Asher ✓

61 | finally

AUGUST 29, 2020 / SAM BOYD STADIUM

The temperature was making Asher sad.

Specifically, the hotness and dryness of the Nevada air — even in the evening — called to the mind the exact night that Tallulah and he had broken up. It had been just over a month since the separation, so Asher may have been thinking in dramatics still, but he didn't know if he could ever feel the heat of a desert without remembering that pain.

Other things were not making him sad, however.

Sam Boyd Stadium, usually turfed over, ready for football, had been filled with a supercross track that almost matched Joshua Lowland's stunt course. Of course, it was not that extreme. The dirt had been laid and shaped into a densely-packed, winding racetrack — trying to squeeze as much distance into as little area as possible.

There were tight curves, drops, rows of hills and valleys and large mounds of soil packed into jumping ramps. Powerful spotlights around the circumference of the field caused the moisture in the soil (artificially sprinkled over it) to glisten and shimmer. The same way that people talked about diamonds on the surface of the ocean, Asher thought the sight beautiful.

Well, not beautiful. It was mud. But the sight of the course certainly inspired feelings of anticipation and anxiety both so strong and so conflicting that he nearly couldn't name them. Asher felt like tonight would change his life somehow.

The racers had been called to the starting line. Asher rested atop his motorcycle, the engine humming restlessly as they waited. To his right was an unnamed, unknown rider in green. To his left was Robyn Morrison in red, whom he'd beaten at the East Coast Semi-Final. She managed to cling to second place, and they ended up being the two riders representing the East Coast sent to the Semi-Final and Championship heats.

It was, in a way, comforting to see a familiar face (well, helmet) at the competition. Both representing the same rough geographic area, they had gotten to know each other better in between races. 

"Good luck."

Asher genuinely wished her luck tonight, but only so much luck that enabled her to place second or below.

He knew it was petty. He didn't care.

"Same to you."

The megaphone system came on, welcoming the audience and preparing the riders. There were to be ten laps. The metal gates in front of each bike were going to drop at the end of the countdown. Engines were revved and riders braced for a sharp acceleration.

"Three . . . two . . . one!"

Asher lurched forward and attempted to make his way to the right, which would decrease the distance he'd have to ride come the first turn. In his periphery he saw his competitors alongside him, seeming to float closer and further as they each manoeuvred for the interior position. 

Of course, they weren't really floating. It was relative motion at work, each racer at high speeds so similar that each other person appeared to drift over the dirt like graceful fairies. Asher snorted at the thought, and doubled down as the first set of whoops drew closer.

Whoops were small hill and valleys that made one's jaw judder as they went over them. They were also small enough to skim right over, some of the time busting through the top of them, which Asher did. There were three racers ahead of him, but not by much.