Page 157 of Bend
Everything sharpens.
The vibration through my gloves and the pressure through the pegs. The wind is trying to pull at my shoulders. The front loading when I brake, then getting lighter again as I release and let the bike turn. My breathing inside the helmet.
Every little change in the road surface feeds back through the machine.
There isn’t enough room left in my head for anything else, that’s the part people miss.
It’s not about wanting to die, I like being alive far too much for that.
It’s about feeling all of it at once.
By the time I start heading back toward the paddock, my hands are buzzing, my shoulders are working, and sweat is cooling underneath the leathers every time the speed drops enough for the air to move differently around me.
I’m also grinning like a fucking idiot, which is totally worth every fucking second.
****
Echo is waiting before I’m completely off the bike.
I get one boot down, kill the engine and barely manage to pull my first glove free before she’s beside me with her notebook already open.
“So, how’s the front?”
I flip my visor up and let my eyes drag over her for a second before I answer. Hair tied up, a few loose pieces stuck around her face, grease smudged along her hand and another streak near her jaw. Somehow she still looks fucking good standing there with a notebook like she’s about to interrogate me.
“Mmm. Morning to you too, waŋyéča. Looking real pretty for someone who’s about to start bossing me around.”
She doesn’t even blink. “Hello, Wolfe. I’m thrilled you survived another lap. Now tell me how the front feels.”
That gets a laugh out of me as I pull my helmet off. “See? There she is.”
Her pen is already poised over the page.
“It’s better,” I tell her. “A lot better than yesterday. I’m still getting enough feedback through the front that I know what it’s doing, but it isn’t fighting me anymore when I load it hard on entry.”
Her pen starts moving immediately. “What about under braking? Are you getting any chatter or anything that feels too soft now?”
“No chatter. It’s staying stable and I’m not getting any weird dive when I’m really on it. There’s one rough patch before that faster right I mentioned yesterday where I could feel it working more, but that’s the road. It settles straight away.”
She glances up briefly, then back at the page. “Rear?”
“Good. There’s a little movement coming over one of the rises, but nothing I’d change the bike for. Throttle’s clean too.”
She taps the pen once against the paper, reading through whatever she’s written.
“So you’re saying I fixed it.”
“I’m saying you improved it.”
Her eyes narrow. “That sounds suspiciously like you’re trying not to give me full credit.”
“I’m Canadian. We’re humble.”
“That is absolute bullshit.”
A smile pulls at her mouth before she looks back down at the sheet, and I catch myself watching her instead of the notes. She gets this little crease between her brows when she’s concentrating, like the rest of the paddock has stopped existing and the only thing that matters is whatever problem she’s decided to solve.
“I’m tempted to take one more tiny bit out of the front,” she says, tapping the end of her pen against the page, “but if you’re happy with where it is, I’d rather not start changing shit just because I can.”
