Page 50 of Revved up & Ready

The rain was more of a mist earlier this morning, but it’s picking up now—thick droplets. A rarity in the desert.

“Are you riding in the rain?” she asks, her voice high with concern.

“Some of my worst performances have been in the rain. I’m not as experienced with it as racers from other parts of the country,” I explain. “I need the practice.”

“That’s so dangerous. You can’t—” She cuts herself off, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

“I get it,” I reply with a shrug, even though I don’t fully understand.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said last night.” She steps closer, tentative. “I’m not being fair to you. You love this.” She gestures at the bike between us, and I swear she doesn’t even realize the slight curl in her lip as she does.

“I do,” I nod.

“And just because I don’t understand—and I really, really don’t—doesn’t mean it’s reckless,” she adds.

“What don’t you understand?” I ask, surprised she’s even talking about this.

Her eyes scan the bike from handlebars to tailpipe. “How do you ignore the danger?”

“I don’t,” I answer.

“What do you mean youdon’t? You still race. You have to ignore the danger to do that,” she says, her concern sharpening.

“You put your life in danger every time you get in a car, don’t you?” I ask, slipping my hands into my front pockets.

“That isnotthe same,” she retorts.

“No, it’s not,” I agree. “But the point is, I don’t let the danger stop me from doing what I need to do. People die in car crashes every day. Do you think about that risk every time you start your engine?”

She looks like she wants to argue but instead shakes her head, admitting reluctantly, “No.”

“Then why is the risk the only thing you think of when I’m on a motorcycle?” I ask.

Her shoulders tense, fingers tightening around her coffee mug. She steps back, just slightly.

I round the bike to stand closer. “What happened to you?”

Her mouth opens, but no words come out.

“There was something that happened, right?” I step close enough that the scent of her coffee fills my nose.

She nods.

“Will you tell me?” I ask gently.

She stares at me for a long moment, but I know she’s focused on whatever thoughts are racing in her mind. After a long sip of her coffee and a heavy exhale, she says, “When I was in high school, I was dating this guy. His name was Travis. He wasso hot.” She giggles, a flash of her old self. “He had this shiny black motorcycle, and he used to take me for rides after school.”

I hide my surprise that she’s been on the back of a motorcycle as she takes another sip of coffee and gathers her thoughts.

“He used to race his friend on this side road behind the school, and I’d sit on the sidewalk with the other girlfriend, cheering him on.” She swallows hard. “One day, they suggested we should ride with them for a race.”

Racing two-up is fucking dangerous.My chest tightens.

“The other bike was ahead of us, but only by a little bit.” She grips her cup tighter, her breaths shallow. “I told him I wanted to win, and that he should pass them on the turn. We were so close, and—and I don’t know—I’ve thought about it a thousand times since, but I still don’t know what happened. One moment his front tire hit their back tire, and the next we were all sprawled out on the asphalt.”

This story is over a decade old, but the urge to check her body for injuries rushes through me. I pull her into my side, using my hand at her waist to draw her closer. She leans into me, still clutching her cup like it’s her lifeline.

“We all had helmets on—so no brain injuries. But everyone was mangled and bloody. The guy on the other bike broke his wrist and messed up his leg pretty bad. His girlfriend and I both got road rash all over our legs. She broke a few ribs, and I broke my arm.” She swallows again, eyes dropping to the floor. “And Travis—he lived,” she adds quickly, “but he didn’t get up off the street until the EMTs came and picked him up. It took a year of physical therapy before he could walk again. He had a walker at graduation.”

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