MAY 12, 2013 / SPARROW ROAD

Waiting for Peyton to finish his two laps was the most draining experience of Asher's life.

He was being undone slowly, the connections in his brain torn apart with every harsh whistle from the crowd. Travis kept him grounded, rattling off his left ear with enthusiasm.

From his account, the roads were wide and swept clear — perfect environment for speed. Travis said he'd put the team in a good ranking, and only depended on Peyton to carry it on. The crowd was most saturated at the finish line, but Travis spoke of how people extended all along the course; there would always be someone cheering for him.

This was what Asher tried to remember, as Peyton came back from his two laps. Will would be setting off now, and Asher was cued to the start line. His heart was trashing violently, every beat pushing more air out of his lungs. Other boys were lining up in their lanes. Some were confident and boasting about how they would win, some looked more nervous than Asher did. Most seemed determined, like himself, and kept to themselves.

"Good luck," Asher wished, to the boy next to him who was trembling. To give him the benefit of the doubt, Asher said he was just shaking because of the engine.

The boy, eyes wide with fear, glanced at Asher, but kept his eyes on the road, like a second's distraction would make him lose sight of it. "Thanks. You too."

No-one else spoke after that.

The tension was building like a Jenga tower. The rush of blood in his ears sped up, his heartbeat increased. It was like everything — the screaming, the sun, the rumbling bike between his legs — was increasing in volume, size and number until Asher was almost mad with nervousness. 

Then, the first rider appeared from round the corner. Everyone strained to see him, and the hysterical screaming of a mother told Asher it wasn't Will. One of the boys to Asher' left swore, and shifted gears. Everything about his posture was prepared to speed off, and Asher was so focused on the boy whose team was in the lead that if not for the emphatic screaming of a voice he knew, he might have not seen Will come round the corner.

"Go, Will! You got this, Asher!" Ryanel was hoarse from screaming so much.

Second; they were second! Adrenaline took over, toppling that Jenga tower of nerves, and Asher himself took the anticipating stance of a rider about to start. The distance between Will and the finish line was getting smaller and smaller, until he shot past it completely.

Asher floored the Slicer.

It did not disappoint, and burst forward with a hellish roar, propelling Asher down the road. He was so glad the track was straight for about eighty yards, before the first turn. It gave him time to adjust, and calm down. Asher tightened his grip, leant into the wind more, and kept his speed consistent. More racers had been finishing the fifth and sixth laps — third legs — and Asher heard three distinct bikes behind him, not close enough to be a threat. Yet.

When the turn cropped up, instinct took over. Losing speed was not an option, but Asher had to let the bike drop speed the tiniest bit as he swerved the left turn. Most riders would not attempt that turn so fast, but he did. The bike dipped dangerously to one side. Compulsively, his torso tensed, he pulled his legs up and as soon as he was through the bend, Asher pulled upright, earning a fresh round of tears from the audience.

From that first turn, Asher felt his worries slip away. The track was definitely the hardest he'd encountered, but was only a combination of the most difficult tracks at the club. And Asher had spent enough time on all of those to feel confident in himself. The thudding of his heart was still there, but seemed more encouraging. Each beat drove him to go faster, and speed ahead of his competition. Why had he even doubted himself?

The person in first was still in sight, and Asher pushed the bike till it felt almost suicidal to be going that fast. Like a violin string tightened so much it felt ready to snap if pushed a millimetre more. The low rumble that the Slicer usually gave out was higher, and that sound induced soft waves of panic to grip Asher's mind. Slow down, they whispered. Swiftly, Asher ignored those whispers. His hands only had to remain steady, and if he breathed, and kept the speed high during turns, Asher would win.

He would.

The further into the track they ventured, more turns cropped along. Asher knew this area, knew how much he had to slow down in order not to crash on the turns. The person in first did not; Asher observed this in the way he pulled right back in turns. Each turn Asher went fast on, and his competitor slow, put them closer in distance.

Most of the time, Asher kept his eyes trained on the road in front of him, but kept his ears listening for the riders behind him. One had gotten closer, and that was unsettling Asher. He could also hear how close he was to being first. The rush of wind over his covered body; the sky and the road lying together; the crowd trying to drown out the engines, the smell of diesel and smoke. Every facet about the moment was vying for Asher's attention, and just when he had decided to take in one thing, the moment flashed away, replaced by another one.

The whole race was a montage of moments, flickering by so quickly that Asher need only to lean forward to be able to taste the next one. The Slicer felt dangerous beneath him. Exhilarating — the only way to describe. 

It was dancing in front of a moving train; it was laughing the face of all the doctors who said, "You won't be able to do that." 

It was triumph. 

As Asher pulled up neck and neck to his rival on the last turn, he knew where they were. The finish line was in sight, and though the Slicer was already stretched to more than it could take, Asher gave it a couple of inches more pressure. His hands were so tense on the handlebars, to keep the bike heading straight, yet his mind was completely at ease.

The Slicer did not disappoint, responding to Asher's greedy command of it with a drill-like warning. But it lent the speed he needed. A victorious smirk fell on his lips, and Asher raced past the finish line, sending the chequered flag hung above the heads of everyone flying and whipping in his wake.