CHINA
Memories suck. Watching this old race as I pummel the treadmill, I can remember the exact day, the weather, and the time with my father. Those days were few and far between moments.
“Get aggressive! Hit that turn, Doll!” Hearing his voice in my headset makes me push it further than I might’ve on my own. It makes me do better.
Be better.
“Line it up. Go on the high side. Pass, pass. Now! Go, go, go, princess!” Scraping my side on the rubber, asphalt, and gravel surface of the track, I hear it scuff the leather of my armor. I cut the edge, sliding perfectly, curving into it as I know my limitations and that of the bike below me.
“I got it, Dad. Give me a sec,” I say into my helmet as I flick the throttle. Cracking loose the power, I punch it, sending the beast soaring around the lead’s front wheel to take first position. We’re passing the last set of turns and I know if I hold it hard to the end, giving it all the bike has, I’ll be on the podium wearing gold once more. I’ve never had a chance here at this GP race, but I want it like a dream just out of reach.
I taste it.
It’s real.
Pushing myself further into the lead, I have to tip the gas bit by bit, creeping my lead only by milliseconds, but it’ll be enough.
It’s mine. I deserve this. I repeat it in my head like a blessing or mantra of goodwill and encouragement. There’s not a day I think I’d ever leave the track or decide to walk from a two-wheeled devil. My body runs on jet fuel and rubber. I’m the bike, and it’s an extension of me.
“Count me down,” I breathe out softly.
“Keep your head about you.” Like I’m not. “Graff’s on your rubber and pushing all she’s got. Don’t give her a chance to get around you.” I don’t answer him because it doesn’t require a reply.
Kicking down a gear to push the limits of my eleven-hundred CC engine, I’m asking it for all it’s got. I won’t give it a moment’s peace until I’m over that line and enjoying my reward. Once I do it can cool, have a full-service of all liquids and a bath with expensive bubbles if it wants. All it has to do is carry me over that line in first place. One mile left and it’s ours.
The sound of the engine gives me its all, screaming its joy as the tach rises to almost redline; I know it can give a touch more. There’s no way I’m losing. I’m not sending any of these other punk-ass, undeserving wimps ahead in the standings either.
Keeping my cool, pressing myself into the tank, I let the track lead me to the inevitable—another win.
“Doll, quarter mile. Let’s let it go, girl,” Harry calmly squelches into the mic. Giving me the signal to push that last little bit of power out of the four-stroke soul, I can literally taste it. Victory is mine.
In a zen-like state, knowing the three or less seconds are what will make this dream plausible, my engine squeals. Cranking over the fuel and air mixtures as quick as it can, the white and yellow finish line calls out my name. Holding my breath, I push my will out across the line as my wheels crest the paint.
“Yeah!” The raucous voices of my Dad, Harry, and countless others of the team ring out through the headset.
Before relaxing the grip, I let out a long-held breath. Sitting up straighter, peeling back the screen of my helmet, I look at the jumbotron up ahead. It replays the close call at being second place. I don’t care. One second, a millisecond and mere inches are all that separated me and Graff. That’s all that matters.
Rounding the tight entrance I slow, coming near the pit to pick up my reward. Harry, as usual, is there, standing on the edge, waiting. Holding it out with a massive grin, he tells me to let it fly. I heft the colors joyously. This isn’t my first win, and I doubt it’ll be my last. I’m seventeen; the top female racer in the circuits, both in Motocross GP and Open standings. They’re all mine now. Today capped the last one I was missing. With the full set of wins across the board in my age group, and that of the group higher than mine, I’m the top. Heck, I think I just beat my brother’s time on this track too. Celebrating this will be an all-night affair for sure.
I’ve worked my tail off, pushed every limit, excluded myself from every extracurricular activity known to man, and sequestered myself in my room. Watching and replaying races, I’d done it over and over, finding my flaws. I wasn’t about to be beat, and now I can proudly hoist the Crown Racing Industries flag around on my victory lap.
The only person I wish was here is Casper. I can’t wait to share this with him. Training to garner his first win at the Isle of Mann TT, he’s set to be the youngest to win it in its history. Knowing Casper, he’s been watching this on live stream. Even though he really wanted to be here, it would have caused a great deal of grief from our mother.
In fact, I do know him that well. He’ll have texted already with congratulatory praise for my newest trophy to grace the halls of our home. He’s more than likely shifted some of his to make room. I plan to surpass his ass soon. I want that hall filled with mine, and a few of his.
Rounding back to the paddock after my relished pass, I park the bike with a ginormous grin. Peeling back my helmet, I can’t remove the smile from my face. I think my jaw may just freeze in this position, and I’m okay with that.
Handing Harry the flag, I’m careful. The last thing I want is that precious material hitting the ground. I’m psychotically superstitious about that freakin’ flag. If it ever hit the ground, I think it would cause me to instantaneously combust, leaving flakes of a stressed-out girl on the ground.
“Princess, I’m so proud of you! This is fabulous!” My ever ecstatic, and motorcar racing legend father, King Jax Crown, yanks me into a bear hug. Lifting my five-eleven frame off the ground as if I weigh nothing more than a sheet of paper, I relish the joy he exudes.
He hardly attends our races, as his career is in full swing too. That’s the way of Indy and motorcycle racers. When the sun is shining and the ground is dry, it’s time to peel off a level of blacktop, rubbing a few tires raw. I’m lucky this time, as his race and mine coincided. Tomorrow I’ll return to Los Angeles, and he’ll be off to Detroit for meetings, racing, and blah blah blah schmoozefests with my mother. But that’s okay. I’ll take all the time I can get.
Setting me down, his beaming praise is explosive. I’m so grateful he’s here.
“You ready, Doll?” He’s asking if I’m ready for the reporters and journalists from the bike mags and racing officials that await me. Normally, he or my mother would accompany me, but I’d finally had enough of them answering for me. I want to give my own version of how it felt. So, I’m about to embark on my first press moment; sans them.
Today has been all about me, and I want to show just how happy I am about that.
“Yeah. I’m good, Dad.” Looking once more into his stunning eyes and accepting the adoration, I know I’m good to go. My fearlessness is from him and it suits me well on the track. He taught me from a young age how that adrenaline fuels us. He may hit the track on four wheels, and Casper and I engage the danger on two, but we all need the rush of rubbing a rim. Even our older brother, Jamieson, is a daredevil in his own right. He hits the hills on a plank where the snow is thick, cold, and packed perfectly for snowboarding. He visits us sometimes, and I don’t begrudge him that. I wouldn’t be caught dead in the snow if there’s a warm track to hit.
“That’s my girl. You deserve this. Now, go get ’em.” Bending to kiss me on the head, Dad turns to wait over by the rest of the team. As I walk to the line where the reporters wait, my nerves are jumping, but I’ll never show it.
“Doll!, Doll!” They all scream, vying for my attention. Selecting one to answer, the rest quiet, awaiting my response. “How does it feel, winning your twelfth title, and at such a young age? Were you nervous?”
Pursing my lips, I consider the answer first. With a superficial smile, taking the diplomatic route, I say, “This is my first time at Pomona, and I’m glad I’m going home with a trophy. I’ll admit, it wouldn’t have been possible if not for the training, dedication, hard work, and perseverance of the whole team. It’s not all just me. We come as a package at Crown Racing Industries.” The cameras click, the smart phones record, and the old-school boys push the buttons on their digital pocket recorders. Pointing to a second, more seasoned man at the back, I await his question.
He wastes no time, jumping right in. “King, how are you feeling about your daughter’s win and your loss yesterday?”
My father crashed in turn forty-four, losing out to Tunez. “I put all my energy into my daughter today. Let’s let her stand in the spotlight for a while. Wouldn’t you say that’s fair, Jackson?” he replied nicely, yet with a hint of ‘fuck you.’
“Listen, Mr. TSN-not-a-well-known-reporter, I work hard to be everything he needs me to be, both on and off the track, and I’ll continue to do so. I worship my father, his values, his ethics, and it shows in his love and respect for us. Even on a day when he’s had a bad turn on his track, he’s here to support me, showing me he cares, and being the best father any girl could ask for. So now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a trophy to hoist with my hero.” Turning from the dickwad reporter, feeling empowered, I’m ready to take on any hardships the world can toss my way.
In this crummy hospital gym, I push myself past the limits, but it’s necessary to control the sadness that surrounds me every time I think of my losses. This treadmill has had such a workout lately that I expect it to shoot me across the room, embedding me into the wall. Remembering a time when I was on top and feeling pretty damn happy, I miss my Dad more than I’ll voice to anyone.
I want him here with us, with me, to help me deal with all of it. At seventeen, I thought we were all indestructible, thinking nothing could touch the Crown’s. I thought I could do anything as long as I had my family. Now? Now I’m afraid to push past the pain of him gone, of Wyatt’s crash, of another death, and another moment when my life was decided for me.
I hate death. I hate that I’m left to deal with it all alone...again.
Yeah, I have my girlfriends. Sure, Wyatt’s alive, and I’m grateful for that, but it reminds me that I’ll be alone again soon. Whiskey will go back home. Wyatt will get better and return to the track, or dealing with Crown Industries. I’ll be stagnant.
I’d kept him from Circe, and her from him. It wasn’t intentional to harm either of them, but maybe self-consciously, I was trying to keep a piece of my family tucked away—contained. They’re getting better, and they’ll be going back to their lives. I’ll be going home to an empty house. I’ll be alone once more.
I’d never thought of my racing as a solitary sport, but now I realize that there’s only one seat and no room for others. I’m saddened by my singularity.