Page 4 of Still The One

‘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 internalWin 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 exdominates. When she saidshe 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.

3

EVE CASSIDY

‘Trauma 2 crew to bay.’ I hear Dale’s voice requesting Gen, Troy and I go to our room assignment and like always, a buzz goes through my chest with anticipation.

‘Here we go,’ Gen says, pulling a yellow paper gown over her scrubs exactly like I am. ‘Any guesses?’

Guessing how bad something coming into our trauma room is, is a thing we do to occupy our minds, to prevent ‘stage fright’. On a scale of 1 to 10, the ‘what are we walking into’ game.

‘Five or less, I hope,’ I say as we walk in, flashing my crossed fingers at her.

‘Male, mid-thirties, unresponsive after a motorcycle accident. Required intubation on scene due to severe respiratory distress,’ one of the medics relays breathlessly as they maneuver the gurney into position. Sweat glistens on their foreheads, a testament to the high-stakes race against time they’ve just endured.

The room buzzes with a symphony of sounds – the beeping monitors, the soft murmur of the ventilator, the urgent rustle of gowns and gloves.

‘Freeway? Off-road? Type of accident?’ Genevieve asks.

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