27 | venture

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MAY 12, 2013 / SPARROW ROAD

Vasily and Asher had been up and down Sparrow Road many times in the years they had been living in New York, whether together, or of their own distant meanings. The road was notoriously busy.

While the many boutiques and delicatissens looked grander and the people looked brighter during sunlit days, Asher always preferred to visit Sparrow Road at night. With car headlights, shimmering chandeliers inside the rich stores, the glow from windows above his eyeline, it always looked to Asher that the road wanted to fend of the darkness of night.

Today was the first time he had seen the buildings caressing the side of the road vacant, completely void of both customers and employees, and no cars sliding along the asphalt. Traffic cones and metal barracades had been laid down, only last night, to mark the race track, and to keep the spectators away.

The Venture race was publicly advertised every year, but unnecessarily so, since all the citizens around the area only had to hear the signature ferocious roar of motorcycles to become compulsively interested in the spectacle. This combination of shoppers with nowhere to go and people with an interest in seeing the riders barrel down Sparrow Road in a blur of burnt rubber and smoke turned the inconvenience of a closed road into excitement for a derby day. Whilst the crowds started gathering, Asher was saying goodbye to his father.

"I think I've told you to be careful too many times now," Vasily smiled weakly. The process of worrying first, and being proud later was a familiar one — one he wanted to break today. "So good luck. Have fun. Win for me and your ma."

"Thanks, Dad," Asher said. His breath hit the inside of the helmet, and bounced back as warmth and moisture. Vasily nodded, and left to find a suitable watching point.

Asher looked around, squinting through the plastic of his helmet, but found no trace of Ryanel. Then, an awkward yelp shot out from the crowd, and the aspiring biker was tempted to pretend that Ryanel was just a crazed fan as he broke through the barracade surrounding their team's prep area.

"Asher!" he panted, forehead shining with sweat.

"You're, like, three hours late," Asher replied. They had arranged to meet up with the other boys before, to get a meal before the race started. Ryanel had not shown up, and the boys were forced to leave the cafe when it was two hours to the race. Since then, Vasily had stayed with Asher through the registration period, engine checks, tyre runs and general diagnostic tests of the fleet.

"I know, sorry. I saw another group of guys in riding gear, and I though 'hey! That must be Asher,' so I went up to them, and they got all suspicious that I was trying to sabotage them or something, and yeah- things got out of hand." The Filipino boy stopped to breathe, and finished with, "Sorry."

"It's sweet. Just, go find a place to watch from. I don't think you can be here," Asher warned, just as Hershel Donte — better known as 'sir' — started heading their way.

Ryanel took a passing glance at the formidable man, blanched, and zoomed out of the tent. "I'll see you later, man!"

A quick, embarrassed grimace was all he got in response, though no-one could see it through the helmet, anyway.

So, Asher addressed, instead, the person in front of him, "Hey, sir. We all set?"

Hershel Donte cast a look to the other exit for the tent, that lead out to a private area sectioned off for the team's bikes. A backstage area, of sorts, if motorcyclists had that. Gruffly, like all else he said, he reported, "Checks were perfect."

Restrained rumbles of engines were coming from the open flap, and Asher could see the sunlight bouncing off the exhaust clouds. Hershel Donte said, "That'll be Peyton warming up. Boys'll join him soon, I suggest you do the same, especially since you've got the Slicer."

Asher nodded dutifully, and zipped his jacket up. He had reservations about using the Slicer for today's race. But Hershel Donte had left him with no other options. The bike Vasily had bought Asher for his birthday was not geared up for racing, which automatically meant he had to take one of the club's fleet. 

Oh, but the Slicer!

It was fast; it was monstrously built; it was louder than a foghorn. It was what every motorcyclist-wannabe dreamed about one day having, and Asher was not so much intimidated of the bike itself, but of his unfamiliarity with it. Given more than a handful of months to practise with it, sure, he would have been as confident with it as he was his own bike.

Last night, he had gone after school to squeeze in some extra hours of practise. Hershel Donte had been there, and in the midst of turning away Travis - who had been wanting the same thing. To both boys, he told them to go home, get some rest, and not overwork themselves. He was convinced that one night's worth of practise would not be enough to make a large difference.

"You guys have been working your asses off for months. If you think you ain't good by now, you ain't getting good by tomorrow. Then God help us," were more of his exact words.

The flap of the tent swung back with a rustle, though nothing could be heard over the sound of multiple engines. Not only had the three other boys in their team started warming up, walking their bikes up and down the road, but so had all the other teams. It was a world of dust, smoke and the cries of machinery. The sight was beautiful to Asher, it was mechanical art, and just about brought tears to his eyes. (Most likely, the stinging was from the smoke that had seeped into his helmet.)

The boys on his team had all been at the club longer than Asher, and were all older. Peyton and Travis, Asher felt close to. Will, the oldest, was quieter. Not many words were exchanged between the two, outside of necessity, but Asher knew he was a nice person. A fantastic racer, too.

"Slicer's getting a last-minute check," Peyton told Asher. The boy had stopped the growl of his motorcycle — a shiny one that his parents had bought just for competitions — to tell Asher this, and resumed his turns just as quickly.

One of the maintenance men that came today was wheeling Asher's bike out of the pit stop station. This would be where the bikers stopped after their lap, and let another boy take over. The worker slapped the hull of the bike, painted a deep blue, "She's purring. Shouldn't be a trouble. Good luck, man."

Asher smiled thankfully, started her up, and started small laps of the side road they occupied. He tried to get comfortable, and trust that the massive bike wouldn't topple over during the race. Hershel Donte had picked this bike with Asher in mind. The boy was a master at turns. Since most riders lost a lot of speed at the corners, he was hoping this incredible bike paired with Asher's innate ability, honed by his teaching, would drive them to victory.

The whistle sounded for the first racers from each team to take to the starting line. Travis, their starter, shook hands with each of his team, and sped to the starting line. It was blocked from view by the tents of other teams, and Will and Asher went to the pit stop station, while Peyton went to the waiting bay. Asher was going to be the last racer.

In time, the air horn blared out, very obnoxiously. The crowd erupted in claps and cheers in the way only thousands of people could — supporting anyone in the race, whether or not they knew that person. The smell of oil and deafening sound of the first racers kicking off was overpowering, and Asher felt the worry sweep over the excitement that had steadied him for most of the day.

His friends were confident in his abilities, and they were the most talented boys he knew, and Hershel Donte must have trusted his abilities — that was what he tried to remember. But Asher couldn't quite believe in himself because he knew about his greatest weakness.

And everyone else didn't.

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