When Willa leaves, I make my way out to the track to let Shade know he needs to call his agent tonight to go over what press he wants to do when we’re in Sacramento. Everyone wants an interview with him after what happened in Madrid. Up until a month ago, he wouldn’t talk to anyone about the accident. They tried, believe me, they all tried, and he’d always say he had nothing to talk about just that he’d be back at the Aftershock event.
“You look good out there,” I tell him, handing him a bottle of water.
He nods, unscrewing the cap to the water, then downing it in practically one gulp. His face is red, adrenaline-pink and alive. I love seeing him like this, like he’s doing exactly what he loves because he is. But then he takes on more of a contemplative expression, his brow drawing together. “Everyone is asking if I’m going to do the triple again. I just don’t know. . . . If the conditions aren’t right, the ramp, there are so many variables there, and I’m right back to what happened in Madrid.”
I don’t want him doing the triple, even though I know he can. I’ve seen him do it. I’ve held my breath while he crashed, over and over again until he’s kicking at the dirt, bloody and cursing at the landing he can’t stick. And then I saw him land one, and that look, the one where his eyes lit up and the self-satisfaction beamed. I knew then why he did it. These guys who do these tricks, they’re daredevils, sure, defying gravity and showing off their mad skills, but it’s way more than that to them, and to me now.
They train, they push, they bleed, and they fail. But they succeed too. Some people have a passion for racing and competing. For Shade, it’s his life, and if anyone were to say to him he couldn’t do it, well, he’d prove you wrong.
I’ve never ever had a passion for something like he has for hurling his body through the air. But I’ve also never felt the freedom he claims he gets from everyone around him in those ten seconds where he’s weightless to the world.
“ESPN and Fox Sports both want an interview before the event.” And I leave my sentence at that. I’m not about to pressure him into anything.
Shade smiles at me and reaches for his helmet, handing me the empty water bottle. “Thanks. Arrange for ESPN only.”
I nod, making a note on my phone to inform the woman who contacted me yesterday about the interview. It’s then our eyes meet, and I smile at him, the swell of pride I have for him nearly bringing me to tears. “You’re going to do great, Shade. You’re not in the same state of mind as you were then.”
He doesn’t reply as he’s putting on his helmet, but I know he heard me.
I watch him for hours as he practices the trick, and then his volt, where he lets go of the bike in midair near the apogee of the jump and does a quick clockwise turn before rejoining the bike just before he lands.
Over and over again, he soars through the air doing a series of freestyle moves where he puts his hands on the front bars and then arches his back, keeping his knees tight against the bike. He lands that one and then shoots some thirty feet in the air again, putting his front feet over the handlebars between his arms and then replacing them before landing.
My favorite trick is the one where he grabs the front fenders and basically does a handstand on the bike before pulling it back.
I can’t believe even after breaking his neck, he can perform these tricks with no fear.
When the front end almost takes a nose dive midair, Shade taps the back brake and evens the bike out.
He has a huge grin on his face when he finally comes back around to where I’m standing near the edge of the track.
He doesn’t say anything until he pulls his helmet off. “It feels good to be able to do that again.”
“I bet. How do you keep control like that and not slip off the bike or lose it midair?”
Shade shrugs, leaning against the bike as it makes various noises while the engine cools. The heat radiating from it warms me slightly. “It takes practice,” he says, gesturing to the track. “The first time I ever attempted a jump, I was probably six, and back then it was a huge deal. Anyway, I was at some moto and watching all these older guys going off the ramp. Like fuckin’ twice my age. So I decided to try it. If they could, I could, right?”
“And did you land it?”
“Fuck no!” He laughs. “I thought I had it, but then when I came down on the other side, I had no idea how to land it. The bike nose-dived midair and I went into the face of the jump and shattered my collarbone. It was awful.” He laughs, shaking his head. “But I had a pretty cool nurse who fed me chocolate pudding for a week.”
“Of course you did.”
“Please, look at this face. . . ” He makes a pouty face. “I had her eating from the palm of my hand, even at six.”
I know what you’re thinking, tell him you don’t work for him anymore and fuck him on the bike. No, you’re not thinking that? Okay, it’s just me. But I do have a plan for it.
You’ll see.
FREESTYLE EVENTS ARE a lot like a rock concert. I’m talking about the women, not the men. They’re half-dressed and flaunting themselves in front of the riders constantly. It’s gross, but guess who doesn’t pay them any mind?
Shade.
“How’s he doing?” I ask Ricky, knowing he’ll give me an honest answer if I ask. He cares about Shade and worries about him returning since the accident.
“Oh, you know. Still upset over all the interviews.” Ricky wraps his arm around my shoulder leaning into me. “Although, you being here has surprisingly put him in a good mood,” he hints with a grin and a waggle to his brow.
I laugh, shoving him lightly.
From a distance, I watch as a news reporter from ESPN interviews Shade after the qualifying runs. “Do you have a chance at impressing these judges here tonight?”
“I think I have a chance.” His nods, keeping his sunglasses on. “My Honda is running great and I’ve never felt better,” he says, leaning against the side of the ESPN hauler.
His weight shifts to one side appearing relaxed, only if his sunglasses weren’t on, his eyes would tell another story, which is why he hides behind them.
For a long time I wondered why Shade hid behind his sunglasses all the time. It didn't come from arrogance, which was my first thought. And then I asked Tiller about it.
He said, “He hides behind the black sunglasses because he doesn’t want the world to see his blue.”
Do you understand what Tiller means?
I didn’t at first. I do now. If he didn’t have them, I’d see a vulnerability he masks at the track.
When he’s finished with the interview, I see a little boy, a shell of who he really is, lost behind a helmet and mirrored goggles.
He hugs me with one arm, pressed to the side of his body. He looks over my head toward the roll-in ramp, expressionless, like he’s turned everything off to concentrate. The way the moment takes me is unlike anything I’ve ever felt. He smells so fucking good, like gas, oil, and man, and the combination hits me right between the legs.
As Yung Joc said in “It’s Goin’ Down,” it’s going down later. In a car, on the floor, in the bed, I don’t really care.
It will happen.