WHAM. Everything fades out, then comes back. You crawl off to the side, and lay there. You feel like you cant breathe, and every labored inhalation you take seems as if your sucking in nothingness. Yours ears are ringing, and you can barely hear the track crewman shouting to you.
".....ight?" filters softly into your brain. You try to process the comment, but it makes no sense
"are you aLL RIGHT?" fades in a man shouting at you.
Are you o.k.? You haven't had time to think that far ahead yet. You try and think about your body and each element, but you have to respond soon, or the guy will freak out.
You don't know, and shrug your shoulders at the man.
"Stay here, don't move." he says with clarity, looking you straight in the eyes.
You slowly move each body part, first your ankle, then leg. You repeat this on your other side. You move onto your fingers, wrists, arm, shoulder. Everything seems o.k,, but it still feels like you were hit by a Mac truck.
Slowly you begin to catch your breath.
Your neck feels fine, but a little stiff, and your head seems fine, although maybe a little fuzzy. Then you try to sit up, and the wave of nausea and pain hits you. Your right rib cage erupts in pain, and you nearly throw up.
The guy re emerges in your vision.
"You doing alright buddy? That was one heck of a wreck!" he says almost encouragingly.
"Glad you got off the track, though" he says gravely "watched a kid get hit just last week..." he begins "he was ok though..."
"Is my bike o.k.?" you ask.
Two hours later, sitting in your house, you try not to hurt. Your buddies are chattering about events from the day's race, they joke at your wreck, you reflect. Tomorrow is going to hurt. BAD. You have broken a couple ribs, sprained a muscle or two, and have hit your head well enough to need a new helmet.
"Dammit" you think.
Amidst one of your friends jokes, you state, "Screw this riding crap, I'm selling everything"
The room bursts with laughter.
"Yeah, right, just like you said you were gonna land that double today!" One friends says.
"Ha Ha, yeah, just like Ricky Carmichael I think you said!" pipes another
Your trying not to laugh, let alone breathe, but everyone is laughing hysterically, and you can't help but crack a smile.
"No, no, no, let him sell it! Now I can get me a new bike, CHEAP!" laughs another.
Internally, you have about had it with riding though.
A couple weeks later, while piddling around in the garage, you see your bike. It is still dirty from the day of your wreck, and you can still smell the race gas in the tank.
"George, can't you do ANYthing right?" you mutter to yourself chastising your buddy who dropped the bike off.
You walk over to your bike and lower it from the stand. You move it a couple inches to the left, straighten it to just the right angle, and re lift it.
The grips feel so good in your hands, the brake lever a perfect distance from the throttle.
You move on, and leave it.
A couple more weeks later, it calls to you. You have been avoiding the garage, but today, you can't help it. You enter, see your dirty bike, and know immediately what you must do.
Three hours later, the bike is showroom clean, has a fresh filter, every bolt is tight, you have lubed and adjusted the chain, and the oil has been changed, swapped out for some fresh synthetic.
The bike just sits there, and the more you stare at it, the more it begs you to turn it on.
"Just start me, that's it, I promise" the bike says.
You hop on, go through your start up routine, and then kick hard. It explodes to life. You let it warm up, get ready to turn it off, but you hear something.
"Just up and down the street once" you hear, ever so faintly.
Now, you don't even think, everything is secondary, and you feel yourself notch the bike into second, slip the clutch and roll off smoothly towards the street.
You cruise for a second, it feels good. Without thinking you get on it, whacking open the throttle. Internally the carb slide opens, air races towards the engine, sucking fuel along the way. The explosive mixture pours into the cylinder, compresses, and then silence. BOOM! The fuel ignites, forcing the piston down, and escapes out the exhaust. The bike leaps foward, Second, Third, Fourth gear fly by, and the wind is roaring around your ears. You snap closed the throttle and cruise up your driveway.
You kill the engine, dismount, find neutral and wheel the bike into the garage angling it just right before lifting it on the stand.
Your hands are shaking from the adrenaline, your hair is straight up from the wind. You look around, colors look sharp and crisp, you process things as if they were almost in slow motion.
The rest of the week feels so mundane, everything so dull.
"RRRRRING. BBRRRRRRINNNNG." your house phone screeches.
"Heeellllo. Yeah. This sunday? 8 my place? Great, see you then."
Back to the races!
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