Page 147 of Bend
Within twenty minutes, I’ve got paper spread across half the bench, notes from back home clipped beside baseline data, tire pressures written in three different places and six riders wandering in and out while I try to translate what they normally want into what we’ve actually been given.
Andre appears beside me with a radio already clipped to his shirt.
“Briefing in fifteen. Familiarization first, then if the roads stay good, they’ll get proper practice.”
“I need all six before they suit up.”
“You’ve got ten minutes.”
“That’s not fifteen.”
“You don’t need them for all fifteen.”
I look up at him.
He gives me absolutely nothing.
“Dick.”
“Ten minutes, Echo.”
Then he walks away.
Wolfe gets to me first, because Wolfe is apparently the only person on this team who understands that when I ask how a motorcycle feels, I don’t want interpretive fucking dance.
“Front’s a little stiff when I load it hard,” he tells me, leaning against the bench while I pull his sheet closer. “Mostly on entry. It’s not fighting me, but I’m putting more pressure through the bars than I normally would.”
“Mid-corner?”
“Fine. Rear feels good too. Maybe a little more engine brake than I’m used to, but I’d leave it until I get another run.”
I scribble it down. “See? Useful. Specific. Beautiful. This is why you’re my favorite.”
Wolfe grins. “Thought I was your favorite for other reasons.”
“Those reasons are currently irrelevant.”
“Cruel.”
Talon shoulders past him. “Move. Some of us have actual feedback.”
Wolfe looks offended. “I just gave excellent feedback.”
“You took three minutes to say the front’s stiff.”
“Nuance matters.”
Talon ignores him and starts talking before I’ve even finished turning the page.
“Rear rebound is too slow. Not by much, but it’s packing through consecutive direction changes, especially if I’m not fully unloaded between them. Front feels good. Brake lever needs to come in a few millimeters.”
I stare at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I reply, “I just appreciate you.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
