Photograph by Highlander~
Suggested prompt...
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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.
Who cares?
We've all got to go sometime. At least my way pays the bills.
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3 comments:
Round the bend. that's what they though of me when I started in this business.
Now, the crowds are standing, cheering for me as I hurtle round the bends in this track.
I know some of them would love it if I came off, or crashed into the tyre walls, there are always people like that.
Most of the crowd, though, they want to see me succeed. I can feel their good wishes thrilling through me as I hurtle round the bend.
Only one more to go, then it's over. One final bend, a last straight, then I'm hanging up my leathers for good.
My wife has waited enough times, heart in mouth, wondering if I'll survive. I'm fifty now, and am dedicating the rest of my life to her.
We've bought a small cottage in rural France, and will spend half our time there, and half back home. It's time to relax and enjoy the quiet life.
So here it is, the final turn. Oh, no!! What's that round the bend? What's happening? What the .............
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.
Who cares?
We've all got to go sometime. At least my way pays the bills.
My name is Loser. In the end, I guess I lived up to the name. The name didn't come from unloving parents, my mother and father loved me just as much as my two older brothers, Winner and Lucky. Being named Loser was simply tying up loose ends, my father has always needed closure of some kind. I'm the bookend that supports my two brothers who didn't have to spend their lives trying to prove their name wrong.
I grew up in the projects of Chicago, so some would argue that I began life as a Loser. You know what they say about people who live in the projects: they're nothing and their children will probably amount to nothing. In short, people who live in the projects forever stay in the projects.
A way out is hard to come by. Winner won himself a scholarship and a fancy education; Lucky bet on a horse that bought him a plane ticket to Vegas, where he's running his own casino. As for me, I escaped. I discovered speed and left behind the life that was drowning me. I didn't get addicted to drugs or start selling them, though I can't blame you for suspecting it. Afterall, what can one expect from a Loser?
No. The speed I discovered comes from motorbiking at top speeds. When I spotted the bike parked across the street from Greely's convenience store, I saw in the bike my future reflected, the key to freedom, my Declaration of Independence. The law doesn't condone stealing, but that bike felt like it was mine, like we were together in a past life - if you believe in that sort of thing -and were destined to be together for all eternity.
I had to choose between destinies; the destiny that was swallowing me, where who I am was forever going to be dictated by my birth and my name or the destiny that would begin with a bike. So I chose the later, a journey with no particular destination.
When I was riding, I was in control, I decided my destiny and my fate. The guy in second place always stayed there, could never surpass me. I kept everyone in their place, as if I controlled a kind of caste system, a system that placed you based on how fast you were going, not on where or how you started out.
But when I spotted a girl in the stand as I was turning the bend - all pretty and fine, with her hair pulled on top of her head to expose a swan-like neck - my tires screeched into a frenzy. Like Jack, my bike rolled out from beneath me, and, like Jill, I went tumbling after. It was the end of summer. It was the biggest race of the year. The girl in the stand with the swan-like neck went out for a beer with her boyfriend after the race. And I was gone.
They say that Heaven is your ideal, perfect world. It's true. In my Heaven my bike doesn't have a scratch, and I'm always speeding, always going somewhere and never settling.
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