The crowd cheers and I hit the throttle to give them more of what they came for, pushing the bike until it's vibrating so hard that my hands start to go numb.
New leather drags over grooved rubber as my fingers begin to slip and I tighten my grip, lean into the curve, and wait for gravity to come out and play.
And then it's here. That moment I've been craving, the one where the world goes quiet and suddenly nothing exists except the bike and the pavement and that interminable moment of helpless freefall before I accelerate through the turn and leave it's grasping danger behind.
That's the high. That's why I'm out here every weekend risking life and limb for some brass plated trophy I couldn't even get ten bucks for at a pawn shop.
And yeah, maybe the ex was right and I'm so addicted to the hum of adreneline racing through my blood that I can't feel alive unless I'm facing death.
Maybe I've got a thing for playing with fire and tempting fate.
We've all got to go sometime. At least my way pays the bills.
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