JANUARY 10, 2020 / NEW ERA FIELD
Asher cleared a triple jump with an eighty foot leap that sent shock-waves rippling through his bones when he landed.
He barely had time to shake off the juddering pain in his spine and un-clench his jaw before the high-powered whine of a competitor's engine sounded from behind him.
"Shit," Asher swore in frustration, pulling tightly towards the inside of the track to secure the path of least distance.
He'd forgotten how cutthroat the American Motocross Association Series heats were. Everyone was vying for those coveted positions in the city-wide, then state-wide, then national, competition. As such, the racers were pushing all imaginable boundaries.
They rounded corners at speeds so high that their knees almost scraped the man-made dirt track, incredibly banked as their motorcycles were. All the double and triple jumps were just high enough to the clear the last mound, sacrificing as little horizontal distance as possible, but low enough each time to have the audience holding their breath to see if the rider would land the perilous leap.
That was the sort of jump Asher had just attempted and executed.
Behind him now was Number 34, and she rode like a viper. If Asher wasn't diligent in preempting her manoeuvres, she'd find the smallest of reliefs and slither ahead of him.
Which wasn't happening today.
Number 34, like nearly half of the riders at the first AMA Series heat, was a rookie. Asher couldn't believe how little he recognised the competitors, crew and even the commentators — secretly he'd always admired one of the sport announcers whose voices boomed over the stadium, but he was nowhere to be heard, and a pitchy, contentious man had taken his place.
"Asher Delrov, keeping a firm hold on his leading position," the presenter whined. "Some of the audience remembers the young fan favourite from the 2015 250cc class series—"
Said portion of the audience erupted into cheers.
"—but everyone remembers the horrific incident he encountered four years ago."
Yes, Asher really hated this new commentator.
Yesterday, January 9, was the anniversary of the 'horrific incident,' in fact.
Four years ago on that day, he'd been lying twisted and bleeding on an icy road in New York. Asher had come to realise that that was only the first time he'd nearly died. When his mental health had taken a turn for the worse, then, Asher had nearly died multiple times in the years to follow.
Counselling had helped, and counselling had made him realise he'd been fighting the odds and winning (or, at least, not losing) every day of his life. What was one more day? One more race?
Four years ago he'd been thrown off his bike, and yesterday he had gotten back on, spending the day — just like so many other days this winter — training for his comeback.
"Delrov's old sponsors dumped him like a bag of fresh diapers—" the presenter's voice boomed into the stadium, "—after discovering his pre-existing medical condition, but it seems he's back with new support, and new gear as well."
As Asher zoomed past the corner, rounding back to the starting line for another lap, his engine shrieking under the strain, he really considered flipping the bird at the presenter, whom he assumed was watching intently from the broadcaster's box, high above the seats.
He could totally do it, too, since it was a straight shot for a few more yards, but he decided a tongue-in-cheek gesture wouldn't be the wisest move at his comeback race.
Especially since, as the prick had announced to everyone, Asher was bearing the logo of his new sponsors on the back of his red and white leather jacket, and on his new titanium prosthetic.
Contrary to what it looked like, Asher hadn't, in fact, pulled a nepotistic move and funneled Delrov Technologies' money into his racing endeavours. He and Ryanel had been staunchly against the idea, while Kelvin and Annalise had been brimming with excitement and glee at their oh-so-cleverly concocted plan.
They'd sprung it on him at a pre-Christmas dinner.
Vasily, Vanessa Porter, Asher's older cousin Aria, Ryanel and the more immediate members of the Gonzales family (because God knew how large Ryanel's complete family was), Annalise and her husband, Kelvin and his sister, Kerrish, Tallulah and Asher himself all crowded into the Delrov's suburban house for a warm meal, eggnog and karaoke.
Asher didn't think he'd have to stipulate this, since so many people were present, but he didn't want to talk work (which he'd sternly told the Delrov Tech team), or shop (which he'd sternly told Vasily and Vanessa).
It was supposed to be a welcoming social event, and Asher had wanted to make an effort to include everyone. He knew he'd been difficult over the last four years, and had his rude, antisocial, temperamental days even now, so for that night, he had wanted the focus to be on something other than him and his life.
And then Annalise had opened her fat mouth, and suggested they emblazon Delrov Tech's logo on every surface of Asher's racing equipment — himself included — in exchange for sponsorship.
"What is a better marketing scheme than placing one of our very own products on the field?" Annalise asked. "Motocross is one of the most intense extreme sporting competitions in the world — what a perfect way to show rather than tell how functional and durable our new product line is."
"Oh, Asher! You racing again? You know how dangerous it is," Mrs. Gonzales had enthused. "Even if make girls love you. Good for your heart, bad for my heart."
Asher hadn't even needed to look at Vasily to know that there had been a triumphant grin on his face, but he had anyway.
"Thank you, Maria. Very sensible of you."
Asher rolled his eyes, but didn't retort. For all the fuss Vasily made over his son, he was becoming more and more supportive of Asher's decisions. More bark and less bite, but Asher would certainly let him play the concerned father whenever he wanted.
Kelvin had piped up then, a half-chewed mouthful of ham in his mouth, "And, you're our ex-CEO. Your vote of confidence as an athlete will show just how much our company knows our stuff and trusts our designs."
Asher's titanium prosthetic was so light when Kelvin had first modeled it on him that it had to be weighed down with ceramic linings. With the ceramic it would be less mobile, but flexibility of his lower leg wasn't a huge concern to Asher. It was more important — actually, the most important — that his weight be balanced on both sides of his vehicle.
Asher shifted gears as he approached the first ramp of the lap, built up by compacted dirt. Then he was soaring, the stadium lights and noise seeming to buoy him up for a moment.
He tensed his legs as he landed, a new addition to his riding technique. Kelvin had fitted the motorcycle with a locking mechanism that could affix Asher's prosthetic to the foot platform if he applied a certain amount of pressure.
It would be dangerous if it was perpetually locked, say if an accident occurred, but it was helpful in making sure nothing slipped during jumps, turns and flips.
"Look at the distance Delrov is putting between himself and Number 34," an older commentator, whose voice was vaguely familiar to Asher, said.
"Yes, yes, yes," his partner replied, and this time Asher didn't mind his hyperbolic imagery so much.
"It seems a tentative shoo-in at the moment. The young superstar is shining again."