Page 207 of Bend

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The tribute ends and the paddock starts moving again almost immediately, which feels wrong in a way I don’t have time to sit with.

One second Wolfe’s face is still up on the screen and the entire place is silent for him, and the next engines are firing, officials are calling riders forward, tire warmers are coming off, helmets are being fastened and the TT is carrying on like it always does.

Maybe that’s the only way any of us get through today.

Keep moving before the grief has time to catch up.

By the time I’m called toward the start, my heart is hammering hard enough that I can feel it against the inside of my leathers, but my hands have stopped shaking. I don’t know when that happened. Somewhere between checking the bike for the last time and pulling my helmet on, the panic narrowed into something I understand better.

Focus.

The bike beneath me feels familiar now.

Not mine, but close enough, even though it technically belongs to the sponsor team. I know the lever position, the way the clutch bites, exactly how much pressure it takes to settle the front under braking and how the rear responds when I get greedy with the throttle. I know every adjustment because I made most of them myself, and after spending two days wondering if I could ever trust my own hands again, there is something weirdly comforting about putting my life directly on top of my work.

Andre’s voice comes through my headset as I roll forward.

“Ride your race, Echo. Don’t chase anybody, don’t get clever because you see a number ahead of you, and trust the bike.”

“I know.”

“I know you know. I’m saying it anyway.”

The corner of my mouth twitches inside my helmet. “Very inspiring.”

“Shut up and ride.”

That sounds more like him.

I settle into position as the rider ahead of me launches, the sound of the bike disappearing down the road leaving a few seconds of silence before the marshal looks toward me.

For one stupid moment, everything comes rushing back.

Wolfe’s empty bay.

His mom telling me how much he loved us. Thorne’s hand in mine during the tribute. The fear in my faces eyes when I told him I wanted to race, even though he’d only just met me.

The number three on the front of my bike.

Three men who somehow taught me what it feels like to be loved without making me earn every fucking inch of it first.

Then the marshal signals, and I go. At first, the acceleration hits hard enough to rip everything unnecessary straight out of my head.

There is no room for grief once the speed builds.

No room for guilt either.

The course demands too much from me to let my brain wander, and for the first time since Wolfe’s crash, I’m grateful for something that doesn’t give me a choice about where my attention goes.

Every braking point arrives fast, every corner forces a decision, and every stretch of road asks me to trust myself before I have time to second-guess it.

So I do.

The bike feels fucking incredible.

The front stays composed when I brake hard, the rear moves just enough on corner exit to tell me I’m working it without ever feeling loose, and the controls sit exactly where my hands expect them to be. I push through the first section carefully, almost too carefully, because some part of me is waiting for the bike to punish me for believing in it.