OCTOBER 20, 2012 / ASTORIA MOTORCYCLE CLUB

Asher was mildly proud of his restless night. 

He had gone to bed after a long group chat with his class — after eleven o'clock, as all his classmates would pay witness to, Kerrish's mind plummeted to the point of frightening the more innocent ones in the class with what he typed. Think cursed images and Reddit threads.

Then at 1.13, 4.34, and 5.37 in the early morning, Asher had woken up with excitement racing through his veins. The last time he woke up, he decided to give into the nerves, got dressed and made himself two cups of frothy coffee to kick him awake.

The solid grudge for his father had melted — as Asher always knew it would, whenever he finally got what he needed — and Asher was seeing the world two shades brighter and breathing five times lighter than he used to. 

The restless teenager tried to wait for his father to wake up, but his motorcycle was singing to him, he itched to be a part of the elite club that trained future extreme motorcyclists — though Asher was not even considering doing that — and it was the weekend; Vasily never got up before eight on the weekends.

Riding through the misty morning air of the sleepy town was cold and refreshing, like the frost blanketing lawns also covered his heated angst with a soothing comfort. Asher mentally apologised to any people he might have woken up with the roar of his engine as he sped past.

The Astoria Motorcycle Club was on the outskirts of the town, where no-one minded the shredded dirt, the hellish noises and gas fumes. As Asher stepped into the minimalistic foyer, he finally felt at home in his shark cage.

"I'm Asher," he greeted the teenager manning the receptionist's desk. "I called last night."

The lean-muscled boy with surfer hair continued typing for four ticks of the second hand of the wheel-clock on the wall, and then snapped his head freakishly quick to Asher. "So, you want to join the elite?"

Asher startled at the rapid glint in the boys eyes, and replied, "Yes? I thought you were expecting me."

"We always accept newcomers, but be warned, if you leave, you leave without a pulse," the boy warned, dead serious.

"Uh," Asher drawled out, spooked.

He was considering hiking it out of there immediately, riding home and never bringing up the idea again, never mind how much he wanted this. That was until another boy entered the picture, holding a grimy helmet with the design rubbed off, and sweat dripping off the ends of his hair. He walked in with a collected smile, slapped the receptionist boy on the shoulder, and took a glance at Asher's scared-shitless expression.

The expression hardened into a knowledgeable frustration, as he tugged the boy's hair up and hit his forehead. "You dumb fuck. Stop scaring away recruits!"

The surfer-haired boy winced from the blow, and looked to Asher — who was realising that the boy was not as insane as he had appeared — with an apologetic smile that lost most of its potency because of the laughs that broke through. 

He leant over the counter, and held out a hand to shake, "Sorry, dude. Just can't resist the reactions. Sorry."

Asher shook, but remained silent, and slightly annoyed. Sensing the imminent loss of a potential member, the maturer teen asked, "Are you wanting to join? We could get you a form now."

Asher accepted, and for the next ten minutes, he had to listen to the scratchy apologies from the long-haired trickster playing like a broken record while filling out his details. Smoothly, Asher looped down his name, birthday, and other personal details with the quiet confidence of someone who was fulfilling his life's dream. 

The pen faltered when Asher read 'medical condition/s'. 

If he set his disease in stone, forever attached to his name like a shadow, Asher knew he would never get a chance to prove himself. The instructors would teach him as fairly as any other member, but letting the diseased boy participate in competitions or derbies risked too much bad publicity if Asher hurt himself. 

And he hadn't come this far to have those opportunities taken from him. He hadn't come this far to let the sharks win.

It was with these thoughts whispering in his ears that Asher struck a quick line where he should have written osteogenesis imperfecta, and continued on penning in the form. The boy sitting in the receptionist's seat introduced himself as Travis Hoegel, and was one of the senior riders for the club. 

When the six forms had its empty spaces filled by Asher's life story, the enthusiastic teenager returned the papers to Travis. He led him out to a racing track, oval in shape and foul in odour. Asher wrinkled his nose against the smell of burnt rubber, diesel and burning soil — an attack on the senses that would grow into him, and become one of the little comforts he indulged in.

The darker boy was also there, with a grey-haired man who shook Asher's bones with a fierce stare. His tensed frame and wrinkled, sun-spotted skin spoke of a man who had lived a long life through trauma, and had done so for a reason. The aged man was strong as steel, in his gaze, in his posture, in his voice. Made of the solidity Asher could never expect for himself.

Gruffly, he barked at Asher, "Bring your bike round back. Travis'll help you."

So he did, beginning a strenuous assessment day. The sergeant-man scrutinised every nook of Asher's beloved motorcycle — much to his discomfort — before nodding once, and saying, "It's good enough for practise here." Then began the assessment of Asher. Kitted out in a solid plated jacket and the shiniest helmet he'd ever laid eyes on, Asher took to the junior track — a simple oval layout with grass bordering the entire course.

The man never introduced himself — Asher had a feeling he did that on purpose — and handled Asher like he didn't really care what happened to him. If he had known about Asher's disease, the grouchy man would have acted differently — but he didn't, and Asher loved how that was the case.

"Finish the course the fastest you can," he commanded.

Travis, the darker teenager, and Mr. Scary took Asher to a course with tight turns and odd angles that Asher never encountered in the city. "Try this one."

A course that went up hills and plunged into dips, "And this one."

An endurance course, that went on for ages and had ramps to leap over, "Go on."

Travis Hoegel and his friend — Peyton — were thoroughly confused, growing more worried as the hours died away. When they had first arrived at the Astoria Motorcycle Club, at thirteen and ten years old, respectively, Hershel Donte (though almost everyone they knew grew to call him, 'sir') had slapped them on the back, given them a timetable for when their grade had which courses, and told them to go home.

Neither of them had seen anyone go through this on their first day as a member — even the kids who had fathers linked to the club, and came here many times just to watch.

But, neither of them had seen a newcomer try every senior track and finish so skillfully.