Page 200 of Twisted Trails
I drop.
“Go in high, brake before the second root, hop the dip, trust the exit.”
Finn’s advice echoes in my brain above the static and adrenaline.
The first corner is slick, but I take it high, tires biting just enough. The second root section flows beneath me like I’ve already memorized the rhythm becauseI have.
I let the trail do the talking, letting muscle memory, Greer’s expertise, and instinct carry me through the next section, overthe loose rock, into the first drop. I land clean and fast. So fast, it’s even a shock to me. The trail narrows, then opens up into a sweeping chute, and the sound hits me all at once.
The crowd.
It’s like someone turns the volume up, and suddenly the air is filled with voices yelling my number.
My name.
I almost lose the line right there.
They aren’t whispers. No muttered comments or snide remarks.
They’recheering.
For me.
“Payne! Payne! Payne!”
The effect is as eerie as it is astonishing.
I dig in harder, pushing through the next few turns with everything I’ve got, trading in my fury for confidence and force, every nerve wired to the dirt.
I canfeelhow fast I am. How good this run is.
Midway through a pedal stroke, there’s a loud snap before something gives, and then there’s slack where there shouldn’t be any.
No fucking way.
I glance down and find my chain loose and flailing, dancing near my crank.
“Shite.”
That’s the only second I get to curse fate and the universe because I have to make a fast decision.
Pedaling is off the table, but I have more momentum than ever. Shifting my weight, I balance my feet on the pedals and let the bike glide. I’ve got no drive now, nothing to push into, but I’ve still got lines.
I’ve still got flow.
Keep rollin’, rollin’, rollin’.
Oh, fuckyou, Finn Greer. I could’ve listened to your damn melody theory without having to take it soliterally.
I crouch lower and lean into the rhythm, pumping into every transition like my life depends on it, using every root and rut to build speed, not lose it. I hit a berm so clean I nearly forget I’m chainless, until the flats remind me that there’s no more help coming. I’ve got what I’ve got, and if I lose it, I’m done.
But I’m not thinking about losing.
I’m thinking about that time in Val di Sole, about the way I kissed the mud halfway down the track, how my shoulder popped out of place, and how I finished that run with pain screaming through every inch of me. I still won, and if I could dothat?
I can winthis.
The track gets meaner as it descends, and my lungs are clawing at my ribs, my legs are numb, my arms are on fire. It’s a physical track on a good day, but this is something else. I’m bleeding air out of my fucking eyes, but I don’t slow. I can’t, because there it is.
