Asher ✓

31 | tranquillity

NOVEMBER 29, 2013 / GOMERY STADIUM RACERS LOUNGE

Suavely decorated, the lounge had a calm atmosphere that most of Asher's fellow racers sought after such a frenetic night — and most importantly: food. Asher took three of the polystyrene plates, and started piling up food from the buffet. He'd been running on nothing but electrolyte drinks the whole day — as was the case on race days — because all the jolting during the race would make for a very hasty regurgitation.

Finally, holding the three plates pressed to his chest with arms and chin, Asher left the buffet table, and walked to a low table. Minimalism had been the design brief, apparently, since anything that could be circular, was. The blue and lilac lighting made the room look almost nightclub-ish, mind the lack of dance music. Quiet, lazy — Asher did not want to disturb the tranquillity. The leather couches curved around the tables, and looked cyan under the lighting — Asher knew they were actually white.

He'd taken a seat with some of his competition, who were also stuffing their mouths with food. Once he'd gotten to the big leagues of competitive racing, he found a stark difference between the racers. His first race, Venture, had been filled with desperate teens trying to prove their status. Here, the racers were champions of their own minds, and did not mind a bit of contest.

In other words: they accepted defeat with as much grace as a ballerina. Asher found that admirable, and could see forming friendships with some of the men here.

He was by far the youngest, and the racers treated him as such. Not with baby jokes and mockery; they all leaned towards Asher with a older-brotherly disposition, wanting to be the ones who showed him the ropes of the industry. That they did, and Asher was never more grateful. This racing community was small, knit tight like cotton threads.

For half an hour straight, the only sounds were the soft thumping of The Neighbourhood songs and uncouth chewing sounds. Everyone ate liked starved men, and when, finally, they cleared their plates, Leon Lonzano spoke, "God, I'm full."

It wasn't much, but that prompted the men sitting around Asher's table to spark up a casual talk. They never spoke much; not snobbery; what else could be expected from athletes?

A chorus of, "Me too," followed.

Leon addressed Asher this time, "Good on you, man. What's this? Seventh?"

Asher could only nod, too busy sucking the melted chocolate off his fingers.

"Ah, you are heading for the top," Leon sighed.

"I hope so," Asher muttered.

Rocky Bhatti, who had left university to pursue a racing career, spat a cherry stone out. "But, there are other things to life."

Leon laughed, "Such as? Heroin?"

Rocky ignored the jab at his old high school habits. 

Asher found out that once into the top level of competition, there was a limited selection of racers. Most events saw the coincidental meeting of many of the top league of racers. This was also part of the reason no-one was bothered too much by losing; it was more than likely another time, another place, would lend the chance to try win against the exact same people. 

Asher had been a new addition to their exclusive league, a youthful change that they welcomed — for entertainment, and friendship's sake. The competitors also got to know each other as friends, outside of the dirt track.