, “Show me your willy!” With that, the video cuts off.

I turn to Devon with a cheesy smile, waiting for her response.

She releases what starts as an exasperated sigh, but her lips curl up halfway through, and she devolves into laughter. I follow her into giggles until we’re leaning into each other, wiping tears from our eyes.

“Want to watch it one more time?” I ask.

“I cannot believe I’m saying this,” she answers, regaining her composure, “butyes.”

Cam

Same night–ten years ago, the Pacific Coast Highway– Ventura, California

A motorcycle’s been tailing me for a couple of miles, staying right on my ass—my naked ass—as I take the exit off the PCH. Fortunately, it’s not a cop. It’s my best friend, Luke.If I’m lucky, he’ll lend me his pants.

The sirens pass, not noticing us ducking into an alley behind a Chinese restaurant that's closed for the night.

“What the hell was that?” Luke asks, his voice muffled by his helmet as he pulls it off.

“Could I get some pants?” I ask, covering myself with my hands, backing up between the stucco wall and a dumpster.

“Do I look like I have extra pants?” he says, dismounting his bike.

“You have more pants than I do,” I shrug.

“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters, undoing his belt. “How did this happen?”

“They started the race early ‘cause of—” I point toward the disappearing sirens with my chin. “I was still getting changed when they started the race.”

Luke’s pants get tangled in his boots, and he curses as he tugs at the laces. “I’ll have to burn these socks now,” he says, one socked foot landing in a puddle that dripped from the dumpster. “You could’ve skipped this race.”

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