Page 6 of Broken Breath
“Ow, shit!” He rubs the spot, still grinning. “All right, all right. Looks good, Al, but you know you kinda look like…”
I point a finger at him. “If you sayJustin Bieber, I swear to God.”
Because I kind of do.Fuck.
Dane snorts. “I was gonna say a discount MotoGP rider, but sure, let’s go with Bieber.”
“Unbelievable.”
The binder is already pinching tightly across my ribs, and I know it’s only going to get worse once I’m pedaling.But the rolled-up socks in my boxers really seal the deal. They’re not too obvious. I’m not going for big-dick energy, but Dane said that without them, it was noticeable something was missing.
I’m also wearing a chest guard, which I always wear during races. It helps hide the boob situation under the jersey, adds another layer ofdon’t look too close,but it doesn’t make me feel any safer. Not anymore.
I was wearing one when I crashed too. It only covers your chest and spine, great when you’re flying over the handlebars, but useless when your side gets slammed into a tree at race speed. The impact hit where the padding didn’t.
So now, this is my life—compression gear, improvised bulges, trauma armor, and praying nothing shifts or cracks mid-race.Fantastic.
My hair feels weird, the freshly-cut strands brushing against my forehead, falling into my eyes when I tilt my head. I hate it. I don’t hate it.I don’t know.
I shove my helmet on, securing the chin strap like it’ll also strap down my thoughts.
Dane just watches, amused. “Problem solved, huh?”
“Shut up.”
The goggles feel strange today too. I always go for darker lenses, hiding my eyes behind them, but the sky is thick with clouds, making it too dim for tinted ones.
This is fine.
I’m fine.
“Come on.” I unlock the back of the bus, grab my bike, and turn toward the gondola station. “Let’s go ride.”
The rigs of the privateers are clustered around the parking lot, and we pass Mason Payne’s black van. The back doors are open just enough to let me see inside and spot a neatly organized setup of spare parts, tools, and a lone folding chair. Two motocross bikes are strapped onto ahanger at the back. His dad walks out from behind it, and I turn my head quickly.
I shouldn’t stare at them like everybody else does.
We keep walking, past other guys like us, the ones who don’t have the backing of a big team, and then, we hit the pits.
The difference is obnoxious.
Factory teams secure the best spots at the front for their massive setups with full team trucks and sponsor logos covering everything in sight. A real team has everything. A team manager, two to five pro riders, depending on how deep their pockets are, and a mechanic for each one, so no factory rider has to share. A physio, since throwing yourself down a mountain for a living tends to wreck your body. Then there’s a team assistant and line spotter there to scope out the best lines and report back, ensuring their riders always have the best possible strategy, and, of course, a content producer, because in this sport, social media matters as much as winning.
The smaller teams operate on maybe a budget of $200,000 a season, which is a fortune, but still nothing compared to the biggest teams, whose budgets climb past a million, with the top riders pulling in six figures a year, easily.
And then there’s the rest of us.
Privateers don’t get fancy pit setups, personal mechanics, a salary, or a team truck. Most crash in their vans, eat gas station food, and scrape together everything they can just to be here. The factory riders sleep in hotels with the media and the rest of the circuit. The only ones who stay in the big team trucks are the mechanics, mostly for security, making sure no one walks off with a bike that’s worth more than some people’s cars.
The smell of chain grease, energy drinks, and damp dirthangs in the air, and I take it all in as we walk past the difference, the money, and the reality of this sport.
And I tell myself, again…
This is fine.
None of that matters once I’m on the mountain.
The track doesn’t care about logos, bank accounts, or who sleeps in a van or a five-star suite. Once I drop in, it’s just gravity and guts.
