MAY 12, 2013 / SPARROW ROAD

All the pent up momentum meant Asher was still going very fast after the finish line. 

Luckily, the road continued for a while longer, and Asher let himself sail until he was going slow enough to U-turn, and head back to the waiting bay. His team mates were running towards him, crowding him and literally dragging him off the Slicer, only for him to be hoisted on their shoulders.

"Asher! Asher!" they chanted.

The feeling of being supported and victorious was bliss. It was on the shoulders of his friends that he was presented to the crowd, who watched everyone with an irremovable smile. It was a testament to how good his competitors were; they all finished within seconds of each other. One or two boys were soured-up, and bitterly glaring at Asher — whilst the rest threw aside their helmets, and ran up to join in the celebration.

When, finally, the announcers had turned up the microphones loud enough to overcome the celebratory shrieking and clapping, Asher's friends hoisted him up on the stage that sat off to the side of Sparrow Road. The other teams filed onstage after them, clapping Asher on the back and shouting their genuine happiness for his team.

"Well," the MC boomed, "It's pretty clear who our winners are. Let's give—"

The applause started before he could finish, and Asher squinted against the loudness of it all. 

Shirts were ripped off, people climbed on shoulders, whistles cut through the air. It lasted ages, and the tingling excitement of winning almost faded from Asher's veins by the time they stopped. An attractive woman handed Asher a bottle of champagne, and gestured his team up to the first place podium, another team to the second, and one to the third.

"In first place, the Astoria Motorcycle Club!" the MC cheered.

This was Asher's cue to pop open the cork, which he did happily. 

As if they had fervently shaken it up beforehand, the fizz sprayed outwards like sea foam. Asher held it over the audience, watching with mirth as they clamoured to get a drop of champagne. He was sure the attention was just for the novelty of it being winner's wine, rather than actual desperation for alcohol. 

Again, the same attractive woman appeared, handing out twelve spotless glasses to the riders who placed. Asher went around to them all with the champagne, saying, "You did awesome, congratulations," to everyone, before pouring himself a glass last.

No-one cared that he was underage, and Asher drank down the bubbles before tossing his glass to a screeching teenager girl in the front, who descended into fanatic tears when she caught it. It was hard to tell above all the noise, but vaguely, he could hear from her, "Oh my God! I love you!" That warmed him, like a heated drink that seeped into his stomach and into his shoes.

For another three hours, Asher stayed at the site of the race. The MC had prepared a speech, giving due credit to the parents and teachers of the talented riders, and thanking all the spectators for coming out to watch. Asher felt his eyes linger on the hot woman as she strutted back onstage, several medals strung on her arms. Every racer received a steel medal of a participation.

Asher looked at the one around his neck, Venture Motocross Event 2013, was engraved. The trophies for the teams that placed were received, and after that, the photographers descended. Asher and his team were tugged to the centre of the stage, for their first unofficial photoshoot. 

Sweat and breath slicked the inside of his helmet, but for a round of photos that their photographer said, "Should look as realistic as possible," Asher had to wear it again.

It was almost an ordeal, and Asher's vision flickered with yellowy-white spots from camera flashes after about fifty photos of his team had been taken. This included profile shots and single pictures and team photos and ones for which they had to restart their motorcycles to get smoke pumping into the air. With a strong shake of their hands, the short man thanked Astoria's motorcycle team for their time. 

"You raced magnificently. Well done."

Travis Hoegel swiped his hand through his hair, slicking it back off his forehead. "My God. I feel like I celebrity."

"Tell me about it," Peyton mumbled.

The white tarpaulin tent collapsed into a box that was smaller than Asher's torso, though squishing the plastic and metal rods into it was a real struggle. Hershel Donte had brought team shirts and water bottles to proffer — which were really just the excess products he couldn't sell at the club - to willing fans. He had brought everything that would impress the knowledge of their club into the minds of the public; brochures, key rings — he even set up a photo booth.

It was in this photo booth that the team spent the rest of their nights. Some of the crowd had left, but most had stayed, waiting for Sparrow Road to be opened again so they could drive home. Everyone flocked around the riders, asking for photos (which Hershel Donte insisted to demand money for) and autographs. Sometimes, people paid more attention to the Slicer than they did to its rider. Asher was fine with that; it gave him the chance to slip away and buy Subway for the pit crew and his team.

This type of attention was not exclusive to the winners; everyone seemed generally fascinated by the vehicles and the riders alike. Middle-aged fathers looking to revamp their youth asked question after question, as did their teenager daughters. Those, however, were more along the lines of, "Can I have your number?" The atmosphere was thick with sweat, and adrenaline in a gaseous state. It was tangible — Asher could feel it tingling on the back of his neck, and it made his head hazy.

The muscles in his hand had been thoroughly exerted, until Asher couldn't even lift his arm. He'd been signing helmets and shirts and body parts all night. Peyton and Will had sorted out a system to snatch a few minutes of freedom. One boy would handle the photos, one boy would handle all the questions, one would offer close-up views at the motorcycles, and one — oh, the real lucky one — would escape to get coffees.

Asher had never been so overwhelmed by people before. Everywhere he turned, a smiling face would greet him. Congratulations dangled from the lips of many; it was difficult to accept it was all for him. The hype did not last long, maybe an hour before the barracades marking the track were removed, and everyone found the prospect of going home more inviting than talking to Asher. The very same prospect sounded inviting to him, too. Vasily and Ryanel, the patient supporters whom the crowds did not even notice, waited with the pit crew. Asher's father offered to take his best friend home, once accepting that his son's commitments to the club extended further than just winning a race.

Hershel Donte asked the boys to clean most of the gunk from out of the motorcycles' wheels, and pack the few boxes of fan merchandise that had not sold. His car, a Jeep Patriot, riddled with scratches, would definitely not fit the motorcycles. The pit crew had ridden them here, and now it was up to the team to take them back to the club. 

Asher felt excitement sear his lungs at the thought of wrangling the Slicer again.

Hershel Donte told him, just before he revved up the engine, "Asher. You break her—"

"Yeah, I know," he muttered. The warning was as familiar to his ears as the soft whirr of an x-ray machine.

"—I break you."